Page 50 of Vine

“Give me one good reason why not.”

“Because I don’t want you to.”

As if that mattered. Shrugging, I hummed a badly out of tune version ofyou can’t always get what you want. No doubt it flew straight over Max’s head; I reckoned he was a more of a late-night talk radio kind of guy.

With my fingertip, I tested the blade. Not the sharpest, but I wasn’t fussy. Even blunt blades drew blood if you pressed hard enough. And ragged wounds took more time to clot. The kind of detail people who’d never tried didn’t know. Honestly, I was surprised cutting wasn’t more popular. It was so easy once you started. Like slicing salami at the deli counter. An eternal love affair between warm skin and a blade.

Left wrist today, I decided. My right hand shook less.

“This is your last chance, Max,” I warned. “Unless you’re planning on shaving off that lush beard after I’ve finished with the razor? In which case, have at it. Just give me a couple of seconds in private with it first.”

His panicked eyes betrayed his intentions way before his lumbering body sprang into action. When he reached around to pluck the blade from my sweaty fingers, I was ready for him. Too fast, I danced away, brandishing it aloft like a street fighter. “I saw you in the mirror, Max. You’ll have to be quicker than that.”

Agility: moving nimbly and lightly in a graceful manner. Adjectives I’d never have associated with Max before he wrestled the razor from my grasp. And, to be fair, not after either. Less lion creeping up on a gazelle, more rhino trampling through the undergrowth.

After an unseemly scuffle, during which I sank my teeth into his shoulder (and not in a sexy, seductive way), the razorblade found its way from my clammy little hand into his giant paw. As though I’d brought a butter knife to a lightsaber fight.

Scooping me up, he hugged me, one of those tight ones that took your breath away. Tight, as if he was trying to push all the crazy pieces of me back together. So tight, in fact, I could feel his heartbeat, flustering like a trapped bird against mine. The razor slid from his hand. It hit the hard tiles and skittered across the floor, the plastic head springing free from the base.

“Please don’t do this,la mer Caspienne,” he whispered. “I can’t bear it.”

“I don’t know if I can stop.”

“Promise me you’ll try. I’m strong. Let me help. Let the doctors help.”

I let out an ugly snort. “Tried that, didn’t work.”

“Try me, then. Please. Give me a chance. Come for a walk.”

One of my old drama teachers once said if you breathed deeply and imagined something, you could be there. You could see it, feel it. As Max and I faced each other in a good old-fashioned stand-off, I gave it a try. I closed my eyes and clungto my rusted dreams. I couldn’t even remember them. Except for the hope that, one day, all the fear coiled beneath my bones would vanish.

“Please?” repeated Max. “Come down to the beach with me.”

Being a very big person with an even bigger heart had its advantages. People followed your orders. Placidly, like a child promised an ice cream, I let him take my hand and walk me beyond the vineyard and down to the thin strip of pebbly beach. Edged with a thick layer of seaweed and pebbles, it did not entice tourists. On the border between late spring and the high heat of summer, the day held only the hint of a breeze and clear open skies.

Nonetheless, I shivered, my sick body shrugging off the warmth of the sun’s rays.

Max released my hand. Side by side, we surveyed the diminishing shore, the tide on its lazy way in. Now he’d rescued me, seemed he hadn’t a clue what to do next.

I poked at the sand with the toe of my trainer, making a hole. “Is this where you find your treasures?”

“Sometimes.” He made a hole of his own. “I have other beaches. Do you want to kill yourself. I asked you before and you said no.”

Deep down, my answer hadn’t changed. “No. Not really, although I scare myself that I might do it by mistake in the heat of the moment. I think… I think what I really want is to escape myself for a few hours. Or days.”

Unable to resist, he kicked at a shell before stooping to pick it up. And the one next to it. And then another a few paces away, big, white, and smooth, as if he’d forgotten I was there.

Wearily, I dropped to a flat rock and watched him ferret about. Whenever I looked at a beach, I saw a strip of itchy sand bordering a cold, wet sump of pollution and fish piss. Max sawcollages of colour, useful pieces of bark, and a passionate tide kissing a sandy shore.

As I watched him bend once more to rub at a frayed nubbin of rope before tucking it away, my fragile soul stilled a fraction. Maybe he could help me.

“Sorry,” I said. “For being so vile back there. You don’t deserve that. I know you’re trying. And sorry for sinking my teeth into your shoulder. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Didn’t hurt,” he said, his back turned. “But I don’t own a cape. Just so you know. That was the only bit of your shouting that didn’t make sense.”

“It was a joke. A nasty one.”

“Okay.”

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