“I don’t know. Don’t ask me.” I slumped onto her bed, threw my hands over my head. I felt the dip of the mattress as Stacey sat down next to me.
“What am I going to do with the two of you?” she asked as she fiddled with my hair. Curls had appeared from nowhere, blasting out of my head like an explosion at a toy stuffing factory. “Unkempt” didn’t cover it. That’s what heartbreak, homelessness and no job would do for you.
“She’s coming home soon. You can talk to her then.”
“Stace, where do I start?” I asked. “Tell me because I want to know.”
She crossed her legs and blew out a breath. “That’s hard for me to answer because I have no idea what’s going on in your head.” Neither did I; that was the problem. A slew of ideas, anxieties, negative beliefs and a fear of fucking us up circled most days. When I closed my eyes, I was overwhelmed by the tsunami of rolling dirge, AKA my thought process. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“About Skye,” I replied instinctively. “Hearing her voice after so long. How it makes me feel.”
“How does it make you feel?”
“Happy.” I smiled. “Safe.”
“Imagine she’s sitting next to you now. Not me but her.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Stace. Matt will kill me if I straddle you.” She made a gagging sound.
“Is it just a sex thing?” she asked.
“God, no. It’s an everything thing.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“Don’t get teary on me,” I said. I felt a smack on my chest.
“Do you know how ridiculous this is?” Stace replied. “Call her!”
I sat up. Sighed. “I think the biggest thing is that I have no idea how she’s feeling. Not even you know that. Aside from knowing that she’s accessing bereavement support and it’s helping, she hasn’t told you anything.”
“I’m just happy knowing that she’s fine and getting help.”
“Stace…I’m not. I need more. I need a glimpse of what she does on a Tuesday morning. Does she still make cakes for people when they’re feeling sad? Does she still hum the theme tune to Stranger Things when she’s putting on her make-up? I need to know she hasn’t lost that snarky side. I want to be verbally abused by her!” Stace smiled but didn’t offer anything more. She tapped her thumb against her lips before sliding her phone to me. “What if she’s moved on? What if she’s changed? What if she’s realised I was a selfish bastard for blaming her for losing my job? What if she’s enjoying quality time with her ripped male yoga teacher who loves the downward dog?”
“Christ alive.”
“I mean it, Stace. I may be pining over someone and something that just doesn’t exist anymore.”
“When she left we both agreed to give her the space she needed–”
“I’m pretty sure that Skype calls tramples on the need for space, Stace. From you anyway. I didn’t get Skype calls. I got silence. Oh no, hold on–” I took my phone out of my pocket. “I got an email from her a couple of days ago asking if I wanted my name on the final credits of the film. Photographer extraordinaire.” I held the phone in front of her face. “Hope you are well. There’s no, How are you? I really would like a response. This is classic close down. This is the equivalent of a thumbs up on Messenger. Conversation aborted. No need to reply.”
“Did you reply?”
“I sent a thumbs up emoji.”
“Bloody hell, Will!” Stacey got up and struck a hands-on-hips pose. Never good. “I may take back the job offer because you are a waste of space and I don’t need that at my gaff. Stop moping about, bite the bullet and do something!” She sighed and dropped the frustration. “She’s coming home. You’ll have to face her at some point. Whatever happens next between you, even if it’s nothing, her biggest fear is losing you as a friend.” She knelt down before me, rested her hands on my knees. “Forget everything else. Park it for a while and remember your friendship.”
I nodded. Everything she said made sense. “I’ll go back to my parents so that we’re not thrown together.”
“That’s a good plan.”
“You still want me to start work on Monday?” I asked, just to be sure. She frowned. “Just checking.”
“Does being a knobhead come naturally or do you have to work at it?”
28
Skye
“Thank you for picking me up from the airport.”
“No problem,” Stacey said.
I put the flowers down on the kitchen table. “And thanks for these. It was a lovely touch.” Stacey started laughing. “Particularly the banner saying welcome home from the sex clinic.”
“Matt’s idea,” she replied.
“Such a joker,” I said bumping her with my hip.
“I’m cooking tonight.”
“Is that wise?” I asked, knowing that the last time Stacey attempted to roast a chicken she put it in the oven still in its plastic wrapper, thinking it was a great way to keep it moist.
“You’re not the only one who has taken a few months to grow.” She pulled out a large frozen lasagne from the freezer and pierced the lid frantically with a fork. “I’m practically Gordon Ramsey.”
“I’m sure he’d be very proud.”
“I’ve tidied the flat, just how you like it. I’ve even washed your sheets because…” She looked panicked and started to waffle. “Erm…because…I thought you would like fresh sheets. Yep. No other reason.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she replied, shrugging.
“I’m going to drop my bags in my room. I’ll be out for this amazing culinary experience in a few.”
Being back in the flat was a strange mix of comfort and agitation. I wanted to be home, felt it deeply, but I wondered if the work I’d put into myself felt more profound because I was in a different place? Would I revert back to the old Skye now that I was back in Brighton. Ready to push people away before they pushed me?
The door to my bedroom was slightly open.
