Page 32 of Falling for You

Nate

I stare at my phone. It stares back at me silently. I’d been waiting for it to ring for hours, and then for the last forty minutes I’ve been sat, simply watching the blank screen.

After my date with Annie, I spent hours floating around like I was walking on air.

Finally, London seemed a bit brighter. I started being able to see the London that I’d watched on TV all those years.

I saw the smiling people, the couples kissing, the Christmas lights twinkling.

I even laughed when a red bus skirted past me and splattered rainwater up my legs.

I loved it here! I’d never had a feeling like this in New York.

I don’t know if I’ve experienced this feeling in my entire life.

The morning after our date, I woke up to find Stevie knocking at my door with a paper cup of coffee.

For the first time since I’d moved in, he was here to wake me up and help nurse my hangover.

He perched on the end of my bed and made me recount all the details about the date, who Bat Girl really was and how things were left.

When I told him I got her number, he insisted that I had to wait two days to message her.

Apparently, that was the unwritten rule of dating Londoners.

Any earlier and I’d give her ‘the ick’. If I hadn’t given her the ick by my dancing, he added unnecessarily.

Needless to say, I wanted to message her right away.

I wanted to knock on her door and take her out for breakfast. Ask her where else weird and wonderful she could take me in London, what other stories she had, what other costumes she was planning to make.

I wanted to know absolutely everything about her.

But I took Stevie’s advice. He knew much more about dating than I did as he had far more experience (I came back with that one which, annoyingly, he took as a compliment).

I spent two solid days in my bubble. Work didn’t even feel that bad.

Hell, I laughed when Brian showed me the new batch of people who had written in for the Miss Cinderella story.

I told him I’d been on a date with Jane, which seemed to be dull enough to satisfy his appetite for gossip, and let him decide that perhaps I was better writing about the latest exhibitions in the London museums. Which was fine by me – I thought maybe I could take Annie with me.

I hopped, skipped and jumped around London. I felt ten pounds lighter.

And then I woke up this morning to one, singular word on my phone and it was enough to make my blood turn to ice.

Help.

It was from Mom. She sent it at four in the morning, which would have been late at night for them.

I called her as soon as I saw it, but she didn’t answer.

Then I called Dad; he didn’t answer either.

The sensible part of my brain tried to tell me that it was late for them; the reason they weren’t answering was because they were sound asleep, tucked up in their pine bed and floral bedcovers.

But the ugly, irrational side of my brain sucked the silence of the morning up like gasoline.

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 lose signal 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 squares and 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.

Shit. I think I’ve really cut myself.

I’m about to run my hand under the tap when I hear the faint jingle of my ringtone. I dash into the living room and snatch up my phone, answering it before I’ve even clocked who’s calling.

‘Hello?’

‘You all right?’

I recognise the relaxed rhythm of Remy’s voice instantly and before I can compose myself, I hear myself blurt, ‘Remy, do you know where the nearest hospital is?’

‘Here you are, lad.’

I glance up as Remy hands me a polystyrene cup. I hold it with my free arm, my other still held aloft, as instructed by the frazzled nurse who bandaged me up and told me to stay put until she got back. That was about thirty minutes ago.

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’

‘Stop apologising.’ Remy hadn’t asked why I needed to go to hospital.

He just wanted to know where I was, and then twenty minutes later showed up in his black cab and told me to get in.

He only asked me two questions: if I was okay, and if I’d been in a fight.

I heard myself answer no to both of them, before hurriedly adding that I was fine really and that I was probably overreacting.

I said this while I had an entire roll of kitchen roll on my lap, which was thinning out by the minute as it sucked up my blood like a thirsty sponge.

I jump as my phone vibrates next to me. I grab it, only to see a pointless email from Deliveroo. It makes me so angry that I almost launch my phone across the room. Remy catches my expression and raises an eyebrow.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘Yes. I’m fine.’

He looks pointedly down at my phone. ‘What’s that about, then?’

‘What’s what?’

‘Who are you waiting to hear from? You’re not wound up about that girl, are you?’

In the middle of my desperate worry about my mom, my anger that they still haven’t called me back even though they will have been awake for hours, my embarrassment at having to call Remy for help and my slight self-pity for my slashed hand, I feel a spark of excitement as Annie’s face pops into my head.

‘That girl?’ I echo.

‘The one from the speed dating – the one you left with.’

I shake my head and wiggle my fingers as pins and needles creep over them like tiny, prickly spiders.