Page 68 of Vine

I didn’t use my full diagnosis ever, mostly because it was a lot of words, but I spat the hateful phrase out now. I used to roll it around my tongue for hours, days even, chanting it over and over in my head, like a magic spell. Obsessing, thus proving the diagnosticians correct.

Caspian scrambled to his feet, probably because I was yelling very close to his ear. “No! Of course not. That’s one of the things I like about you! That makes you so attractive!” He shook his head. “But also yes, sort of. I meant relying on someone with their own struggles.”

Mon dieu, we were having an argument. I was useless at arguments. I couldn’t reason quickly enough and snap back a modulated response, not like smart Nico and witty Florian. I tended to resort to shouting and throwing things.

By now, my fingers were counting themselves, my heart thumped wildly, and all attempts at volume control were abandoned. “Do I look like I’m struggling?” I roared. “Do I? With my house and my dog and my responsible job? Does someone struggling bring blankets on romantic dates? And sext his boyfriend and learn about salmon?”

I made a harrumphing sound, like my father did when he was angry—he wasn’t very good at arguments either. “Better that you need to depend on me than on a razor!”

Oh God, I shouldn’t have said that, but it was already out. Nico wouldn’t have said that, nor would Florian. Neither would have buried themselves in this hole in the first place. This was supposed to be a romantic date! They’d be having sex by now.

We stewed in quietness, a few metres apart. If Caspian knew which direction to take and wasn’t staying at my place, he would have stormed off and walked home. I nearly stormed off myself, except thatPerfect Peachsaid couples in heathy relationships didn’t go to bed on an argument. In fact, that sentence was underlined. Twice.

So I stared at the ground, imagining myself storming off and how satisfying it would be but not doing it, until the urge to rock from side to side passed and my fingers settled down.

“Sorry,” said Caspian after nine minutes and thirty-five seconds. Though he had his back to me, looking out over the dark ocean, he was talking to me. “You’re right. You’re not struggling. You are absolutely not. You thrive, Max. You really do. So I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know why I did. I’m on edge—I’ve had a trying day, ending on a row with Leigh. It’s been a trying week. And I lash out when I’m tired. Though it’s no excuse. You’ve gone to so much effort, and it was an excellent romantic date until I ruined it. Sorry.”

“I need to rock,” I admitted, staring at the ground. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. “It’s something I do when I’m cross. I can’t help it, and I know it makes me look silly. So keep on looking the other way, please.”

He gave a shaky laugh. “Hey, Max. I cut myself. You don’t need to explain odd coping strategies to me. I wrote the fucking book. Fill your boots.”

Another metaphor I recognised, so I didn’t point out my boots were already full of my feet. I didn’t think he’d written a book on odd coping strategies either. While I rocked at my lowest level, Caspian gazed out at the dark sea.

The next period of quietness lasted four minutes, eighteen seconds. It was a silence of two parts. The first part had me trying very hard to accept his apology. One of the few things, along with arguing and choosing from long menus in fancy restaurants, I wasn’t very good at. I believed he meant it, but we’d never claw back our excellent mood now. Our romantic date was fading fast, faster than the evening light. Gone forever, although my memories would stay.

Tagged onto that silence was an unfinished part: finding a way to move forward from our argument and his apology. If Icould end the silence with something clever, if I could get my words through that frosted layer of glass, if I could somehow make him believe that needing me was not a weakness, then, maybe, we’d get the first half back again.

“I think what I’m trying to explain, except really badly,” said Caspian in a voice much quieter than I ever managed, “is that, eventually, everyone tires of being with someone who is mentally unwell.” He picked up a dry twig that had strayed from the fire and snapped it in half. “Sympathy turns to… I don’t know, apathy and frustration. I don’t want my dependence to become a chronic inconvenience for you, Max. Like I was to Leigh. And probably my mother too. I keep telling you, but you don’t seem to hear. I’ll have ups and downs—hopefully, a lot more ups than downs now I’m escaping television and Leigh. But I won’t get better.”

I pondered a minute, trying to block out everything but his words, trying to see into that future. Him needing to cut and me talking him down.

Picturing it didn’t scare me. “But what if… what if that person you are dependent on is someone who needs to be needed?” I answered eventually.

“No one needs to be needed that much. Trust me.”

“Well, I do,” I disagreed, in as ordinary a voice as I could. “I wasn’t needed enough until you came along. I think… I think that was missing.”

He shook his head. “I’ve met your family, Max. Lots of people need you. Your dog needs you. And that bloody snake.”

“No. They don’t. Well, Noir does, Kaa doesn’t. And my family doesn’t, not really. Listen, after my mum died, my dad fell apart. He would have destroyed the oyster business if he hadn’t let Nico take over the reins. And Nico, well, he was grieving too, and if he hadn’t had Éti to rely on, then he’d have also been a useless bag of shite. I coped by sticking to my routines. I haveobsessions, Caspian, although I control them well. One used to be working at the farm, seeing how many oyster pouches I could toss, managing one more than the day before. I looked like I was coping. Inside, I was collapsing, and no one noticed. Until one day, Éti told me she needed me. And she really did. She was coming out as trans and said that I was the only sane person in her mad world, and it was even madder then.”

And we were all here and still thriving, so we must have done something right.

“Even so, my dad and Éti and Nico all have someone for themselves. Someone needs them. And I want that, too.”

“But why me?”

“Because I’ve got a lot to give and you’re in need of it. And you have a perfectly shaped head. As well as nice cheeks and earlobes. And all those things are probably why I maybe-love you.”

Caspian was still looking out to sea. Pulling myself up and moving to stand behind him, I lifted away his left arm from wrapped around himself. He tensed as I hitched up his sleeve. There were no fresh scars, thanks to me. His recent angry purple ones were nothing but faded, sad leftovers. I brushed over one with my thumb, as lightly as I could without hurting him.

“You are fighting a war in secret,la mer Caspienne,” I began. “And I know how hard that is because I’ve done it all my life. I used to try not to be peculiar. I used to try to fit in, to fight the thing in my head that made me weird. But I messed up all the time. I blurted things out from Colette’s list ofhidden social curriculum violations. Or became so stressed I couldn’t say anything at all. Not speaking for months, years. Which was even worse.” I traced the edge of the welt, wishing it would vanish altogether under my fingers. “So… so I know secret wars are hard.”

With a long shaky sigh, Caspian looked down at his feet.

“Do you still fight it now?” he asked, “being different?”

“A bit,” I answered. “In places like the dentist or the hairdresser's or the bank—I hate the bank. If I go on my own, they treat me like I’m stupid. If I go with Nico or my dad, they ignore me. But mostly, I don’t care. I grow my hair long now and have good teeth.” I clacked them together to demonstrate. “And got myself some online banking.”

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