Page 20 of My Heart to Find

“You could put some make up on though,” Esme says, giving me a pretty disdainful look for a thirteen-year-old. “I’ve got that new eyeshadow set. You can borrow it.”

“No, thanks.” My heart’s pounding. Not just because of the makeup I cannot wear because I hate anything touching my face. The only thing I’ll tolerate at the moment is sun block, because I have to—the antibiotics I’m on have a warning about severe sunburn as a side effect.

“Be careful,” Mum says. “And have a good time.”

*

BY THE TIME I NEARthe meeting spot outside High Court Flats, I am most certainly not having a good time. My heart is pounding, my stomach is turning, and twice I stopped on the way here thinking I was going to be sick. Each time, after I’d breathed in crisp air that felt like it was burning me and waited minutes with no vomit appearing, I’d pulled out my phone—careful not to disturb the earphones connected, though I’ve hardly been able to concentrate on the next chapter ofLuckiest Girl Aliveand will definitely need to re-listen later—ready to text Damien and cancel, but then I couldn’t type the message because my hands were shaking too much. I had to pocket my phone safely amid fears that I’d drop it on the road or something. Who knows how many filmy layers of fumes and petrol and dirt would’ve covered it had I dropped it?

And he’s there, outside his building, nonchalantly leaning against the wall. He doesn’t care about his clothes touching it. Or his hair—that beautiful silky, blond hair.

Seeing him there makes it hit me—that this is real.

This is a date.

Oh, God. I put my earphones away carefully. I’m on a date. WithDamien.

Icannotdo this.

Just as I’m about to turn away, Damien looks up and sees me. And it’s too late—I can’t turn away now, can’t run.

Oh, God.

My legs feel like soggy cardboard as I close the distance between us—careful, though, to keep a foot or two away. Of course.

“Hi,” I say, and I read somewhere that when you’re with someone who’s right for you, it’s supposed to feel easy. That when you haven’t seen each other for three years, you fall right back into closeness. And I remember what it was like in Mallorca. But already I know that this isn’t like that. It can’t be.

Too much time has passed. I was a fool to think anything could come of it. This was a bad idea. God. I just need to get today over with. And what, this walk can’t last longer than an hour, right?

I mean, if it does, I’ll tell him I’ve got plans later, that I’ve got to be back home. Yes, I’ll do that. I mean, I have got that blood test Mum reminded me of.

“Hi,” Damien says, and he leans forward and—

He’s going to hug me!

I jump back, my heart pounding. My senses are on high alert, and it’s like everything’s stopped as I take inventory of the scene—there are three inches between me and Damien, and he didn’t touch me. It’s okay. It’s okay. I jumped backward, but I didn’t end up touching anything.

So, it’s okay.

“Oh,” Damien says. Hurt flashes across his face. “Uh, sorry.”

“It’s not you...” I say. My words seem too thick all of a sudden. I need to tell him about the Lyme and the OCD—only I can’t. Because it just sounds stupid and people don’t get it. There are too many misconceptions about OCD, about how it must always be a positive thing, just something that makes you tidy. A neat freak. And fair enough, before I got it, I never realized just how much mental torture is involved in OCD. But I can’t tell Damien about it. He might laugh.

I’m ashamed of the OCD too.

I don’t want him thinking I’m just making excuses. So, instead, I say nothing more about the near-miss of a hug and swallow hard, desperately wracking my brain for something I can say. I force a smile. Pain flickers down my neck and across my shoulders in the shape of a coat-hanger. “Uh, so, how come you’ve moved down here?”

“Cheaper rent.” His voice sounds strange. He’s watching me, but trying to pretend he isn’t. I feel my face redden. I’ve ruined things, I know I have. Of course he’s going to think I’m not interested in him now.

I want to scream internally, scream until my voice goes hoarse. Scream until I disappear.

But I don’t. I just breathe in the awkward atmosphere. The air’s cloggy and makes me feel like I can’t breathe fully. Like there’s fogginess invading my lungs. Fogginess that’s sticky. It makes dark spots hover in front of my eyes.

I pray I won’t faint.

“Uh, shall we walk to the park?” I ask.

“Sure,” Damien says, and the one-syllable seems so cold and blunt. Not like how he used to be. Not like howweused to be.

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