Page 142 of Red Flag
“What would you have done if they were?” I asked, stepping closer to him.
“I would have to think of something else,” he said, looping his arms around the back of my thighs. “My home address, your lucky number, your year of birth…”
“What’s my lucky number?” I didn’t even know I had one.
“Well, my number, obviously. So, guess that wouldn’t have worked either.” He stroked my calves as I stroked the leather. “I want to see it on your Instagram. I want at least a hundred people in the comments asking what twenty-three means.”
I pulled off my coat to put on his gift. He watched me carefully, probably waiting to comfort me the moment I broke again.
“Thank you,” I said and turned to look at myself in the mirror. But I hardly saw me. I saw him. Looking up at me, head cocked to the side, the tiniest glimpse of a smile. One I wouldn’t have been able to catch when we first met. “Thank you, thank you. This is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
The fit was perfect—baggy around my arms, ballooning at the sleeves that comfortably cuffed my wrists even in my jumper. The colour was almost the exact shade of my lipstick, not that he would have done that on purpose, but…
Nix could have just picked theCiclaticolours and been done.He could have got the standard version online and given meAlv’snumber. But he hadn’t.
It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him when he said he loved me, it was that I didn’t know if anyone had ever shown their love for me in such a single moment.
I didn’t know how someone did such a thing.
But it was clear before me.
And it soothed my racing heart, like when Dad putVapoRubon my chest and I was finally able to breathe again.
Around him, I could breathe.
“I also have these,” he said, letting me go to rummage through his bag again before pulling out a piece of paper. “Here is the list of therapists, as promised. I also made a file online that I emailed to you so you can click on the links for more information. It’s alphabetised.”
And not only did he love me, heknewme.
I bit my bottom lip, trying to stop it from wobbling, as I looked down at the paper.
“The majority of them, er, specialise in working with sexual assault survivors. But I didn’t pick just those in case you didn’t want to talk about that,” he rambled, pointing a finger at specific names. “Though there is one woman that specialises in that but also has experience as a grief counsellor and—”
“That would be good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said with a grateful nod, scanning through the detailed paragraphs he had written about them, the typos and asides obvious he was putting down the details he thought were important. “Can they be online?”
“Most can be over the phone, yes,” he said and I couldn’t help but feel proud at how much research he had done.
We arranged a meeting with a therapist named Trina and spent the evening watching sitcoms. I needed one afternoon where I didn’t think and got caught up in horrific reality TV—lives that were messier than my own.
In the morning, Nix was panicking. “Flowers,” he said. “Ah, shit. I haven’t got any flowers.”
“What?” I asked with a short laugh. “Why do you need flowers?”
“There should be flowers on the table. I should have at the very least got you flowers,” he muttered to himself, head in the cupboard, getting out a plate. “Fucking hell, why didn’t I get flowers!”
“Nobody died,” I said. “Why do we need flowers?”
“I should be buying you flowers every day.” He shook his head as the toast popped in the toaster.
“I don’t… I don’t want flowers,” I laughed. “Hey, I have some dried flowers in our bedroom… or some fake lilies in—”
“Oh god, not lilies,” he practically choked on the words. “They symbolise death. My mum would throw an actual fit.” He dropped the buttered toast on the plate he put before me. “Eat. I’ve got to run to the shop.”
“I’m not hungry,” I said as he pulled out a shopping bag from under the counter.
