Page 68 of My Heart to Find

Damien’s right. This is serious. What if we do find something? And with the police not listening, would it be up to us to save her? To put ourselves in danger?

I swallow hard, feeling sick suddenly. I wouldn’t be able to do anything heroic, I know that. Not when I’m ill like this. If I had to run from danger, my POTS would make me faint within seconds. And maybe the Lyme would stop me from running altogether in the first place.

Damien makes a half-shrugging motion. “Anyway, I was going to order pizza tonight. It’s a bit early, but we could eat now.”

“Pizza?” I say, and my heart’s pounding. “Uh, sure.”

Damien retrieves a couple of takeaway leaflets—both for pizza houses—and lets me choose. He places the leaflets next to me on the sofa, so I don’t have to touch them, and once we’ve decided, he places the order, then sits next to me.

And it feels.... I don’t know. Weird—especially with his research into Marnie on the table in front of us.

As we wait for the pizza, Damien asks me about the last few years. And of course, the only thing that’s happened to me really in the last few years is my Lyme disease, so that’s what we end up talking about.

The buzzer rings out, making me jump.

“Pizza’s here.” Damien jumps up and heads toward the door.

I stay seated on the sofa, staring at my coat that’s folded perfectly over my lap. A blanket to protect me. And it is protecting me. With a jolt, I realize I’ve leant back fully into the sofa. My ponytail is touching the cushions—and probably the wall behind. And this is the first time I’ve realized it.

I think of what I’m like at home, sitting on the sofa. How rigid I am, how I’m constantly on high alert, how I try to lean forward so my hair and head and neck doesn’t touch anything.

But here... here I can relax. I breathe deeply.

Damien returns with the pizzas.

I’m glad he ordered two separate pizzas. I struggle with sharing food, especially if another person’s hands keep going in it.

“Have you got cutlery?” I ask.

“For pizza?” He laughs but then stops when he realizes I’m serious. Then he nods. “Sure.” He disappears and returns a moment later with a knife and fork which he hands to me.

As I take them, my hand brushes his. An electric shock bolts through me.

We both freeze.

He looks at me, wide-eyed. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was me.” I stare at my hand, at my fingers looking exactly the same. Then I stare at the cutlery I’m now holding, and I’m trying to find imperfections on them, marks, because my OCD is making me look, and if I find anything my OCD will start screaming. And that’s what it wants to do.

My heart pounds. I don’t find any marks on the cutlery.

We settle down to eat, both on the sofa. Damien keeps a three-inch minimum gap between every part of our bodies at all times. But, as we eat, I find myself wondering what would happen if my leg did brush against his. Because nothing bad happened when my hand touched his. My OCD didn’t start screaming like it would’ve if it was Jana or Esme or even my mum who did it. It’s like...like the OCD’s quiet. Like it’s backed away, like it’s sleeping.

And I stare at the smudge of grease that’s somehow worked its way up the handle of my fork and onto the side of my thumb. And it’s not bothering me at all. It’s just there...and I haven’t got an anxiety response to it.

Then I jolt a little. I’m sitting in an unfamiliar room, sitting on a sofa, and I’m not shaking.

I’ve been chatting happily with Damien.

Damien.

I look at him, and my breathing quickens—because it’s him, and all my feelings that I felt on the retreat are flooding back.

It’shim.

My heart pounds, and before I can change my mind, I reach across and place my hand on his.

Damien stares at me, his hand still in mine. “This is okay?”

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