Chapter 13

Before I can feel like shit for too long, my phone rings, and I’m reminded of the reason I’m here in the first place. To take my therapy appointment.

Answering the phone, I glance around the room, sighing slightly when I realise there’s no seat or anything in here. I’m not standing up for my hour long therapy session, so I sit on the floor instead. Oh well, it’s sort of clean, and I have literally sat in a puddle of my own blood before, so this is a step up from that.

“Hello Fyfe, how has your week been?” My therapist’s voice rings through the phone, and I honestly feel bad for her. I’m always either like ‘it was terrible I feel like death itself I’m basically the grim reaper’ or I go for the other extreme and say something like ‘oh no yeah it was a good week, I only had flashbacks of getting stabbed and shot like 4 times throughout the week!’

Like I said, I feel bad for her. She’s been dealing with me for two years, and is a real champ. “Oh, well, I had a bad dream, and a few small episodes, but nothing too major,” I explain, before going into more detail when prompted.

The hour comes to an end, and we decide on the same time next week. I’m glad we don’t have to have sessions twice a week anymore, that made me feel like I was seriously fucked up, to be having therapy that frequently, even though it’s because I really was that fucked up.

I’ve come a long way since then.

Now I have to deal with the fact that my coworker and I had a little…incident, this morning, and now I have to go and sit next to him. This time, I’ll make sure I don’t run away, and I’ll just apologise and say my fake emotions are a habit that I’m working on.

Why didn’t I just say that earlier? Why did I get so angry? Because I really am working on expressing myself more genuinely, so I feel less emotionally manipulative towards others and all that. And I’m still surprised I did get so angry - normally I make sure to keep all my emotions in check, but around Mr Hastidal I find myself pushing my limits more than I have in a long time.

I walk quickly to my desk in the office, knowing that there’s only about ten minutes before I have to teach another lesson. That should be enough time to apologise and get things cleared up, so it’s fine.

Except now I’m sitting at my desk, and the space next to me is vacant. Don’t tell me he went to his lesson early just to avoid me?

Well now I really feel like shit. Great.

At least the lesson I’m teaching today is the nice class from that first lesson, with the students I’ve memorised almost every name of already. I’m here way too early now, because Mr Hastidal isn’t at the office, so I might as well do the same thing as him and go to my lesson early.

Somewhere in the back of my brain helpfully supplies my conscious with the fact that his folder was at his desk. His folder he uses to teach. He was probably just going to the toilet or something you idiot.

I swear to God, if he thinks I’m avoiding him now because someone tells him I was in the office, I’m actually going to scream.

—————

I should scream. I cannot believe this. Mr Hastidal and I are now in a super awkward perpetual cycle of ignoring the other because someone (I bet it was that teacher bitch-face or bitch-face 2: return of the homophobe or whatever I called her) told him I was avoiding him.

So now, he’s avoiding me.

Like, how old are we again? Because it feels like I’m 14, and not 28. And I’m starting to actually get pissed off by this. Like every time I try and talk to him, he snubs me off, walking away or suddenly talking to Miss Jerries instead.

Miss Jerries keeps looking at me weirdly, and I can’t tell she knows about our argument or not. And now we’ve wasted an entire goddamn week not talking to each other, and I’m seriously beginning to regret commenting on how he smiles a lot, because now he’s smiling less, and I miss seeing his smile.

There, I said it. I just want to see my coworker’s smile.

So, this is how I find myself, on a Sunday afternoon, walking in to my coworker’s sister’s restaurant in an effort to see him so I can apologise. If I had his damn number I’d just text saying I’m sorry, but here we are, and the only numbers I have on my phone are my parents, Ailsa, my therapist and my buddy Bren from the police.

Bren and I don’t talk a lot, it’s more like we used to be super close when training together, but then I went undercover, and he ended up on the team I was reporting back to. Now, he keeps me updated on stuff about Mikey and Caleb’s lot - he was the one who told me about their court appearance, and what sentence they got et cetera.

I fully pulled myself out of that world, except for Bren. He’s a chill guy, and I would talk to him more, if every conversation didn’t try to drag me back to my undercover time. Every time I see Bren’s name flash up on my phone, it’s inevitably not a good sign.

Poor guy, he’s really friendly.

Striding over to the high tables at the back of the restaurant, where Ailsa and I went before we moved to have lunch the four of us in the corner by the door. I spot Daxa right as she spots me, and she comes over with a cheery wave.

“Fyfe! Nice to see you again! No Ailsa this time?” She asks, and I shake my head with a shrug. “Unfortunately not, she went home this time last week.” Daxa pouts, before laughing. Even her bloody laugh sounds like her brother’s.

“Oh, I was actually wondering if Dray is around? There’s some work stuff I wanted to ask him about, but I don’t have his number or anything, so thought I’d give here a try.” Daxa nods, gesturing out back.

“Yep! He’s in the back garden, he’s with his friend Nick but I’m sure he won’t mind you stealing him for a moment.” I suppress the groan in my throat and thank Daxa instead, heading back round to the garden I was in a while ago.

Just my luck that he’s with someone else right now, but hopefully I won’t have to go ‘sorry for calling you fake’ in front of his friend. I mean, come on. I thought it was only school kids who call each other fake like it’s the worst insult in the world.

Still got you angry enough though, my brain reminds me, and I close my eyes, groaning lightly, before stepping into the garden. The space is still just as beautiful as I remember, except now the sun is setting behind it, bathing the area in liquid gold.

And there, in the centre, is Dray Hastidal, looking like he just stepped out of heaven’s gates, an angelic smile on his face as his eyes crinkle with laughter, reflecting the sunlight like the moon does, to bathe others in light even on the darkest of nights.