Page 12 of Someone Like You

PHIL

“J esus fucking Christ.”

He leaned onto the sink with a stifled groan, horrified by his own reflection.

He hadn’t looked so battered in weeks. The grey had crawled back into the bags under his eyes, which were blood-shot and swollen.

What a sorry spectacle to wake up to. Though wake up wasn’t quite accurate, since he’d barely got a total of four hours of sleep in two nights.

An unknown restlessness had possessed him, replacing his usual flat insomnia with an endless agony of tossing and turning that had forced him to move to the guest bedroom to avoid disturbing Abby.

A double dose of trazodone had been as useful as plain water, but that was the highest dose he could take without health hazards.

He’d tried everything else that usually helped: a snack, a walk, some TV…

All useless. He felt… empty . Like something was suddenly missing and he couldn’t tell what.

And it didn’t make any sense because, if anything, his life was improving by the day.

He hadn’t lost anything… Why would he feel like something was missing ?

He’d been in Glasgow for months and had never felt like this until now — like he was limping, gasping for air.

He managed to push himself through his morning ritual, but it was more challenging than usual: the light was too bright, the water too cold, his throat too dry to swallow the pills.

Shuddering at his own reflection, he heard the echo of a gravelly voice calling him Handsome in a tone that over time had lost part of its playfulness, sounding less and less like a joke and more like… He didn’t know what to call it.

He could’ve used some of Ian’s mockery right now, if only to find some motivation to kick himself into gear. Spite was a miracle fuel. But Ian wasn’t here now, and it was probably for the best, because Abby hadn’t stopped gushing about him since Sunday night.

“He’s a delight!” she’d chirped right after Ian had gone home. “And so good-looking! You didn’t mention he was so handsome!”

The remark had made Phil uncomfortably hot.

“Oh, yeah, despicable of me to appreciate someone for their personality,” he’d retorted, but the sarcasm had only added to Abby’s hype.

“You like him.”

“He’s… tolerable.”

“Is he single?”

“That’s very straightforward of you.”

Abby snorted. “I could introduce him to Tammy.”

“I’m not sure he’s into women.”

Phil didn’t know why he said that. He was quite positive Ian was into women, as his only objection when being teased about potentially dating Anna had been her age.

The chances he’d find Abby’s cousin interesting, however, were high: Tamara was as pretty as Abby, just taller and a couple of years younger, and she was sharp enough to be a good match to Ian’s wit .

Phil’s stomach churned. He couldn’t stand the idea of someone else bantering with Ian. But even if there was someone else who could hold their own with him, a part of Phil was aware that the natural chemistry he and Ian had had right off the bat had set the bar pretty high.

Not that it truly mattered. It was a mere question of pride.

The other question of pride that was plaguing Phil was his growing desire to get back into writing. Failing would be a humiliation he wasn’t sure he could endure, but he felt strong and vital enough to take a risk.

Telling Abby required almost more courage than the intent itself. She was a big fan of his work, had been since before meeting him, and she, like tens of thousands of other readers around the world, was patiently waiting for a new novel by the P. J. Hanson.

“I’m considering getting a bike,” he said on Wednesday morning over breakfast

Abby stopped mid-chew, lowering the spoon into her porridge. “A bike.”

“A bicycle ,” Phil clarified, then shrugged one shoulder. “I could go to the café with my laptop, see if I can get something done…”

One of the reasons he liked La Dolce Vita so much, besides the excellent coffee and pastries, was that Sandra’s Italian accent was so much easier to understand than the local Glaswegian.

The woman’s maternal ways were also a welcome plus: Phil couldn’t deny he relished getting special treatment, even when he occasionally showed up without Ian.

“That’s a fantastic idea!” Abby let out a happy squeak, clapping her approval.

Phil knew she was going to carry that joy to work and spread it onto everyone she met.

People were going to assume she’d won the lottery or something, when the lame truth was that her boyfriend had finally gathered the guts to pick up his sorry life again. “Have you seen something you like?”

“There’s this shop near Glasgow Green, caught my eye as I jogged past it the other day.”

