“I think Zach was depressed,” he said.
She almost forgot about his fingers resting against her skin. “You do?”
“Actually, I know he was. He kind of told me. He told me lots of things. I’m worried about him, but he says I shouldn’t be. He reckons he’s been working on it and he’s better now.”
Her heart thudded against her ribcage, but Hannah forced herself to breathe deeply. She hadn’t realised exactly how much Zach meant to her until… well, apparently, right this second. Somehow, though, she managed to focus on Nate. “Do you believe him?”
There was a heavy pause. Then Nate shifted, as if his body was fidgeting along with his thoughts. “I don’t know. Is it that easy, to just… make yourself better?”
“I understand why you’re worried,” she said. “But some people are really good at managing their health. You know, once you get used to it—taking your medication and forcing yourself to go outside, keeping journals so you can watch your own thoughts…”
“Is that what you do?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as gentle as the way he’d touched her.
She managed to say, “Yes. I had a therapist. I learned things. I force myself to remember those things. It works out okay.”
“So you don’t struggle? You never slip?”
Although it pained her to admit it, she refused to lie. Not about this. “I do. I do slip.” Even when everything was fine, when she should be great, unease stalked her like a predator. Because she knew that at any moment, things might change. Her own fucking brain chemistry, the traitor, might drag out of her body again.
So often, she was afraid. It was exhausting.
“When you slip,” he said carefully, “do you ever think of reaching out? Asking someone for help?”
“Think about it? Yes.”
“Do you do it?”
“Absolutely not.” She’d said that too emphatically, hadn’t she? She’d shown him too much of her fear. Too much of the gnawing voice that said, No-one would care if you did, anyway, and that would just make everything worse.
There was a pause before he replied. “That’s okay. I’ll watch you. In case.”
The layers of meaning in that statement hit her like wave after wave of cool ocean under a hot sun. That’s okay. I’ll watch you. If you ever fall, you won’t have to drag yourself up and find me for help. I’ll be ready. I’ll pick you up off the ground.
I’ll watch you.
“When I’m depressed,” Nate said casually, “I always know what I should be doing. I know exactly. I just don’t do it.”
The words jolted Hannah out of her thoughts. They were the last thing she’d expected to hear, for more reasons than one. But the most unsettling thing was how familiar they seemed; how he could’ve dragged those sentences right out of her head.
“I should take care of myself,” Nate said. “I should talk to someone. I should laugh with the kids and really mean it. I should take a minute to breathe and feel the air moving inside my lungs. I know these things, and that just makes it worse, because I also know that I’m not going to do it. It’s like sitting in front of a wall—one you can see right through—and on the other side is the person you should be. And it’s so clear, it seems so close, and so much better. So you think, Hey, maybe I could climb the wall. Maybe I could knock it down. Maybe, if I walked far enough, I’d find the end and just… step around it.
“But you never do,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “You just keep staring through the wall and thinking about it, because making plans is so much easier than acting, and you’re so fucking tired. You don’t know if you’ve ever truly been awake; you can’t remember the feeling anymore. And after a while, watching that other you do the things you should be doing—it feels good enough. Knowing what you should do takes as much energy as doing it, so why push yourself? Taking the extra step, actually living—it just seems so excessive, all of a sudden. So unnecessary. Why cause yourself so much trouble, so much pain, chasing after something you barely remember… when you can sit and watch it through the wall?”
Nate spoke as if in a distant trance, his eyes unfocused—but after a second, he finally looked at Hannah. If she’d been looking back at him, she’d have noticed that he seemed suddenly sober. She’d have seen him sit up straighter and blink rapidly, seen his cheeks flush a little. Seen him pull his fingers from the back of her neck and stare, astonished, at his own hand.
But she wasn’t paying attention to Nate. She was figuring out how to keep breathing when it felt like he’d just ripped out her insides.
“Hannah,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.” She tried to ask what he was sorry for, but she couldn’t speak. Emotion clogged her throat like a cork in a bottle. And then he said, “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
Oh. That was why she couldn’t speak. Tears were to blame for the hot prickling of her eyes and the tickling wetness gliding down her cheeks. Of course they were. Of course.
She was absolutely furious with herself. What a ridiculous time to start crying. Well, any time was a ridiculous time to start crying, but this just took the cake. And the worst part was, she couldn’t stop. Her body was not obeying. She pressed her hands over her eyes and ordered herself to behave, but the tears kept coming and the sobs kept burning through her chest, and for some reason she couldn’t knock it off.
Then, suddenly, she was caught in Nate’s arms as he dragged her onto his lap like she was one of the kids. He wrapped her up in what could only be described as the best hug ever: warm and dark and safe, smelling faintly of whiskey and Nate. It was as if a little world of its own existed in his arms. A world where she could press her face against his chest and cry very, very hard without feeling like an absolute ninny.
Which is exactly what she did.
