Page 72 of Falling for You
‘Listen,’ I say, interrupting Stevie as he starts chatting about his journey up to Sheffield. ‘I’ve got to talk to you quickly. I’m sure it’s fine, but I got a weird message from Mom this morning.’
Stevie is silent down the phone for a moment and I can hear my heart thudding in my ears. ‘What does that mean?’ he says eventually.
‘Well, nothing,’ I hear myself say. ‘I’m sure it’s all fine.’
Why am I saying this? I don’t know if it’s fine. I don’t know anything.
‘For fuck’s sake, Nate,’ Stevie snaps. ‘Just tell me what’s going on.’
‘She messaged me in the middle of the night.’
‘Saying what?’
‘Saying “help”.’ I force myself to say it, even though it’s enough to make me want to throw up. It sounds so much worse when I say it out loud.
‘Help?’ Stevie repeats. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, running my fingers through my hair. ‘That’s literally all it said. But I’m sure everything is fine.’
‘Stop saying that!’ I flinch as he shouts down the phone. ‘You can’t possibly know that everything’s fine. Don’t patronise me.’
‘Well, I don’t know what to do!’ I exclaim, a bolt of rage piercing through me. Does he have any idea how much I wish it was someone calling to tell me that they’re sure everything is going to be okay, instead of it being me?Why does it always have to be me?
‘Have you spoken to her? Or Dad?’
‘Of course not,’ I say, failing to hide the anger in my voice. ‘I’d tell you if I knew more, wouldn’t I?’
‘Well, try and call them, then.’
‘What do you think I’ve been doing all day?’ I shout, getting to my feet and throwing my arm in the air. I wince as my wrist knocks the lampshade and glass splinters around my fist. I take a deep breath as the pain slices through my hand.
‘Look,’ I start again. ‘I’m telling you all I know. As soon as I hear something I will call you, I promise.’
But the line has gone dead. Stevie has hung up.
I chuck the phone onto the sofa and storm into the kitchen, grabbing sheets of kitchen roll to wrap round my hand. Specks of dark blood swell through the white squaresand I curse, sucking the cut as I rifle through Stevie’s cupboard. Of course he doesn’t have a first-aid kit, or anything mildly similar to one. He’s a child. He’s a child who’s been hiding in London for the past ten years with his head in the sand, ignoring everything that’s going on around him. His family, his responsibilities … they’ve all been things I’ve had to pick up.
I wince as blood seeps through the paper towel and feel a dart of panic.
Shit. I think I’ve really cut myself.
I’m about to run my hand under the tap when I hear the faint jingle of my ringtone. I dash into the living room and snatch up my phone, answering it before I’ve even clocked who’s calling.
‘Hello?’
‘You all right?’
I recognise the relaxed rhythm of Remy’s voice instantly and before I can compose myself, I hear myself blurt, ‘Remy, do you know where the nearest hospital is?’
‘Here you are, lad.’
I glance up as Remy hands me a polystyrene cup. I hold it with my free arm, my other still held aloft, as instructed by the frazzled nurse who bandaged me up and told me to stay put until she got back. That was about thirty minutes ago.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’
‘Stop apologising.’ Remy hadn’t asked why I needed to go to hospital. He just wanted to know where I was, andthen twenty minutes later showed up in his black cab and told me to get in. He only asked me two questions: if I was okay, and if I’d been in a fight. I heard myself answer no to both of them, before hurriedly adding that I was fine really and that I was probably overreacting. I said this while I had an entire roll of kitchen roll on my lap, which was thinning out by the minute as it sucked up my blood like a thirsty sponge.
I jump as my phone vibrates next to me. I grab it, only to see a pointless email from Deliveroo. It makes me so angry that I almost launch my phone across the room. Remy catches my expression and raises an eyebrow.
