Page 5 of Every Silent Lie
I flinch, stung, pulling my bag onto my shoulder again, being forced to look away, to escape the scrutiny I’m under. Kids outside the store turn to their parents, expressing their outrage as they point at me. The lady on the street who’s just turned the pure, Christmassy air outside their favourite toy store blue with her foul language. My cringe has my shoulders rising and my eyes returning to Dec to escape the condemning parents’ glares. “I should leave before they come at me with pitchforks.” Stepping back, I take in the man before me. Beautiful. My silent observation jars me. I don’t see beauty in this world anymore. I’m a robot going through the motions of life, limping my way through each day, constantly wondering if this unrelenting pain will fuck off. Wondering if I’ll ever appreciate colour again. Hear laughing and not want to curl into a ball and cry. “Thanks for saving me.”
I get nothing from him, not one hint of . . . anything, so I turn and walk away, before I’m drawn into his warm chest again.
“Where are you heading?”
I stop, staring at the street ahead. “Home.”
“I’ll walk you.”
I turn, just as he reaches me. “That didn’t sound like you were offering, more telling.”
“Correct.” He passes me but stops when he realises I’m not following him, looking back.
“You don’t know where I’m walking to.”
“I don’t need to. I assume you know the way.” That eyebrow lifts again.
“Camden.”
“You’re walking to Camden? That’s a long walk.”
“Maybe fifty minutes. Changed your mind?”
“No.” He watches my every step as I approach him, and he falls into stride beside me as I continue past, our walk slow and silent. But it’s not awkward. It’s strangely comfortable. A man by my side. Just there, relaxed. Few people are relaxed around me anymore. Most avoid me.
I look up at him, taking in his profile, thinking again how lovely it is. His lashes are long, some strands of his dark hair falling across his forehead. His stubble is on the longer side of tidy, some flecks of grey peppering that too. After a few moments, he starts to slow, and I naturally drop my pace until we stop in the middle of the pavement. Then he turns his eyes onto me. In this moment, I decide they’re my favourite part of all the parts of him. His eyes. They’re expressive without giving anything at all away.
“Changed your mind?” he asks.
“About what?”
“If I’m very handsome.”
“No.”
“Good. My turn,” he says, and I tilt my head in question, just as he reaches for my cheek and encourages me to face away again. The warmth of his skin on mine, even if it’s just his fingertips, makes every muscle in me tense to sustain the pleasure. His gaze burns into my profile as I remain still, my breathing slowing, letting him have his time, not feeling at all uncomfortable. That in itself is odd. I hate attention on me. Will avoid it at all costs. But Dec looking at me? I like it.
I eventually turn my eyes but keep my head relatively straight. “Done?”
“No.”
I chew on the corner of my lip, and I realise it’s to stop a smile from breaking. Just feeling my face muscles twitch is unusual.
“Okay, I’m done.” By the tiny twitch of his eyes, I can tell he saw my brief smile. But he carries on his way without another word, and I watch him, releasing my lip and taking in air as I catch up, the silence falling again. And it’s comfortable again.
I hear the distant sound of Mariah Carey singing, getting progressively louder, until it’s upon us, unbearably loud, and yet today I can bear it. A rickshaw drenched in multicoloured Christmas lights and dripping in tinsel passes, the two passengers singing along, arms in the air. I can feel Dec looking at me again, but I return my attention forward.
And we walk.
And walk.
No more words, no conversation, but plenty of fleeting looks.
No facial expressions.
Not until we reach Camden High Street. “So what was the document that needed signing?” he asks.
“Why do you assume it needed signing?”