Until, finally, her sobs quieted, leaving her head aching and her eyes puffy. Of course, with the ability to stop crying came the ability to feel embarrassment like never before. Hannah promptly descended, therefore, into the deepest pit of mortification known to humankind.
“Oh, God,” she mumbled, pulling away. “I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Nate let her escape the soft little haven he’d created, but he didn’t release her completely. She was still sort of sitting in his lap, and frankly, she didn’t feel inclined to move.
Even though she absolutely should.
“It’s good to cry,” he said. “When you told me you never cry, I was worried.”
She huffed out a snotty sort of laugh. “Worried.”
“Yeah. Crying is important. But I know you’re shy.”
“I am not shy.”
“You are. You can only cry in secret.” He put an arm around her and settled deeper into the sofa cushions. Somehow, Hannah’s treacherous head allowed itself to rest on his shoulder. Oh, the shame. The indignity. The betrayal!
“Next time you need to cry,” Nate said calmly, “tell me. And we’ll do that again. That was okay, wasn’t it?”
“You are being absolutely nonsensical.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” His head had fallen back against the sofa and his eyes were closed. She made out the solid line of his jaw, the broad softness of his mouth, those impossibly black lashes resting against his too-pale skin. He’d always been white as a sheet, but she was starting to worry he might be anaemic.
Although, if he were anaemic, he wouldn’t have so much… muscle. Would he? Hannah wasn’t sure. She’d have to Google it. And make lots of steak for dinner.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, as if a thought had struck him. “You’re not naked!” His hand had somehow wound up under her cardigan, resting against her pyjama-clad hip.
She blinked. “Did you think I was?”
“Under the cardigan. Yeah.”
“Seriously? All this time, you thought I was naked?”
“I mean, I tried not to think about it,” he said wryly.
“Oh dear God.”
“Don’t fuss. How the hell do
you wear this thing and pyjamas? It’s hot as fuck in this house.”
“I run kind of cold,” she said. “And even if I didn’t, I couldn’t just roam around in shorts.”
“God forbid,” he muttered. “I, for one, have never seen a thigh before. If I did, I might go mad with lust.”
She snorted. “Not likely.”
For a moment, his eyes opened. The moonlight filtering through the window gleamed off of his pale gaze, and she thought she saw something… inconvenient.
Electrifying.
“You know,” she forced herself to say, “you should probably put me down.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s dark. And it’s nighttime. And I’m drunk. So it doesn’t count.”
“What doesn’t count?”
His eyes slid shut again, freeing her from that icy, exhilarating trap. “Wanting,” he said softly. Too softly.
She waited, for a moment, assuming that he’d finish that sentence. Or, you know, say something that made the least bit of sense. Something that didn’t make her pulse rush heavily in her ears and pound tauntingly between her thighs.
But he didn’t. And the minutes stretched into true silence. Just as she was telling herself he couldn’t possibly have fallen asleep, Nate snored. It was more like a little snuffle, really, one that reminded her of a dreaming dog, but she felt better calling it a snore. She nudged him gently, and he snored again. Apparently, he was not waking up.
So, with an embarrassing level of reluctance, Hannah clambered off of his lap. Then she pulled the curtains shut, shoved his massive body into a vaguely horizontal position, and draped her huge cardigan over him like a blanket.
A half-blanket, perhaps.
When she left, she closed the door behind her very gently, and definitely didn’t look back.
Chapter Twelve
Zach: Glad u exist.
Nate: Same.
Nate woke up the way people did in nightmares. Those realistic, emotional nightmares that revolved around some sort of anxiety; like he was fifteen again, except he actually gave a shit about school and he’d overslept on exam day.
But as he bolted up into a sitting position and squinted, bleary-eyed, at his surroundings, several facts became painfully apparent.
He was no longer fifteen, or young enough to binge drink without facing the consequences.
Those consequences were fucking vile. They included a headache so sharp that his vision was blurred and a tongue that felt like a dead rat had invaded his mouth.
Despite not being fifteen and no longer having exams, he’d still overslept for school.
“Fuck,” he muttered, then winced as the sound of his own voice sent a bite of pain through his skull.
At which point, realisation number 4 hit him: the house was deathly silent.
Where the hell were his children? The sunlight sneaking through the living room curtains told him that it was most definitely morning. Which meant that Beth should be bellowing in his ear and Josh should be sprawled across his chest. The lack of child limpets attached to Nate’s person was cause for concern. He stood up, gritting his teeth as his vision darkened and his head spun. When the dizzy spell passed, he looked down to find that he was clutching something soft and cream-coloured against his chest. It was woollen. It was knitted. It was…
Hannah’s?
Nate held up the cardigan and stared at it. The movement released a burst of familiar fragrance: sweet pastries, the soft perfume of lipstick, and the way-too-real hint of skin and soap.
Definitely Hannah’s.
Which made him feel a hell of a lot better. Mostly because it reminded him that his children almost certainly hadn’t been kidnapped while he slept off a drunken stupor. Hannah wouldn’t let them be kidnapped. He wondered briefly if she could be kidnapped herself. Then he decided she would scold any would-be abductors so thoroughly, they’d run off to the nearest church to… confess. Or whatever it was people did in church.
