Page 51 of Forever Not Yours

Okay. Not clever, and definitely not smart. But I was irrationally angry, mostly at myself. Why had I let this go on like this? This whole shitty situation was insane. Why the fuck did Ialways do this?

He came up behind me and let me in, because I couldn’t even open the door myself. I had a bloody key in my bag, which was still at work, and the list of things I was fucking up seemed to be never-ending at this point.

I followed him up the stairs and picked up a yapping Flossie on automatic, letting her lick my face and claw at my shirt like she always did. It should have calmed me down, but it didn’t. She needed a walk, but I needed a shower, and I needed to reload the other pump and get this whole shitty day over and done with. Sleep it all off.

This was usually the point when Jake would walk up to the kettle, dropping his shoes on the way, and offer me a tea. Smile and tell me something mundane about his day. Like,Hey, guess what? I had to pick up my mate from a bar today. Not just any bar, but the kind of bar you go to for a quick, dirty, mindless fuck.

Not fun. Not clever. I ground my teeth together, trying to swallow the disgust pooling in my mouth. He looked…

Me and my fucking inability to use my mouth. Even when I did, I threw tantrums and fucked things up.I hated the look on his face right now, and he wasn’t even looking at me. So, yes, he’d cried the other day, but that was Jake. He cried at Christmas adverts and puppies, and he’d bawled his eyes out at my grandma’s funeral. I rarely cried. Instead, I would freeze up in disbelief, wondering what the hell was going on, just like I was doing now.

Jake, leaning against the counter, wearing those flimsy work scrubs he wore, was watching the kettle like he was waiting for it to boil when he hadn’t even flicked it on. He had his back to me, shoulders rising and falling in a steady beat, head slumped, the way he did when he was…

The realisation shouldn’t have felt like it did, but this was me, and I didn’t always think before I acted. Or spoke. This was why I shouldn’t open my mouth, because when I did, I caused things like this. I’d shouted awful things at my mum in my teens, called my dad names he didn’t deserve. Teenage hormones and all that, but I was a grown man now, still doing the same thing. Hurting the people I loved.

I loved Jake. Of course I did. We said it all the time. Well, he did. I nodded. But I did love him, and Iabsolutely hated that he was hurting. Because of me. Because all he had done for me was go along with all my insanities, and he’d supported all my whims and ideas and infatuations, and the bloody stag night. Just the thought of it brought me out in a cold sweat.

The weird activities. The people. The drinking. The panic in my chest that threatened to overwhelm me the entire time. Constantly looking for him, hoping he would just make it all stop.

Red. Red, red, red.

“Red,” I said out loud.

He didn’t move.

“Red,” I repeated, the familiar sensation of panic rising up my arms. “Red, Jake. Red, red, red.”

“What?” His voice cracked wide open in a single syllable.

And just like that, I seemed to crack open myself as well, words suddenly falling out of my mouth, raining down on him like wild droplets as I smashed my front to his back.

“I need this to stop. All of it. All of fucking everything needs to stop, right now, because I hate this. Hate the way I feel, and how I make everyone elsefeel around me. I can’t control anything, and it’s all wrong. Everything is wrong and messed up and nothing is right. So red. Red on fucking everything.”

His breathing was deep, steady, yet his arms were shaking, trying to hold himself up against the kitchen counter, with me plastered across his back, my arms around his front, trying to do something that I had no control over, until my lips found the skin on his neck. I pressed against that warmth, a little damp on his collar, but I kissed what I could reach and held myself firm, rising on my toes so I could get my nose in there too. His skin against my face, the scent of him everywhere. Strong. Firm. His chest under my hands. Arms holding him tight.

“Red,” I said again. What the hell else could I say? Red on my brain too, apparently.

“I need a minute,” he said quietly. “I’m too angry to be rational right now.”

“Hurt,” I said, again shocking myself with finding the right words. “You’re not angry. You’re hurt, and I…Jake, I get that. I did this, and I have an awful lot of explaining to do, because you don’t deserve this. You’ve been doing everything for me, and I…I hurt you. I did, and I…”

“Go shower, Bastien.” He shrugged me off, me stumbling awkwardly backwards as he turned around and walked away. Pausing by his bedroom door, he took another breath. “Come get me when you’ve figured out what the hell is going on here, because enough, Bastien. Fucking enough.”

It stung, but somehow, my head was clearing. Things I hadn’t thought about were slowly coming back, organising themselves into neat little compartments in my brain.

Red. Start again. Reset fucking everything.

It seemed to help, clearing things up like that, starting over. Just like a flowchart, I started from the top: first things first, like food. I opened the fridge and stared into it, found some plain chicken in a bowl that I wolfed down before stopping myself mid-bite and once again remembering what an absolute arsehole I was.

Enough, Bastien. Fucking enough.

Okay. I got all my stuff lined up, washed my hand and pricked my finger. On the low side, but nothingI couldn’t fix. I shoved some dry oatcakes in my mouth, chewing furiously as I swapped over my insulin pump, dosed up the syringe and then stood there like a fool, staring at the packets.

This was me, wasn’t it? No wonder the pump was fucked. Right in front of me was this morning’s dosed-up syringe, still full. Of course my levels had been going off the charts, my pump alarming like crazy, and I hadn’t even refilled it this morning, too flustered to function. I’d eaten as normal, so of course I’d been hyper earlier, which I’d topped up with those biscuits and then crashed like a crazy person because I had no idea what I was doing, except I actually did. I just absolutely refused to acknowledge that to myself.

He was right. Enough was enough. I thought I’d solved things when Juliet had thrown me out, but I’d actually made everything worse. Then I’d stuck my head in the sand, thinking I could hide out here until things calmed down, but the calm had been replaced with chaos, and now here I was again. Bastien Dewaert, the king of fuck-ups.

I did what any self-respecting Brit would do: I made us a cup of tea. Two mugs, strong brews, a dash ofmilk. I needed a shower, and I really needed to sit down and organise my supplies, and I definitely needed to track down my delivery and get it here pronto. And find emergency prick-sticks and testing strips for the office, if I still had a job. I’d walked out today, and my phone… I didn’t even dare to look.

---