Page 14 of The Love of Our Lives

We finish off our pizza slices and, for the next while, I find myself talking easily to him.

It’s soothing after everything that’s happened in the last week, as though somehow he’s managing to ground me to this time, this life, and I stop thinking about the hows and the whys of it all.

He tells me about his upholstering business, how he started it a few years back, and despite some initial setbacks, he’s done all right.

His bespoke stuff is even in some of the fancy hotels around town apparently, and he travels around the country to deliver his orders personally, partly because he likes meeting new people, and partly because he just likes exploring.

He’s incredibly easy to talk with, warm too, and I have the strangest sense that maybe I met him before in my own life.

‘Well, enough about me,’ he says eventually, ‘I want to know about you. What’s your family like?’

I pause.

What can I possibly tell him? Dad, Jess and the boys, Mum – they all feel so far away right now, like they’re in another life.

‘Let’s just say I needed a fresh start,’ I say eventually. And with a jolt, I realise that perhaps that’s true.

‘Well, I hope you find it, Emily,’ he says, his startling green eyes on mine. ‘And would you look at that?’ he says suddenly, turning an old brown-strap watch on his wrist to me. ‘Looks like we made it to showtime. You game?’

I’m not sure if it’s the full-belly feeling I have or the smudges of happy pink in the sky above, but I find myself nodding at him.

‘All right,’ I say, ‘I’m game.’

All around us, the venue continues to fill up, and my breathing quickens. When we first got in, there were very few people here, and I still felt light-headed with the evening, drifting along in a pleasant, dream-like state.

But now, as I walk through the darkened theatre, the haze of the evening is starting to wear off and that fresh openness of sky above has vanished.

Everything seems so very solid and dark in here.

‘This is us,’ Adam says, pointing to the middle of a row, in the middle of the theatre.

My heart quickens.

What am I doing here with this guy?

Did I just think I could pretend all of this was normal? That I could go on a date and pretend I was someone else entirely?

This isn’t my life to mess with.

Adam has walked along the row to the seats now, and glances back at me.

He smiles. ‘You coming?’

I can’t think what else to do but nod; follow Adam along the row to the seat beside him.

I sit in the hard chair as people continue to stream into the theatre around us, and the murmur of voices grows steadily louder.

It’s filling up fast and Adam seems delighted; he’s looking around at the stage, at the people coming in the door.

If I didn’t feel so panicked right now, I would find it sweet how excited he gets about small things.

But my whole body is riddled with anxiety now.

I can’t breathe.

Instinctively, I touch my chest, the place where my scar usually lies, and it’s as though I can still feel that same limited heart there, under the skin somewhere.

People are all around us now and music blares from speakers at all points of the venue, smashing through my skull, firing through my body.

A vaguely familiar guy from the TV walks on to the stage and now everyone is applauding, whooping.

Adam is clapping beside me, clearly very relaxed, but all I can do is sit rigidly against the seat, hands gripping the warm plastic arms.

I feel his hand on the back of mine now. He leans towards me. ‘Emily,’ he says, concern in his voice, ‘are you OK?’

I’m struggling to breathe, a feeling I know only too well. Except this time it’s got nothing to do with any medical condition.

‘I need to get out of here,’ I mutter.

‘What did you say?’ he asks above the noise.

The man on the stage is talking now – something about a house party he went to, an incident with whisky and a washing machine.

Barks of laughter all around me.

I need to get out of here .

And then I’m up on my feet, squeezing along the row to tuts and sighs.

‘Sorry,’ I’m saying, ‘sorry, sorry.’ I don’t look behind me, just keep going until I’m at the end of the row, and then I’m running up to the back of the venue.

I faintly hear the name ‘Emily’ being called behind me, but all I can think is, I can’t do this.

Out in the beer garden again, I walk swiftly towards the exit, past the wooden table and red umbrella we were sitting laughing at only a short time before, past Sven’s pizza truck, which is still in full swing.

I eventually turn and look behind me, towards the venue I came out of.

Adam’s not there, of course, and he’ll probably never want to see me again.

But maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

All this could be gone tomorrow.

I start walking away along the cobbles, under the now star-speckled navy sky, and head back home. Alone, as always.

I can’t exactly recall what I felt about relationships before Cat died, but I like to think I was optimistic. I didn’t think too much about how, or when; only that if Cat could find love, I probably could too – even with my condition.

