Page 74 of Falling for You
He picks up his coffee and nods his head. ‘I’ll be here, Nate. Don’t worry about it.’
The nurse spent twenty minutes threading tiny stitches through the cut on the palm of my hand. The needle pierced both sides of flesh and weaved them back together, and it all felt so small and minor that I felt pathetic for wanting to cry out in pain.
As good as his word, Remy was still waiting on the plastic chair where I left him when I came out with my newly bandaged hand. We climbed into his cab and he drove me back to the flat. I tried to offer him some money, but he just said that I could buy him a pint next time we were both at the pub. I said I’d buy him two, and an ice cream at the theatre. He laughed at that.
I’ve been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and feeling completely tormented for the past few hours. When I got out of the hospital, I was convinced I’d have a message from Mom that had somehow gotten lost within the poor signal of the building. But there was nothing there. It took all my strength not to lose my mind. Annie hasn’t messaged meback either, but I can see that she’s read it. I want to message her again, but I’m so exhausted from the past twelve hours that I feel like my brain isn’t working properly. I can’t think of what I’d say, and we had such a great time on Saturday. It was so fun and free, I don’t want to burden her with all of my bullshit. She was my escape from it all.
I heard Stevie get in about an hour ago and go straight to his bedroom. Even though he’ll assume I was asleep, I thought he might come and wake me up to see if I’d heard anything. I’m sort of glad he didn’t. I don’t think I could bear to tell him that not only had I not heard anything at all, but as time went on, I was rapidly losing faith that it would all be okay like I promised. Because he was right – how would I know?
I roll onto my back and close my eyes. I force myself to focus on my breathing, the only thing I feel like I can control right now.
In, out, in, out, in, out, in—
I jump as my phone vibrates next to me and I finally see Mom’s name flash up on the screen.
‘Mom,’ I cry, pressing the phone to my ear. ‘Mom? Are you okay?’
As soon as I speak, Stevie comes crashing into my room, wide-eyed. He’d obviously heard my phone through our paper-thin walls. I switch the phone to loudspeaker. He glances at my hand in confusion and I shake my head, mouthing, ‘I’m fine.’
‘Oh!’ Mom’s voice spills through into our deathly silent room. ‘Hello, love!’
Stevie hovers at the doorway. My heart climbs into my throat. She sounds … okay. She sounds like Mom.
‘Are you okay?’ I say. ‘I got your message yesterday, but I was asleep. I’ve been trying to get hold of you and Dad all day.’
The phone makes a scuffling sound as Mom walks through the house. ‘Oh yes, I’m fine,’ she says. ‘How are you?’
I make the mistake of looking up at Stevie. He looks murderous.
‘Fine,’ I say carefully. ‘Mom, you texted me saying “help” yesterday. Are you all right?’
‘Did I?’ Mom says. ‘I don’t think I did.’
My heart sinks. She doesn’t remember.
Stevie storms out of the room, throwing his arms in the air. I wince as I hear his bedroom door slam.
‘Yeah,’ I say, leaning back onto my bed as a wave of exhaustion hits me. ‘You did.’
‘Oh,’ Mom says after a pause, and then she laughs lightly. ‘That must have been a mistake. How are you, sweetie? How’s Stevie?’
I place a hand over my face as a cold mixture of fear, relief and panic begins to take a hold of my body.
I inhale deeply. ‘How was your day?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Annie
‘So here we have a property that I really think you’ll like.’
I hear my voice tighten as I repeat the same sentence I’ve been parroting to this client for the past six weeks.
Melissa Dumfry is the Head of Sales at a global, multi-million marketing company and is about to relocate to London for eighteen months. They’ve given her a budget of thirty thousand poundsa monthto cover her expenses, and I know that’s moving over from a one-bed apartment in New York. So far, I have shown her eight properties. Eight! All dotted across different parts of leafy London, from the white-bricked Georgian to the terraced Victorian. She’s seen – and hated – them all.
I need her to agree on a property by the end of this week. Partly so I meet the deadline set by the client, and partly so I don’t murder Melissa the next time I see her pout as if something has just collapsed and died under her nose when I say something like: this property only has one communal swimming pool.
Today, I’m showing her a three-bedroom flat in Knightsbridge. It’s right behind the Victoria and Albert Museum andin its own gated community. It’s on the third floor of a block of flats (an immediate red flag that I managed to skirt over by distracting her with the enormous lift) and spans over two thousand square feet. It’s decorated in creams and light, speckled greys with fat, plumped-up sofas and towering double beds stacked with firm cushions, crisp white sheets swept over each mattress.
