Page 29 of Every Silent Lie

“You’re shaking.”

I hadn’t realised I was. Whether from the chill of the air or his closeness, I couldn’t tell you. Dec closes the door behind him, his presence wrapping around me like a warm, strong—needed—protective blanket. “Let me take a look,” he says softly.

I hesitate for a moment, but the pleading in his unsettled eyes unravels my flimsy resolve. Talk. I’m going to have to talk. The closer I’m getting to him, the closer he’s getting to my life.

Am I ready for that?

I’m not only letting him into my apartment if I don’t ask him to leave. “Okay,” I breathe, stepping back, opening up the way to him.

An odd sense of shame cloaks me as Dec passes me and casts his eyes around the space. I follow him, fixing my robe that really doesn’t need fixing, my mind emptying. I don’t know what to say, and for the first time when I’ve been with him, the silence is uncomfortable. What is he thinking? What is he making of my sparse apartment? I can’t even offer him a tea or a coffee, unless, of course, he takes them black. It also occurs to me as I trail behind him that he’s the first person I’ve invited in. My husband’s never invited—he just helps himself when he wants to put pressure on me. And on that thought, my eyes fall to the footrest where my divorce papers are, the pen on top.

Unsigned.

Dec stops, reaching up to his neck, scratching it lightly under his ear. It’s a classic sign of someone wondering what the fuck they’re faced with. I start preparing my response to his impending interrogation, my chest tightening with a pressure I’ve never had to deal with before. Or cared to.

“Have you just moved in?” he asks. I can’t see exactly where his eyes are directed, but I know, I just know, they’re taking in the boxes that are stacked everywhere, five high and as many wide.

“Yes,” I say, as simple as that, because what else can I say?

He turns to me, his face not questioning. It’s not anything, really. It’s just what I’ve come to expect—and like—from Dec. Impassive. No judgment. No pressing. “But . . .” He takes another peek around. Then he shrugs off his coat and lays it on the back of the armchair. “Never mind. Let me look at that cut.” He points to the doorway across the room. “Kitchen?”

I nod, and he wastes no time heading that way, causing the tightening in my chest to squeeze further. A vision creeps into my mind, one of my pills on the counter by the sink. Following him on quick, bare feet, I overtake him and slide them off the counter, slipping them into my robe pocket before heading to the fridge. I know he’s watching me. “Can I get you a water or anything?”

“What are the anything options?”

I still, staring at the fridge. “I’ve not got to the supermarket this week.”

“Then I guess I’ll take the water option.”

I clench my eyes shut briefly and move across to the cupboard where I would keep glasses if I had more than two and they weren’t on rotation—in the dishwasher or on my bedside table. And now, they’re both on my bedside table. I open the cupboard and close it again.

“Out of glasses?”

“Yeah.” I want the ground the swallow me whole. “Just give me a second.” As I’m passing him, he takes my wrist, stopping me.

“Don’t worry about the water.”

A lump builds in my throat, infuriating me, and I look at him, desperate for him to see me. Understand me. But I’m terrified he could never. And then I wonder why now I care.

Again, it’s a stupid question.

He’s so unexpected, a relief from life I never dared wish to have. A distraction of the kind I could never consider, because the constant, consistent stench of misery lingers around me, day in, day out. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know anything, and if sharing might mean he walks away, I can’t let my walls drop. On top of that, the thought of being vulnerable, of showing him who I am and why I’m so utterly broken, makes me want to curl into a tighter ball than I usually do.

“Fuck, I hate this look on you,” he breathes, turning into me and completely encasing me in his arms. I melt into him, letting him hold me up, hugging me like I’d never admit I need to be hugged. It’s beautiful, and the tears that haven’t come for so long pinch at the backs of my eyes. I don’t know why I do, it seems really fucking pointless, but I will them away with everything I have. I don’t want to be pathetic to him.

A voice in my head screams, too late!

And yet he’s still here. Hugging me.

The strength in his cuddle should crush my weak form, but I never want him to let me go. He couldn’t get me any closer if he tried, our chest’s compressed, his arms around my shoulders overlapping, squeezing me to him. His mouth is resting on top of my head, his breath hot against my cold, wet scalp. And he holds me. And holds me. My fingers claw into the back of his suit jacket, clinging on. So much warmth. So much strength. I feel so safe.

At least, for now. In this moment. Can it last? Will it last?

It's too soon—never would be too soon—but he eventually gently pulls away, just enough to look down at me buried in his chest. I tilt my head up, catching his eyes. I could drown in them. I’ve thought about many ways to die, and I’d do it happily right now. “I’m here,” he says gently, bringing one hand to my face and tracing the line of my jaw. So gentle. And as he showers me in his concern, I realise Dec’s not the man I first pinned him as.

Cold.

He's got so much depth. So many sides.