Page 52 of Vine

More of a statement than a question. “Ihatethe television stuff! I mean, it has its moments of fun. Some of the challenges were incredible, like learning to drive a race car. What kid hasn’t dreamed of doing that? And when I bought my flat, I saved myself a fortune in plumbers. I fitted the whole bathroom myself.”

“So why do you do it.”

Another brilliantly direct question. One pricey therapists took eons to get around to asking.

“For him. I used to do it for him. Because he loves it, he lives for it. Being a TV star is all he ever wanted. But now it just sucks me down.”

Silent, and with his lips pursed in thought, Max dragged his feet through the fine sand, making a pile between them. I bet he spent hours and hours here as a child, lost in his thoughts, fiddling in rock pools and digging holes. “So, everything that makes Leigh feel happy makes you feel sad.”

“God, yes. Yes!”

And there it was, the sum of all my anxieties, all my restlessness, the sleepless nights, the pills gulped down dry, my unhealthy relationship with a razor blade. Crystalised into one simple sentence.Everything that makes him feel happy makes me feel sad.Uttered by a guy with shovels for hands and facial hair I could lose myself in, and with a voice so thunderous I braced for the approaching storm.

But there was no storm. The only sound now was the rustle of new growth creeping along the shoulders of the vines lined up in rows behind us. And my own heart, thumping valiantly, fighting back against the ever-present hot pain.

Everything that makes him feel happy makes me feel sad.

Seeking warmth in a cold place, I ended up in Max’s sturdily constructed lap. Later, I’d wonder why, but right now, nowhere was more welcoming. My chilled hands found themselves inMax’s warm hoodie pockets, placed there by him, that simple act of kindness opening the door for my pent-up tears to run amok.

“Shh…” He rocked me gently, petting my hair and stroking my back. Patting my thigh like I was an infant with a scabbed knee. And yeah, those big arms and that broad lap were every bit the soft landing they promised and then some.

After an embarrassingly long time, I unpeeled myself from his shirt, and he fished a grandad-style cotton handkerchief from deep in a pocket of his jacket.

“Fix your face and blow, Caspian.”

If those sweet words weren’t designed to get me blubbing again, then I don’t know what was. After I thoroughly destroyed his pristine white square, he lifted me from his lap.

“If I let you out of my sight, will you go home and cut yourself?”

“No. I mean, maybe. But I don’t think so. I just want to… God, I’m tired. I want to sleep for twelve hours straight. The kicker is my brain will wake me up after two.”

“You sleep in my bed.”

There was a mischievous twinkle in his guileless brown eyes and a naughty quirk to his lips, like maybe he had a few life-saving tricks hidden back there. If only I could find the courage to let him show me. “Is that an order or a precis of my previous visits to your place?”

He folded my hand into his. “Both.”

CHAPTER 19

MAX

I joined Caspian later. In general, I maintained a strict bedtime routine: tidying the house before ablutions, then bed, whereupon I usually listened to a podcast or watched a nature documentary. Or reread a few pages fromPerfect Peach,which lived on my bedside table. Tonight, the guide was superfluous, seeing asla mer Caspiennewas already in my bed.

Burrowed deep into the duvet, Caspian snored. Not like my dad and his impression of a vacuum cleaner with a coin stuck in the nozzle. More of a cute bumblebee too drunk on sweet nectar to buzz properly. For a long time, I sat by the bed and watched him, curled in on himself like a shrimp, his vulnerable parts tucked away. In contrast, at my feet, Noir also snoozed, but spreadeagled on his back with his paws in the air, showing off his pink hairless belly and floppy balls. It was an exposed position; I’d read it signified complete trust.

Maybe Caspian would sleep on his back one day. Until he did, I’d curl myself up too, snuggled around him like an extra layer of protection.

“You slept for ten hours and six minutes,” I informed him when he woke.

“Good.” His voice was a dry, croaky rasp. “My life has a tendency to deteriorate when I’m awake.” Rubbing his nose, he blinked a few times.

We faced each other, resting our heads on our respective pillows. I’d not practised curling around him last night. I’d stayed on my side, as he’d fallen asleep before I could check he consented. “You can stay here with me today.”

He yawned, so widely I could inspect all his bottom teeth. They were almost as good as mine. “As appealing as that sounds, Max, I’m going to have to face the music some time. Might as well get it over with, even if I don’t like the tune it’s playing.”

Many years ago, by painful degrees, I learned people aren’t hungry enough to eat a horse, they do not repeat themselves until they are blue in the face, nor are they dying for a drink. Not unless they are crawling through a desert. Therefore, I was ninety-nine percent sure the world outside my bedroom wasn’t blasting out a dreadful tune.

Emboldened, I hazarded one of my own, my second in two days. “We could change the tune.”

---