Oh no.
On one level, I’d figured it out the second he’d walked in the door holding a key. But I’d needed it not to be true, so had chosen to deny the obvious.
‘I’m sorry! Isaac never mentioned you were housemates.’
Or even plain old mates any more, come to think of it.
Elliot shrugged. ‘He started renting off me when he moved back to start the business.’
‘This is your house?’ I asked, hoping he didn’t hear the tremble in my voice.
‘Yes.’
I was living in Elliot Ollerton’s house. This couldn’t be happening. I had to grab my things and go. Now. This minute. As soon as I’d figured out where I was going and how I was going to get there.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Elliot asked, the frown easing into a cautious smile. ‘Or something to eat?’
My mouth answered on autopilot. ‘Tea would be great, thanks. Black is fine.’
I’d have preferred whisky, but it was probably best to wait until I was alone before I started on alcohol. I couldn’t quite believe I’d said yes to a drink at all, but it was like I’d slipped into survival mode, and had no idea what else to do. I watched Elliot carefully filling up the kettle, his expression blank as he took mugs out of a cupboard and added teabags.
I knew he didn’t remember what had happened. Isaac had said Elliot had woken up with no memory of the time around prom. What we’d said. How we’d kissed. That the accident – weeks in a coma, months in hospital, the rest of his life overshadowed by a traumatic brain injury – was mostly my fault.
Did he remember that back then, he’d loved me?
Traumatised and wracked with guilt, in my distressed, teenage mind, it somehow made sense to keep my vow to Elliot. I’d swornon his lifethat I wouldn’t tell anyone about us being together that night. He was in a coma. What if I said something, and then he died? In my panic, I’d convinced myself that the only reason to confess was in the hope that it might make me feel better. It would do nothing to help Elliot. And I didn’t deserve to feel better, so I kept my promise. It was the only thing I could do for him, now.
I’d kept my secret for nearly seven years. Then, just over three years ago, almost out of their mind with worry, my parents had tracked me down to a rat-infested squat in Manchester. They’d pleaded with me to come home, confused and heartbroken about whatever it was that had caused me to spiral so far down, and to resist their attempts to help. Instead, we’d reached the compromise that they’d set me up in a studio flat and pay for a therapist. I chose Brighton, because I thought that walking on the beach and watching the sea might be a tiny reason to keep on living.
After a few agonising therapy sessions, I’d finally accepted that telling my secret to this woman with a kind smile might be my only hope. I kept it anonymous, no names mentioned, and of course she’d responded as I knew she would, with penetrating questions about whether or not I was really to blame, or whether it was in fact a horrible accident. If blame was required, then what about the car driver? The boy who wasn’t watching the road behind him? How about my brother; did he not have a part to play? The school, for holding a prom in the first place?
This had the intended effect of making me confront how futile it was to apportion blame, how vital it was to process the trauma so I could move on. How I would never be free until I found a way to forgive myself.
Simply telling someone helped more than I could have imagined.
It would probably have helped more if I’d dared go back for another session.
3
Okay, what now?I tried to take a slow, steadying breath as Elliot continued making the drinks. The shame that during therapy had slunk off to make a home in the deepest, darkest parts of me stirred and stretched, abruptly awoken from its slumber.
If I ran away now, it would mean diving straight back into the chaos I’d worked so hard to leave behind. And it would crush my parents and Isaac. Elliot living here would be excruciating, but I could keep up the pretence for a few months. Or at least a few days, while I came up with an emergency plan to evacuate. Until then, all I had to do was avoid him as much as possible and hang onto enough of my sanity to appear normal.
I stuffed the memories back down, found the easy, breezy, couldn’t care less mask I’d got so used to wearing and accepted the mug of tea.
‘How long have you lived here?’ I asked, my voice almost back to normal as I concentrated on Penny, now resting her head against my thigh.
‘Four years,’ Elliot answered.
‘I’m sorry I just presumed it was Isaac’s house.’
Elliot tilted his head. ‘I’m not sure he’s got enough reserves to buy his own place yet.’
‘No. Of course not.’ I flushed with embarrassment at revealing how little I knew about my own twin, and tried to move the conversation on. ‘Is it just the three of you living here, you, Isaac and Arthur? There’re no other housemates he’s forgotten to tell me about?’
He smiled, and I tried to ignore how it tugged at my heart. ‘Four of us, including you.’
At that point, the front door banged open, causing Penny to scamper out of the room to investigate. A few seconds later, Isaac burst into the kitchen, and the second I put my mug down he threw his arms around me and lifted me clean off the floor.
