I don’t doubt Amy. Amy doesn’t doubt me. Amy doesn’t fucking doubt me . . . does she?
Those bossy little hands on my shoulders, I don’t know if I like them or not. Can’t decide if I ought to encourage that or put a stop to it.
‘What does it matter if I do?’ I say.
‘You won’t understand.’
‘I might,’ I say darkly and rise up on my knees. I release her hands from my shoulders. ‘If you just told me the damn truth, I might.’
‘Promise me, please, Shepherd. If something happens to me, or if I go . . . if . . . just please don’t ever go see my father.’
Does she think I’d pack up and leave her behind? That I’d let something bad happen to her? Dead wrong on that one.
I scrape my fingers down the sides of my head. ‘I’m not a quitter, Amy. I’m not about to start losing my guts now. No way in Hell. Not when the prize is you.’
The fire within me grows to a fevered pitch and before either one of us realises it, I’ve grabbed her arm. She tries to break my hold. It’s useless.
‘I’m not promising anything. Now tell me what’s going on —’
Shit.
I can see it now. Her shakes. The weakness in her body. She’s got a fever, her body feels too hot.
‘Amy, why didn’t you tell me you were ill?’
‘I . . . I’ve been unwell for a while now . . . ’
‘Shit. Forgot how breakable you are,’ I say, holding her hand. Almost sheepish. Almost apologetic. ‘Lie back on the bed,’ I say. ‘I’ll get you some medicine.’
I go into the bathroom and retrieve some paracetamol from the cabinet. When I come back from the kitchen, Amy’s sitting on the edge of the bed trying to stand.
‘The hell you doing?’ I say.
‘I need to go to the bathroom, I feel sick.’
She sounds so goddamn innocent, looks so helpless, that I offer her my arm.
‘I'll help you.’
She stands up and holds onto me.
I look down at her and fuck, she can barely stand on her legs. Enough, that it kind of troubles me. In the heat of the moment, I wasn’t really thinking about her health. Whenever I see her, my body consumes me. I did that to her. Sick thing is, I already want to do it again.
We go slow, her limping, gasping for air against her ribs. She keeps her hand on my arm, until she lowers herself to the toilet. Then she leans forward, arms on her knees, head on her arm.
I wonder what we're doing, with her just sitting there. She makes this muffled whimpering sound and her shoulders shake.
You’re like a snow globe, Amy. Broken bits inside a perfect world. The little pieces inside too bright for me. So I keep you in the dark, Amy, always in the dark.
‘Sure you're okay?’ I say.
‘It just burns in my head,’ she mumbles into her arms.
Shit, I'm there, I'm a party to it, so I put a hand on her back and she's so thin I can count her vertebrae. I make this noise I've always known, I guess. This sound to comfort animals. Kinda surprises me when she presses her head against my thigh, clasps a hand behind my knee and leans into my hand. Now what's that supposed to mean?
‘Can I do anything for you, baby?’
‘Promise me,’ she says.
‘We're still on that, are we?’
‘Promise me. I'll try to get better. You’ve kept your promise. Daisy and Max are still here, still getting the support they need. So thank you. I'm really grateful for that. But I need your promise.’
I don’t get what the big deal is. So what if I visit her father? Is she afraid he’s gonna tell me something she doesn’t want me to hear?
She’s still holding onto me. Sounds like she's gonna cry, trying to soften me up, trying to persuade me to do the one thing I can’t do.
The thought that even a tiny piece of Amy doubts me, makes me want to fight the whole goddamn world just to prove myself. And sure, the whole lying-to-her car-crash, damn well doesn’t help our already dysfunctional as fuck relationship — that’s a given. But that isn’t it at all. It's just . . . it’s not what I want. If Amy doubts me, doubts my intentions, doubts that I can keep her safe . . . then she sure as hell doesn’t love me.
It’s not what I fucking want.
If her father is the one thing getting between me and my girl, then I don’t have a choice. I need to pay him a visit. He needs to know.
I’m never leaving his daughter again.
No matter the price.
35
YOU
I don’t know who to hate, him or myself, for clinging to his leg, thanking him and asking him for favours. I don’t know who to hate. But it gets a little clearer when he walks away without answering.
When Shepherd comes back for me, he’s wearing his black trousers and boots again. After he helps me limp back to the bed, I hear him running water, washing his hands.
When he returns, drying his hands, I notice he’s got me some clean clothes. Grey tracksuit bottoms and a white T-shirt. He doesn’t want to leave me here alone, and I’m not about to go downstairs.
I’m so frail I can barely stand. He helps me to the bathroom and leaves me to get myself undressed. I dip into the bath he’s run for me. He waits just outside the door, half open. He talks to me while I sit there, shaking, trying not to look at myself. Trying not to look at the scars on my
