There’s a warmth to his goading that makes everything feel just that little bit safer. I will be OK, even if my head still feels like it’s rocking. Aiden and his jacket will not let me down.
I groan. ‘You’re the worst.’
‘And not a hero,’ he says. ‘You sure do have a way with words.’
‘Please, you’re no better,’ I say, scoffing. ‘What did you say the other day? That I was ruining my life with my own planning methods?’
I glance up long enough to watch his smile fade, retreating back into his mouth and leaving a frown in its place. His brow knots, eyes glazing over as he harkens back to that day, that never-ending moment in the boardroom that I’ve dared not speak of.
‘You know I didn’t mean to do that. To cause that,’ he says softly, his sentences fragmented as his eyes shift to the floor. ‘I would never want to actually hurt you. I wanted to push you, I guess, but I didn’t think it would trigger. . .’
‘A panic attack?’ I finish for him.
The phrase visibly washes him in discomfort, an unspoken sadness circling above his head and weighing over him. I look over the last week in a new light and it suddenly dawns on me– he hasn’t brought it up becausehe’sthe one who’s ashamed.
He looks haunted by the idea that he caused that level of pain and I cannot have him continue to believe he’s responsible. He may have said what he said, but it was deeper than that. Even if I’ve refused to admit it until now.
‘It wasn’t about you,’ I say, attempting to put him out of his misery.
He lifts his head and looks towards me again. ‘But I said all those things and then suddenly you were. . .’
I can almost see the scene play out in the depth of his eyes, darkness swirling in his pupils as he relives the nightmare.
‘You’ve said a lot worse and I probably have too. Plus, nothing you said was particularly false. I knew it already, and I felt it inside. It was all just briefly too much,’ I explain.
His hand’s still on my back, the once half-hearted rub transformed into a gentle yet comforting hold. I nestle into it closer, taking in the stillness of the night as it battles the booze still swirling round my brain.
‘What was?’ he asks. ‘What was too much?’
‘Just. . . everything.’
It would be hard to string these words together if I were sober, so starting this conversation now was his worst idea yet. But I can see in the way that he looks, that he breathes, that here and now was the only way that he could have. He needed the lowered inhibitions to ask these questions just as much as I need them to be able to answer. So, I answer.
‘There were a lot of factors– the argument, the presentation, theyouof it all. . .’
‘The me of it all?’ He frowns, searching for the connection.
I didn’t want to talk about this ever, especially not with him. I counted myself so lucky that nothing was said afterwards. But now, here on this stoop, I’m left with no real option.
I gesture towards him. ‘You’re Aiden Edwards.’
He looks back at me, confused. ‘That is my name. . .’
‘And you walked through the doors of my workplace and called me boring,’ I say. ‘After everything.’
‘I’ve never called you boring.’
‘But you’ve wanted to. And, honestly, it’s fine, because everyone else agrees with you.’
His shirt ruffles as he shifts from his pose on the stoop, turning back towards me so he can properly take in my face. His expression is stern now, fixed in place, his eyes a pool of confusion and something that, if I’m not mistaken, looks a lot like anger.
‘Who’s everyone? Who called you boring?’ he asks.
‘Gus and Pippa. They said “predictable”, but it’s the same thing. They basically said it’s my best quality.’ I sigh, lying back on the stoop in distress.
Aiden reaches out to try to catch my head before it knocks against the concrete, but it’s no use– we’ve already made contact. He scoops his hand under my head anyway and I give a deep, long groan, my focus shifting from our conversation to the star flurrying above me. It whizzes and loops with such impressive speed that it takes me longer than it should to realise that it’s a plane.
‘The worst part is that being sensible has got me jack shit,’ I continue, using his palm as a pillow. ‘I’m still nowhere near my goals for thirtyandeveryone thinks I’m a bore who wouldn’t know fun if it whacked her round the head. If I’m gonna be this far from my original plan I should atleasthave a trail of wild stories to justify my derail, but I don’t! All I’ve got is this sensible label and seven colour-coded, itemised notebooks.’
