January 2007

MARK

I've never been a fan of chicken sandwiches, but when I walk into Boots and don't see Ben's usual on the shelf, I suddenly can't stomach the thought of anything else.

On every night shift since returning to work, my eyes have instinctively sought out the chicken and sweetcorn packet. It sat there, top shelf to the right, reliably. A small reminder of Ben in a world where he no longer existed. A tiny comfort. Chances are, Boots are just out of stock. But the prospect of never seeing that damn sandwich again destroys my appetite.

I walk out of the shop.

Ten days later, I walk out of the force.

*

Zoe's been crying. She tries to hide it. Or I think she's trying to hide it, but I can't be sure because she's doing such a poor job of it that I'm half-suspicious she wants me to notice.

"Everything okay?" I ask over dinner.

She wipes the back of one hand across her cheek and nods. "Fine."

At least I asked. I acknowledged her pain. I tried to open a dialogue.

Communication has improved since the funeral a couple of months back, but there's still a barrier between us that I can't shift. One that reminds me what happened last time I opened up to her. The confusing comfort it brought. The spark of attraction it ignited. The mutual understanding that nothing can happen between us.

Except now I want it more than ever. The escape from reality. The physical relief to offset the emotional pain. The touch of her tiny hands evolving from comfort to pleasure. Those chatty pink lips wrapped around—

"I just feel like I'm not good enough and I don't understand what I've done wrong." She drops her fork with an ear-piercing clatter and sets both elbows on the table to bury her face in her palms.

"With what?" I ask, because it's not entirely clear if she's talking about me.

She mumbles something incoherent into her hands, which doesn't help in the slightest. I try a more direct route.

"Have I upset you?"

Red-rimmed eyes widen as she jerks her head up to look at me.

"No! God, no. It's my friends. I just..." She scrunches her mouth, her gaze sliding across the room before slowly retreating back to me. "I shouldn't complain to you because... Well, my friendship troubles seem petty when... You know."

I raise an eyebrow. "When my friend is dead?"

Pink stains her cheeks. "I wasn't going to be quite so... Blunt."

"You should be," I say. "I prefer direct communication."

"Yes because you're good at it. I don't want to accidentally offend you or... You know."

I twist a strand of spaghetti around my fork. "Ben died three months ago. I'm dealing with it."

Her tooth sinks into the plump flesh of her bottom lip. "You just quit your job. Is that your version of dealing with it?"

Fuck. Maybe I prefer her rambling indirectness after all.

I set down my cutlery and lean back in my chair, brushing my thumb across the corner of my mouth.

"Sorry." She lowers her eyes. "Too direct, perhaps."

"No." I clear the lump from my throat. "You're right. I couldn't stay in the police, though. It's not just because of Ben."

It's mostly to do with Ben, though. The sympathetic stares. The new partner who's fifteen years my senior but who acts more like a babysitter than a mentor. The paralysing fear every time I knock on a closed door.

I wanted to follow in Dad's footsteps. To help people. To protect. I can't do that if my mind is too fucked to function properly.

"Is the therapy going okay?" She asks the question with trepidation, so I try extra hard with my answer.

"It's good. Helping, I think." I shrug and pick up my fork again. "I like logic and science. A reason behind things. She explains what's happening in my brain and why I'm feeling a certain way. It helps."

Zoe's mouth scrunches again. Clearly she's not in agreement, and I'm not surprised. Emotions run the girl's life. That's why one of us is crying at the dinner table and the other is enjoying their bolognese.

"So what's going on with your friends?" I ask.

She sighs. "Ever since my year abroad, I've felt distanced from them. Maybe I shouldn't have picked a country so far away that they couldn't visit—"

"Bullshit. You should never base important life decisions on whether it's convenient to someone else."

Something resembling guilt or regret flits through her eyes, which makes me suspect she's done exactly that in the past.

"Anyway, they seemed happy I was back to start. But then I noticed they were going out without me. Not inviting me to places. I know it sounds pathetic, but then one of them texted me earlier and was like, 'oh by the way, hope it's cool but I've started seeing JJ. Thought I'd let you know so it's not awkward if we're out together.'"

"JJ's your ex?"

"Joel, yeah."

Has she spoken about her ex before? I'm almost certain she hasn't. I'd remember a nickname like that.

"He sounds like a knob."

"Based on what?"

"Just a hunch."

She tuts and stirs her pasta. I'd assumed that slagging off her ex was the right move. Apparently not.

I try a different approach.

"So your friend's dating your ex?"

"Yeah, but I mean, maybe she's not my friend. Maybe that's the point."

"Hm. Was he a good boyfriend?"

Another scrunch of her lips. For someone so chatty, she says more when her mouth is silent.

Before she has chance to lie, I say, "That's a no, then. If he was a shit boyfriend, and she's a shit friend, then don't lose sleep over it."

Logic 101. By the way her eyes flare with rare irritation, apparently she's not of the same opinion.

"Not everything is so black and white, Mark. I can't just cut her off. We're in the same friendship group. And he wasn't a shit boyfriend. He wasn't great, but no relationship is perfect, right? Besides, I'm pretty sure he cheated on me, so why would I want my friend going out with a guy who cheats?"

Jesus Christ. Does she even hear herself? There is so much to unpack there that my head spins with the effort to keep up.

I shovel more spaghetti into my mouth and wait for her to settle down. Although, I'd quite like to see her fired up. Cheeks flushed with adrenaline instead of embarrassment.

"JJ made me feel good about myself."

Fuck it. I can't pretend this crap isn't toxic.

"I bet he also made you feel bad about yourself."

I steal a glance up at her. Her knuckles are white around her fork.

"Like I said, no relationship is perfect."

"Why are you defending this guy? He cheated on you and now he's dating your friend. Why are you still trying to see the good in him?"