And after? After I’d lost the other half of myself the way I had – after I’d caused that level of pain for everyone, well, it all changed after that.

I started to worry about everything and nothing, what happened when I left the house, what happened if I walked too quickly, or strayed too far from home.

Because the one thing I knew was that me taking risks could end in disaster for everyone.

And I’d caused quite enough grief already.

I tried to pretend that everything was fine – after all, my parents’ lives were falling apart as well; Jess’s too.

But like with everything else, I kept all those worries pressed right down, hidden where no one could see them.

Aside from stolen kisses at the odd high school party before Cat died, my first relationship was a few years into working at the tour operator because my place at art school was one of the first things to go after Cat: the job was based in Edinburgh, and it just seemed like a more realistic thing to do in the circumstances.

My health was better, and for that short moment at least, I could breathe; take a stab at a normal life.

His name was Theo, and he was sweet and funny, and easy to hang out with.

He didn’t seem overly bothered by my health issues, but then I’m not entirely sure we spent enough time together for him to be properly bothered about anything.

We had the kind of relationship where you only see each other for a couple of evenings a week, hanging out at his flat, of course, because I was still living at home.

I think I liked how easy it was; that I didn’t have to worry too much about whether he really loved me or not, because the truth I realised about four months in was that I didn’t really love him either.

And maybe it was wrong of me, taking up his time like that.

But I’m pretty sure it suited him well at the time too.

We started to bicker eventually, that novelty of easy sex and companionship wearing off, until one day I asked him if he saw us going anywhere.

He said no, and I was relieved.

It only lasted for about six months in the end, until we sort of mutually faded out on each other, like a star that had never really gotten up in the sky to begin with.

And then he moved on from the tour operator, to have more adventures himself, as most of the other people in there tended to do.

I got out unscathed, undamaged, and that suited me fine.

There was nothing for a few years after that. I had a string of heart issues again, and when I wasn’t in the hospital, I was working or hanging out at home.

The years came and went, and I would see all the photos online of people I knew leaving to study or work in other countries or go trekking in far off places, sunbursts of colour all around them. And I would cry quietly into my pillow at the unfairness of it all. Did they know how good they had it?

Eventually, I met Nick. At work too, of course, given I never really went anywhere else.

If the feelings with Theo were lukewarm, then the ones with Nick were everything I had imagined love would actually be like.

He was kind and funny and loved travelling and high-adrenalin sports, and he wanted to do more; experience as much of the world as he could.

And I would wish him luck before he did a marathon or before he’d go climb some Munros, and I’d sit in the Nepalese or Japanese or Greek restaurants and watch as he tried everything they had to offer, while I’d stick to my usual plain meals.

I’d grin happily as he’d tell me about all the places he wanted to see, and the experiences he wanted to have – scuba diving and swimming with the sharks in Australia, climbing Table Mountain in South Africa and trekking unaided across Antarctica.

I loved him, and I think he might have loved me too – for a moment, at least. Not that we ever actually got to the point of saying it.

We did dreamily talk, though, about going away together after six months, something that I’d never even considered with Theo, but with Nick it felt possible.

I guess I rushed in, hoping for the best, still clinging to that more optimistic version of me before Cat died, while also pushing down every fear that threatened to overwhelm me – that I might not be able to do what he wanted.

That I shouldn’t cause any more stress for my family.

It was maybe eight months into the relationship when I found it – an article on his laptop about whether people with my condition could travel to remote places or do any high-risk activities.

Not recommended was the result I already knew it would show.

I didn’t ask him about it in the end; couldn’t face hearing it out loud.

But I’d seen his strained expressions sometimes when he thought I wasn’t looking, that pain I was causing him, just by being me.

He was with someone who could die any day, after all – just disappear off the face of the planet.

And the honest truth was, I was worried that he would up and leave one day, when it all got too hard.

So eventually, I was the one who suggested we call it off – for both our sakes – and I figured if he really loved me, he’d stay.

But even though he seemed hurt at first, he didn’t fight it.

The next day, I packed up my stuff as he watched sadly from the door. We said our goodbyes, promised to stay in touch, and that was it. I moved back home, and he went away travelling.

As it happened, a couple of months later I contracted a virus, which compromised my condition in a way we’d not seen before. And if I’m honest with myself, I was relieved I wasn’t with Nick then. At least he wouldn’t have to pretend to be OK with it all.

That’s when I knew that that part of my life was over.

And I would never risk my heart again.