Was Hannah Catholic? He had no idea. He’d ask, only he was uncomfortably aware that he probably asked her way too much about herself already.
And with that thought came a memory, smoky and impossible to grab, of last night. Of him running his mouth and making her cry and letting her cry, and generally being way too fucking obvious about the fact that she made him…
Well. There was no point dwelling on all that. He had children to locate.
She should’ve heard him coming up the stairs, but she’d been struck by lightning.
That was how it felt when Hannah managed to carry out an idea—not just to fulfil a task, but execute a vision, however pretentious that sounded. She’d been wasting her copious free time for days now, prettifying her blog to hide the fact that she wasn’t writing jack shit.
And then, this morning, she’d opened her laptop and done nothing but write. Now she couldn’t stop, and it was electrifying, and yes: it felt like being struck by lightning. Hearing Nate say her name was the accompanying thunderclap.
Hannah stifled a rather embarrassing scream and slapped a hand over her chest. She looked up to find him hovering in the doorway of her bedroom. He had her cardigan in one hand, his fingers tangled in the fabric, and he looked…
Well, he looked a thousand times better, actually. But he probably felt like shit.
“You’re awake,” she said, displaying her razor-sharp intellect and sparkling wit.
He grimaced as if he deeply regretted his conscious state. “Where are the kids?”
“I took them to school.”
Nate sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. The dark shadow of his stubble was startling against his skin. Hannah reminded herself to pump him full of steak as soon as possible.
“I,” he said wryly, “am a terrible father.”
She stared. “I beg your pardon?” Surely, he must be joking. Except he looked painfully serious, standing there, the slight smile on his face not enough to hide the worry in his eyes.
“They haven’t even seen me since yesterday,” he said. “They must be—”
“They’re absolutely fine. I let them peek at you through the door and they thought your snoring was hilarious. I told them you weren’t very well and you’d see them at dinner. Easy.”
“Thank you,” he said, far too seriously for her comfort. As if she’d just saved his life or something, instead of doing her job. “Thank you. Jesus. I don’t know what I’d…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “This is exactly the kind of dad I never wanted to be.”
Very carefully, Hannah shut her laptop and set it aside. “Nate. When I was seven my father came to visit us for the last time. He bought me a doll and gave me a speech about how babies were the most important thing in the world. If you had one, you must give up everything to protect it. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since. Because his wife was pregnant, so he couldn’t risk visiting us anymore. He was having a real baby. And he gave up everything to protect it.”
Nate’s self-flagellating expression was replaced by shock and sympathy. Lord, she hated sympathy.
“Hannah—”
She held up a hand. “I don’t need you to say anything. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t. Platitudes are wasted on people who don’t need them. What I want is for you to get your head out of your arse and think about fathers like mine. Better yet, think about fathers like yours, Nate.” Because Jacob Davis had run off years ago with a bloody bee keeper, of all things. “Are you doing better than them? Fuck yes. Could you ever become them? No. Because you actually care about your children. You put them first. You’d die before you let anything hurt them. That’s your job, and you’re doing it. Don’t ever think you’re not.”
He appeared speechless. Frankly, Hannah had almost rendered herself speechless. She had no idea she was capable of giving emotional pep talks to anyone outside her family.
It’s because you care about him. Because you’re comfortable with him. Because he doesn’t make you feel like a caricature instead of a human being.
Nate frowned, running a hand through his wild hair. “You… you’re so—”
She had to cut him off, of course. Unless that sentence ended with repugnant, it couldn’t possibly do the choppy waters of her mind any good.
“You really do need a haircut,” she said briskly, opening her laptop again. “I’ve had quite enough of watching you run around like an abandoned sheep. You have two hours to pull yourself together, after which I will be attacking you with a pair of scissors.”
She’d wanted—needed—to wipe that gentle look off his face, and it worked. Nate’s lips tipped up into a smile, and he drawled, “Is that an order?”
“It’s a firm instruction.”
“Do you know how to cut hair?”
She cocked her head. “What do you think?”
Nate folded his arms and leant against the doorframe, that lazy-sexy smirk on his face. “I think there’s absolutely no reason why you should know, but somehow I don’t doubt that you do.”
He looked quite despicably handsome, standing there, and it was making her think about terrible things—like whether or not she could reach his mouth just by standing on tip-toe. She needed him to leave, immediately, before the force of all that sexiness sucked anymore oxygen out of the room.
So she said crisply, “Two hours. I recommend you down a litre of water, at least.”
He huffed out a laugh and gave her a mock salute.
And then, thank baby Jesus and all the bloody angels, he left.
Two hours later, Nate was sitting on a chair he’d dragged into the garden while Hannah loomed over him like an avenging angel. An avenging angel with ladybird-printed kitchen scissors, fire-engine-red lipstick, and a mean stare.
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