Page 191 of Falling for You

Maybe they aren’t answering because something has happened. It’s too late now. If you’d answered at the time, then you could have been there. If you hadn’t left New York then you could check on them; you could even have been with Mom when she messaged. But you’re not. You’re here and something has happened to her, and now nobody is speaking to you.

It’s been swirling around my body for the past six hours, ripping every part of joy out of me and extinguishing every spark that had been flickering for the past two days. All that’s left in me is cold, dark fear. I messaged Brian to say that I needed to work from home, and I’ve just sat staring out of the window ever since. I messaged Annie too.

Hey, sorry I’ve got a lot going on right now. Have a good week.

It’s hardly the message I’d wanted to send, but I didn’t want to leave her in silence and I didn’t know what else to say.

I haven’t told Stevie. He left to go to a gig before I’d gotten up, and there is no point worrying him. I’ll tell him once I know what’s going on. Once Mom calls me.

If she ever calls me.

I lean my head against the back of the lumpy sofa. I tried going on a walk earlier to take my mind off it all, but all it did was make me constantly worry that my phone may losesignal or ring without me hearing it, and I’d miss another message.

Why would she be asking for my help? She should be at home with Dad, safe. What could possibly be wrong?

I almost jump out of my skin when my phone vibrates. I snatch it from the coffee table and deflate as I see Stevie’s name on the screen.

‘Hey, man.’ I told myself that I wasn’t going to tell Stevie about the message until I knew what was going on. But the more time that has passed, the more scared I’ve become. This was my plan based on the idea that Mom or Dad would call as soon as they woke up. But what if something worse has happened? What if they aren’t able to call me, and we don’t hear from them for days? Or not at all? The thought of it makes me feel sick.

‘Listen,’ I say, interrupting Stevie as he starts chatting about his journey up to Sheffield. ‘I’ve got to talk to you quickly. I’m sure it’s fine, but I got a weird message from Mom this morning.’

Stevie is silent down the phone for a moment and I can hear my heart thudding in my ears. ‘What does that mean?’ he says eventually.

‘Well, nothing,’ I hear myself say. ‘I’m sure it’s all fine.’

Why am I saying this? I don’t know if it’s fine. I don’t know anything.

‘For fuck’s sake, Nate,’ Stevie snaps. ‘Just tell me what’s going on.’

‘She messaged me in the middle of the night.’

‘Saying what?’

‘Saying “help”.’ I force myself to say it, even though it’s enough to make me want to throw up. It sounds so much worse when I say it out loud.

‘Help?’ Stevie repeats. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, running my fingers through my hair. ‘That’s literally all it said. But I’m sure everything is fine.’

‘Stop saying that!’ I flinch as he shouts down the phone. ‘You can’t possibly know that everything’s fine. Don’t patronise me.’

‘Well, I don’t know what to do!’ I exclaim, a bolt of rage piercing through me. Does he have any idea how much I wish it was someone calling to tell me that they’re sure everything is going to be okay, instead of it being me?Why does it always have to be me?

‘Have you spoken to her? Or Dad?’

‘Of course not,’ I say, failing to hide the anger in my voice. ‘I’d tell you if I knew more, wouldn’t I?’

‘Well, try and call them, then.’

‘What do you think I’ve been doing all day?’ I shout, getting to my feet and throwing my arm in the air. I wince as my wrist knocks the lampshade and glass splinters around my fist. I take a deep breath as the pain slices through my hand.

‘Look,’ I start again. ‘I’m telling you all I know. As soon as I hear something I will call you, I promise.’

But the line has gone dead. Stevie has hung up.

I chuck the phone onto the sofa and storm into the kitchen, grabbing sheets of kitchen roll to wrap round my hand. Specks of dark blood swell through the white squaresand I curse, sucking the cut as I rifle through Stevie’s cupboard. Of course he doesn’t have a first-aid kit, or anything mildly similar to one. He’s a child. He’s a child who’s been hiding in London for the past ten years with his head in the sand, ignoring everything that’s going on around him. His family, his responsibilities … they’ve all been things I’ve had to pick up.

I wince as blood seeps through the paper towel and feel a dart of panic.