Page 45 of The Key to My Heart

‘I mean, what do I know?’ he says. ‘I just think – I’m not the man who moved into that flat. And I wasn’t the day Lou left. And that’s – that’s how it’s supposed to be. We learn, we change, we adapt, we build walls …’

‘I guess,’ I say.

Tom sips slowly, and the woman next to us smokes, intently watching the vapour blown from her lips, lingering in the summer air, as if she’s proud of it.

‘I guess I’m not the woman who moved into that house,’ I say quietly, as if I’m frightened to say the words too loudly. A car on the road below screeches by, the bass of its sound system rattling through the streets. ‘I’m not even close.’

Tom says nothing, then, ‘Who is she now?’

‘She’s … I don’t know.’ I can’t get the words out. Nothing comes, and I feel rigid, stuck to this chair. Like my bones are concrete, like the blood has left my body.

Tom watches me, then leans forward gently across the table.

‘Look, I haven’t been where you are,’ he says warmly. ‘And … I know you feel like you don’t need anyone, that it’s easier just to not say anything for fear of – well,bad brunches.Open mic nights and therapists with steel drums—’

‘Bongo drums.’

‘Bongo drums.’ He smiles softly. ‘But I just wanted you to know I’m here. If you want me to be.’

My whole body floods with warmth. Cheeks, ears, legs, chest – like there’s a temperature gauge attached to me and it’s just been turned up. All I can do is nod,like one of those toys with the giant heads. A joke. A joke is usually what I’d always reach for, in serious moments like this, to break the ice, show whoever it is, ‘I’m okay! Honest!’ But it feels genuine with Tom. Real. Like he really, actually means it. And so, I nod, and say nothing else, and just let his words sink into me, absorb, like sunlight.

‘Even if you just want to sit and talk,’ says Tom. ‘Or sit andnottalk. I’ll even listen to your boring bullshit takes if you like – you know, or those rants about your knobhead friend who doesn’t stop talking about all the bread she makes, for example …’

I laugh. ‘How do you know about Roxanne?’

‘Everyone has a bread friend, I find.’ Tom smilingly sips his drink. ‘And I’d never tell you what to do. And in a minute, we’ll go home, and you can choose to only ever chat to me when you bump into me at Mum’s shop – but also, if you want to, we can be … I dunno, we don’t even have to be friends. Maybe I can be – just Tom?’

‘Just Tom,’ I say, my wobbly voice giving me away now. I feel emotional. I feel touched. ‘Damp-fixing. Walks in nature reserves …’

‘Tart and tile shopper,’ he nods, with a smile. ‘Whatever you need. No judgement.’

‘Padlocked?’ I say.

‘Padlocked,’ Tom agrees.

My insides feel gooey. Like I’m made of ice cream and standing in a giant sun ray that’s melting me to mush.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Seriously, Tom.’

‘Course,’ is all he says back.

We both lift our glasses to our lips in unison, as the woman at the next table receives an order of chips. The cheese slurry melted on top of them is the colour of French mustard.

‘And I am scared,’ I say, ‘that’s my evergreen word.’ And it feels like a confession. Like a weight I’m slowly sliding, like a bag, from my shoulders.

‘What are you scared of?’ asks Tom.

‘Everything. Of never feeling like myself again. Or feelingtoo muchlike myself again. Scared of moving. Ofnot. Of talking about him. Of not talking about him. And I’m scared people don’t tell me the truth because they think I’m too fragile for it. And maybe I am. But it’s like – sometimes I just want someone to tell me when I’m being a dickhead. You know?’

‘We’re all scared of something,’ says Tom. ‘That’snormal—’

‘Are you? Scared?’

He laughs, gives his usual, goofy, class-clown smile, but there’s something in his eyes. ‘God, yeah. Loads of things.’

‘Like …’

‘Turning out like my dad. Turning out like my mum. One worse than the other, but both …’ He clamps his teeth together. ‘Yeah, no thank you. Would rather avoid altogether.’

---