Page 10 of We Live Here Now

9

Freddie

I throw the pliers back under the sink and see Emily at the bottom of the drive talking to a woman there, both of them with halos of sunlight around them. Sometimes it feels like she’s not the only one who’s woken from a long sleep, as if we’re both dreamers suddenly awake in this house without really knowing how we got here. The coffee machine bubbles, but I’m not sure I need the caffeine. I’m jumpy enough as it is.

It was easier when she was in the hospital. I could go back to the flat and have some time to myself to deal with things, to calm myself down from my situation and straighten out. At least we’re far away from everything here. A small breathing window. This house was a godsend.

It’s strange. When I think back over the past few months, the move from London has been like a fever dream. Until then I’d been floundering, waiting for Emily to die, but then when they said she’d live, I needed a new plan.

I’d finally got round to charging up Emily’s old iPad to take in to her, and the estate agent’s page was the last thing she’d looked at on holiday. There it was, Larkin Lodge, tranquil in the sunshine, the potential solution to all my problems waiting patiently there for me, and the plan immediately fell into place.

She can’t see me as she turns and walks slowly back up to the house, eyes on the gravel, her stick doing a lot of the hard work. I felt her scars when we were having sex last night—a surprise I’m not going to complain about—and how she pulled away when I touched them, as if I was going to be revolted by them. They don’t bother me. Not like that. But they do remind me of that day on the cliff. The hangovers we had from drinking so much the night before.

What had she been doing drinking anyway? It’s a thought I’ve had more than once since the accident, but I’m not going to broach it with her. Maybe she hadn’t drunk that much at all. Maybe she’d pretended. She wasn’t pretending her bad mood though, and neither was I.

I knew why I was on edge, but she’d been shitty for a couple of weeks despite getting the promotion she wanted. I guess, knowing what I do now, she wasn’t feeling great and probably shouldn’t have been out on the cliff at all. If I’d known—if she’d told me—the whole day would have been different. I’d never have let her up there. But I remember walking behind her, getting closer, both of us sniping at each other as the others got ahead, and having a sudden red-hot wish that she’d just get out of the bloody way, one way or another. When I shut my eyes at night, I still see the surprised terror in her eyes as she fell, reaching out for me.

The coffee machine beeps that it’s done as I hear the front door open and she comes back inside. She looks happy, and it gives me a surprising rush of warm affection.

“Coffee?”

We need to get back on an even keel. A fresh start. I really hope those scars fade.