“You’re finally getting acquainted with the city! ”

“My local guide is annoying but very competent.” Thanks to Ian, Phil was learning to navigate Glasgow’s streets without the aid of Google Maps. There were a couple more cafés he’d spotted that he was curious to check out.

The reflection startled him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt curious about something.

“I like the model they have in the window.”

“We should go and get it!”

“We should,” said Phil, but the topic died there, so he put it on the back burner, secretly relieved he had an excuse to put off this dare he’d made with himself.

The next week, however, the day before leaving for London, Abby called him to the hallway and Phil found her posing with the shiny black mountain bike he had seen in Bilsland ’s shop window, plus a brand new backpack for his laptop.

An elated grin lit up Abby’s face. “Happy birthday!”

Phil shook his head with a helpless smile. “It’s not my birthday.”

“It’ll be your birthday at some point.”

His birthday was in April, six months away, but that was an irrelevant objection, because nothing could stop Abby when she had a goal, particularly if the goal in question involved helping Phil get back on his feet.

Unable to reject the gift, Phil pulled her into his arms and pressed a kiss to her forehead, squeezing her to himself.

“I love you,” he whispered against her temple. “So damn much.”

Abby hummed, enjoying the hug, then rose on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

Ever since Phil had started growing distant and aloof in the early days of his depression, she had never tried to force any display of affection on him, nor had she ever made him feel bad for not kissing her or touching her the way a partner was supposed to.

She was content with whatever Phil was willing to give her, even when what he gave her was nothing.

“I love you, too, you old fool.”

And Phil held her tighter, wondering why this embrace so full of affection wasn’t numbing the sense of emptiness he carried inside .

This is not enough , whispered a cruel voice in the back of his head.

Phil felt sick — not for the appalling thought per se, but because, deep down, he was afraid there might be truth in it.

* * *

On Tuesday morning Phil was up before sunrise to escort Abby to her cab to the airport.

“I want pictures every day,” she demanded with a hand on the door and one on Phil’s cheek. “And I expect to see some mud on that bike when I come back.”

“Promise.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself if it doesn’t work out right away, okay? We’re here to take it easy .”

“I’ll see what I can do. Text when you arrive.”

Abby stamped a kiss on Phil’s beard. “See you on Sunday.”

Phil stood there in his robe and pyjamas, watching the cab drive away with a strange melancholy creeping under his skin.

Abby had enough faith in him to leave him alone, unsupervised for days…

He couldn’t disappoint her. Dragging himself back inside, anxiety started mounting in his chest. He sensed the beginning of an incoming panic attack when it was just a hint of dizziness and a slightly faster pulse; he reached the kitchen with a swimming head, poured himself some water, and took small sips between deep breaths, which he sucked in through the nose and slowly released from his mouth.

The attack tailed off. Phil gradually regained control of himself and the space around him slid back into focus.

He was hungry, but just putting a bowl of cereal together sounded like climbing a mountain at the moment, so he decided to do what Doctor Raji had recommended he did when he felt overwhelmed: find a small task and reward himself once he completed it.

The small task he chose was changing into proper clothes, which he managed to fulfil despite the extra challenge of climbing up the stairs.

His reward was collapsing on the couch to think about taking the bike for a ride around the neighbourhood, maybe as far as La Dolce Vita , and make the most out of the day, but when the night came all he had achieved was emptying the dishwasher and finally making himself that bowl of cereal for dinner after skipping breakfast and lunch.

Functioning was hard without the moral obligation to meet someone’s expectations.

He was careful not to miss any steps of his nighttime routine before going to bed, as neglecting just one out of laziness would make him lose track of all the others.

Like a robot, he washed his face, slapped some moisturiser on, brushed his teeth, folded his clothes, and got his pyjamas from under the pillow.

It felt like everything that had happened between stripping them off in the morning and slipping them back on that night had been so irrelevant he might as well have stayed in bed.

He met his own gaze in the window, tired and dejected, and reprimanded himself for indulging in such dangerous thoughts.