Page 29 of My Heart to Find

“It’s a shame that didn’t go well,” she says, because that’s what I told her, focusing solely on the second half of the walk and not the first half where I actually felt we had a connection. Before I ran out of energy and ruined it.

I take a deep breath. Have I really ruined it? What if I can re-harness some of that energy first? Damien and I originally bonded over our love of crime—it was talking about crime on the retreat that really connected us. And we still had that connection today, when talking about Marnie.

Maybe, just maybe, if I can talk to him more about it, make him see that we still have that connection, then things could start to work again? And when things are working, then I could tell him about the Lyme? Make him understand why I’m most likely giving out mixed signals.

And if we were investigating Marnie’s case together, that would be a great way for us to bond. And even save Marnie too?

I look around. Mum’s now at the counter—she wants to leave a message for Esme’s doctor about her ears. Before I can chicken out, I grab my phone and text Damien, right from the reception of the medical center.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said about Marnie, and I agree, we should look into it more. Maybe I can find someone who knows her?

I click send before I can change my mind. I drum my fingers on my thigh as I wait for a response.

Then I realize what Mum said.

A shame? She’d rather I had a boyfriend?

Then again, she probably would rather she had a normal daughter. One who isn’t afraid of everything.

“We’ve just got to pick up your prescription,” Mum says as she returns. We head outside. “Then we can get back home. But we’ll drive to Boots.”

I’m relieved we’re driving there. I feel shaky and weak and my OCD’s getting worse. Even the air seems dangerous. Although I don’t like sitting in cars, I’d rather be in there right now. The air is probably safer in there.

My head’s spinning with thoughts of safety and danger as we get into the car, and my OCD’s telling me how I’ll need to shower when I’m home—going through the process in excruciating detail as it tells me the order I need to take my clothes off in to avoid contaminating myself further.

Mum hums under her breath as she starts the car. The engine sounds throaty. I don’t like loud sounds now. They grate right through me. I’m tense, on edge, as she drives, and we weave our way down the main street of the town.

Mum turns left onto West Street, where Boots, the pharmacy, is. There’s one free car parking space on the side of the road and Mum coaxes her old Ford into it.

“You staying here?” she asks.

I nod. I feel too weak to get out. I check my phone. Damien’s not replied.

“I won’t be long, but I’ll pop in at the green-grocers too. Esme needs some strawberries for her food tech lesson tomorrow.”

I nod. My heart’s pounding, and I feel sick. I look at my coat sleeve as Mum gets out and walks away. Every time I have a blood test done and they put their wad of cotton wool over the site, taping it down with white opaque tape that reminds me of masking tape, I half expect my blood to soak through. That one day I’ll bleed endlessly and endlessly, and lines of red will show through my sleeve.

But it doesn’t happen.

Good. I can’t imagine how my OCD would react if it did.

I breathe out a deep breath and look out of the window and—

It’s Damien and Jana, sitting inside a café window, less than ten feet from me. The panes of glass separate us.

I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut as I watch Jana laughing at something Damien’s said. Watch as Jana lightly places her hand on Damien’s arm. Watch as he looks up into her face and smiles.

Oh, God. I lean back in my seat, turning my head away so I can’t see them—and so they can’t see me if they look up.

My best friend and Damien—they’re on adate.

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