“You didn’t give me much time,” I replied, taking an apple from the fruit bowl. “I was ready to tell you everything and then you put my cock in your mouth.”
She rolled her eyes – I fucking loved that eye roll – and laughed before leaning over the worktop. We met on a kiss. “Tell me.”
“I think it went OK.”
The interview for the promotion of Senior Journalist seemed like a lifetime ago when really it had been first thing this morning. I’d prepared myself as much as possible, formulated my pitch, put together my best articles and most stunning pictures. I nailed it. Never been as sure about something in my life. Yet, I was still waiting to hear from my boss, and we were now, what was it? I glanced at the wall clock. Nine in the evening. Maybe they’d had an influx of applications and the interviews went on long into the night. Maybe they were interviewing again tomorrow and couldn’t give the outcome until everyone had been given a fair shot.
“Just OK? I saw your portfolio, Will, and it was amazing. You’ll walk it.”
“I’ve not heard anything yet.” I slid my phone out of my pocket to check. No calls, no messages.
“They’ll tell you first thing tomorrow morning,” she said, stirring up the eggs. They were her speciality. She used cream instead of milk and they were part of Elliott’s staple diet, he loved them so much.
“That takes me back,” I said nodding to the pan. The spoon she was using to scramble stopped and I heard her take a breath.
“Really?” She bit her lip. I didn’t miss the tremble. “Why?”
“Elliott’s favourite.” Whoosh. It was like I’d sucked the life out of the room. She was still, her shoulders slumped, and I was desperate for some conversation, namely a response, anything to break the silence.
I wished she would talk more openly about the emotional impact of Elliott’s death. She never did. It was locked away in that beautiful, complicated head of hers. The one I wished I could read right now.
“It’s funny,” she said. “I hadn’t thought about that. I’d…forgotten.” She started to plate up. “Things take you by surprise sometimes.” She started speeding around the kitchen, opening cupboards and pulling out drawers, mindlessly talking about nothing and everything. “He liked pepper and a tiny bit of salt and then he’d cover the whole thing in tomato ketchup, remember?’
“I do.”
“And we’d laugh and laugh about how his taste buds must have been broken.”
“Yeah. He covered everything in sauce.”
“I know,” she said, “It made me cringe but–”
“Remember when he tried hot sauce and we had to put ice cubes on his tongue?”
She tried to laugh, but it was swallowed in a sob. “He ate a whole tub of ice cream, poor kid. Scarred him for–” She met my eyes. Hers were wide and lost. “Never mind.”
“Are you OK?”
“Yeah. Just thinking,” she said, turning her back. I hadn’t missed her tears.
I’d seen this before. The incessant talking to cover up her emotions. The funny stories she hoped would lead to laughter rather than add to her tears before zipping it all up again. This was a perfect example of Skye holding it together when the feelings she worked so hard to push down crept up on her again. I had no idea what had caused this particular episode.
I couldn’t take it anymore. The agony of watching her was almost as painful as the agony she was spilling out in front of me. “Stop,” I said softly, walking around to her, taking the pan away and holding her in my arms. “Let it out. Just let it go. Please.”
“No,” she said. “No,” she repeated more firmly. “I can’t do that because if I start, I’ll never stop.”
“What’s causing this?” I asked, confused. I’d seen Skye’s meltdowns before, but I could usually trace them back to a trigger point. Elliott’s birthday, the anniversary of his death or a snide letter from her mother insinuating that she’d left Elliott in her care and hadn’t watched him carefully enough. The weight of those conflicts would have crushed others, but she held steady, often crying, but with a heavy restraint that I feared would topple her one day.
Could this be the day?
“Stop holding on to it, Skye,” I said. “It isn’t good for you.”
“I don’t want to cry,” she replied.
“I haven’t seen you cry properly since…that night.”
“The night you held me?”
“The night you finally let yourself feel.” I’d stayed all night, cradling her as she finally opened up, felt like she was sinking, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t go on. Sometimes, the sound of her sobs still woke me in the middle of the night.
“That doesn’t mean I haven’t cried since,” she said, her defence mechanism kicking in.
“I hope you have,” I replied, stroking her back. “I mean…I want you to.”
“Why?” she said, pulling away, stepping back and folding her arms.
“I worry.”
“There’s no need to,” she replied, shrugging. “Loss is a part of life, isn’t it?”
“It is.” I nodded, but that seemed to make her worse.
“Oh, you agree? Thanks. Glad I’m not going mad.” She started wiping down the surfaces frantically. I half expected her to rub a dent in the wood.
“I can’t bullshit you, Skye. We all lose people we love, but the way you lost Elliott…it wasn’t fair. It was horrendous, hard for anyone to make sense of. But you, his sister, the one who was there for him–”
“I wasn’t there!” she shouted. “Will!” She looked frightened and exhausted. “Can’t you see? I wasn’t there for him when he needed me the most.”
“You did everything for him,” I replied. “You were like a mum to him, Skye. You gave up your life for him, worked three jobs just to keep a roof over his head and food in his mouth.”
“That doesn’t mean anything now,” she said, pulling in her mouth to stop the shake. “Nothing.”
“Stop,” I said. “I wish you’d get some help with this.” I tried to