"I'm not trying to see the good in him. I'm trying to justify why I'm upset!" Her voice cracks as she slams down her fork. It bounces off the rim of the plate and topples to the floor.

Sighing, I reach down to retrieve it, then rise from my chair and stride over to the cutlery drawer for a fresh one. Even though I've obviously annoyed her, she still murmurs a thank you at me when I set it down in front of her.

I should let it drop. She's upset. With her friend, with her ex, and now with me. I should definitely take a step back.

Except, as soon as I sit down opposite her again, and I see those beautiful eyes glistening with unshed tears, anger at her hurt rises to the surface again. Anger at the people who've upset her. Anger at her for letting them upset her. Anger at myself for getting so invested in this.

"Seeing the good in people isn't a bad thing, Zoe. But it sets you up for disappointment. It clouds your judgement. It puts you at risk of being taken advantage of."

"Sorry. That's just how I am."

"Don't apologise for it." I wet my bottom lip, and her eyes dart down to follow the slow sweep of my tongue. It distracts me long enough to disarm me. "I'm too far the other way. I see the bad instead of the good. Just means our outlooks are different, which is fine as long as it doesn't have a detrimental effect."

"And you think it does with me?"

Fuck, she's baiting me now. If she wants honesty, I'll give her honesty.

"You're crying over it, so yes."

"I'm showing my emotions. It's more than what you do, and I think that's also detrimental."

My jaw tightens. She has no idea of the emotions I battle on a daily basis. Emotion forced me to quit the police. Emotion encouraged me to seek therapy. Emotion stopped me from fucking her that night when I really wanted to.

"I feel emotion."

She leans forwards, eyes shining. "But you don't show it! How is that any healthier? Bottling it up and never letting it out?"

My throat constricts, and I fight the urge to rub at it. Now she's called me out, I don't want to give in.

"I sat next to you and held your hand and cried at Ben's funeral. That not good enough for you?"

She flinches, opens her mouth then shuts it again. Unlike me, she hides nothing. She's a glossary of emotions. It's equal parts endearing and frustrating. Like now, I can see she's itching to challenge me, but I've played a cheat card by mentioning the funeral, and she's struggling with the sensitivity of that.

"The funeral was two months ago." She swallows. "I know we're just flatmates, Mark. It's fine. Do you have anyone you can talk to?"

"My therapist."

I literally pay someone to talk about my emotions. It doesn't come better than that.

"I mean a friend. Since... Ben."

I flick my wrist at her, try to keep it casual. "You."

It's true. I might not spill my emotions, but I tell her the highlights. Quit my job. Thinking of becoming a bouncer. Going to the gym more to bulk up. Enjoying boxing. Especially the punching things part. She gets information from me. More than most people.

She wipes an index finger beneath her eye, catching the tears before they fall. A black streak of mascara paints her skin when she withdraws her hand. Watching her cry tightens my stomach to the point of pain. She's done so much for me over the past five months. More than she probably realises. Every day she's a familiar constant in a changing world. A world spiralling out of control.

I push back my chair and stand. Her watery eyes tickle my spine as I trudge through the living room to collect the tissues from the coffee table. As she plucks one from the box, she sniffs and blinks. Tears stream down her cheeks, only to be swiftly wiped away.

"Do you want a hug or something?"

She glances up at me, part sceptical, part hopeful. "I'll get your shirt wet..."

"It doesn't matter. If it makes you feel better."

Indecision mars her blotchy face, which makes me feel like even more of an asshole. I've put up so many barriers with this girl that she's hesitant to accept the physical comfort she's so obviously craving. I'm not a hugger. I've never been a hugger. But for her, I'll make an exception.

Eventually she rises from her seat and wraps her dainty arms around my torso. Her head rests against my chest, apple shampoo blending with something sweet and floral. Like a fresh walk through a meadow in spring.

Tentatively, I drape an arm over her back and span my palm across her shoulder blades. A tremble vibrates down her body as she nestles closer, grips me tighter, her steady heartbeat thumping against my lower ribcage.

I'm not a hugger, but holding her brings a temporary sense of calm to my troubled head. By the time she pulls away, I'm not sure who benefitted more from it.

"I hate that your friends make you feel like you're not important. You are important. To me. Sorry if I don't show that enough."

"Thanks." She draws in a deep breath and releases it in a soft sigh. "I think I needed to hear that."

"I'm not just saying it because you need to hear it. I mean it."

She nods and crumples the tissue into the palm of her hand.

"I promise I'm not trying to step into Ben's shoes," she says, tipping her head back to look up at me. "But I'll be that friend if you need me to be."

My thumb reaches out to catch another stray tear. She stiffens under my touch, and I immediately withdraw my hand.

"You're already that friend," I reply through the thick lump clogging my throat. "I'm not good at opening up, Zoe. It's not a reflection on you, I swear. You're..."

"...I'm what?"

"You're great. You help me more than you realise. I'm just fucking shit at showing it, and I don't know if that will ever change."

I need to shut up now. I'm saying far too much in my attempt to reassure her. To make her feel better.

She's not Ben. She'll never be Ben. The thought of her becoming Ben floods my chest with suffocating tightness.

This is how it starts. Small talk. Longer conversations. Getting to know each other. Opening up in a moment of vulnerability. Attachments forming.

If I let her see all of me, logic points to two outcomes. Two pieces of concrete evidence. Either she won't like me for it and she'll leave, or she'll like me even more and then she'll be taken away from me.

However it plays out, I end up losing her.  And then I'll have no one. 

***

Thank you for reading :) xx

***

Who'd turn down a Mark hug?

Next 3 chapters are already posted on Ream! I'm planning to update on Wattpad every other week, alternating with Written in Stone, so that you get a chapter of either book each week :)