‘Thanks,’ I say to the ice-cream seller. ‘I mean, thanks.’
As I reach Linus, I fling my arms round him without dropping either ice cream and kiss him. ‘I can’t believe you did that!’ I hand him his cone and lick my own. It’s nectar. It’s bliss. Coconut is the best flavour in the world. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Nice?’
‘I love it. I love it.’
‘So do I,’ says Linus, licking his own cone. ‘You.’
His words catch on my brain. So do I. You.
The park is a riot of sunshine and ducks quacking and children shrieking, but right now it’s as though the whole world has shrunk to his face. His brown hair, his honest eyes, that crescent smile.
‘What . . . do you mean?’ I force the words out.
‘What I said. I love it too,’ he says, not taking his eyes off mine.
‘You said you.’
‘Well . . . maybe that’s what I meant.’
I love it. So do I. You.
The words are dancing around my mind like jigsaw pieces, fitting together this way and that way.
‘What, exactly?’ I have to say it.
‘You know exactly.’ His eyes are smiling to match his orange-segment mouth. But they’re grave too.
‘Well . . . I love it too,’ I say, my throat tight. ‘You.’
‘Me.’
‘Yes.’ I swallow. ‘Yes.’
We don’t need to say any more. And I know I’ll always remember this moment, right here, standing in the park with the ducks and the sunshine and his arms round me. His kiss tastes of chocolate chip and I’m sure I taste of coconut.
Actually those flavours go very well together. So.
And it’s only later that life disintegrates.
He doesn’t understand. He won’t understand. He’s not just opposed to the plan, he’s angry. Physically angry. He hits a tree, like it’s the tree’s fault.
‘It’s fucking nuts,’ he keeps saying, striding back and forth over the grass, glaring at the squirrels. ‘Bonkers.’
‘Look, Linus . . .’ I try to explain. ‘I have to do this.’
‘Don’t give me that bollocks!’ he yells. ‘I thought your therapist banned those words? I thought the only thing you “have to” do in life is obey the laws of physics? Didn’t you learn anything? What about living in the present, not the past? What about that?’
I stare at him, silenced. He was listening more than I realized.
‘You don’t “have to” do this,’ he continues. ‘You’re choosing to do it. What if you have a relapse? What then?’
‘Then . . .’ I wipe my damp face. ‘I won’t. I’ll be fine. I’m better, in case you hadn’t realized—’
‘You’re still wearing fucking dark glasses!’ he explodes. ‘You’re still practising having three-line conversations with strangers! And now you want to face down some bitch bully girl? Why would you even give her the time of day? It’s selfish.’
‘What?’ I stare at him, reeling. ‘Selfish?’
‘Yes, selfish! You know how many people have tried to help you? You know how many people are willing you to get better? And you pull a stunt like this, just because you “have to”? This is dangerous, if you ask me. And who’s going to pick up the pieces afterwards? Tell me that.’
He’s so righteously indignant, I feel a surge of fury. What does he know? What the fuck does he know about me?
‘There won’t be any “pieces”,’ I spit at him. ‘For God’s sake, seeing one girl in Starbucks isn’t dangerous. And anyway, it wasn’t what happened that made me ill. That’s a common mistake people make, actually. Stressful events don’t make you ill, actually. It’s the way your brain reacts to stressful events. So.’
‘OK, so how’s your brain going to react to this stressful event?’ he shoots back with equal ferocity. ‘Do a dance and sing Happy?’
‘It’s going to react fine,’ I say savagely. ‘I’m better. And if by any chance it doesn’t, don’t worry, I won’t expect you to “pick up the pieces”. In fact, you know, Linus, I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much trouble already. You’d better find someone else to hang out with. Someone who doesn’t possess any dark glasses. Maybe Tasha – I’ve heard she’s super-fun.’
I’m scrambling to my feet, trying to keep my poise, which isn’t easy when the landscape is looming at me and my head is singing loud protests.
‘Audrey, stop.’
‘No. I’m going.’
Tears are coursing down my face, but that’s OK, because I’m keeping it twisted away from Linus.
‘Well, I’m coming with you.’
‘Leave me alone,’ I say, wrenching my arm out of his grasp. ‘Leave me alone.’ And finally, after managing to ignore it all day, I surrender to my lizard brain. And I run.
Here’s what I’m not supposed to do after a stressful event: ruminate about it. Brood. Replay it over and over. Take responsibility for anyone else’s emotions.
Here’s what I’ve been doing ever since my fight with Linus: ruminating about it. Brooding. Replaying it over and over. Taking responsibility for his fury (yet resenting it). Lurching between despair and indignation. Wanting to call him. Wanting to never call him again.
Why can’t he understand? I thought he’d admire me. I thought he’d talk about Closure and Courage and say, ‘You’re right, Audrey, this is something you have to do, however hard it is, and I’ll be right behind you.’
I’ve barely slept, the last two nights. It’s like my mind is a cauldron, cooking away, throwing up noxious bubbles and fumes and fermenting itself into something quite weird. I feel light-headed and surreal and hyper. But kind of focused too. I’m going to do this, and it’s going to be like a major turning point, and afterwards things will be different – I don’t know how exactly, but they will. It’s like I’ll have got over the hurdle or run through the finishing tape or whatever. I’ll be free. Of something.
So in short, I’m a bit obsessed. But luckily Mum and Dad are too preoccupied with Frank to notice me right now. I’m way down under their radar. Basically, Mum found the Atari in Frank’s room last night and it all kicked off again and now we’re in Family Crisis Mode.
As I come down to breakfast, they’re at it again.
‘For the millionth time, it’s not a computer,’ Frank is saying calmly. ‘It’s an Atari console. You said no computers. I classify a computer as a machine which can process information in a number of ways, including word processing, email and internet browsing. The Atari does none of these, therefore it’s not a computer, therefore it wasn’t a basic breach of trust.’ He shovels Shreddies into his mouth. ‘You need to tighten up your definitions. That’s the problem. Not my Atari console.’
I think Frank should be a lawyer one day. I mean, he’s totally nailed the argument, not that Mum appreciates it.
‘Do you hear this?’ Mum is appealing to Dad, who looks like he wants to hide behind his newspaper. ‘The point is, Frank, we had an agreement. You do not play any kind of video games, end of. Do you know how damaging they are?’
‘Jesus.’ Frank holds his head in his hands. ‘Mum, you’re the one with a problem with computer games. You’re becoming fixated.’
‘I’m not fixated!’ She gives a scoffing laugh.
‘You are! You can’t think about anything else! Do you even know that I got ninety-five in my chemistry?’
‘Ninety-five?’ Mum is stopped in her tracks. ‘Really?’
‘I told you yesterday, but you didn’t even listen. You were all, Atari! Evil! Get it out of the house!’