Drawing Blood

Chapter Thirty-three

Luke always said he could tell there was something wrong the moment he laid eyes upon me, that afternoon. In the years that followed, we would talk about it, often ending up laughing, or teasing one and other; complaining how painfully awkward it had felt, how neither of us had wanted to be the first one to spill their guts. But at the time, things had been difficult. There had been secrets we were harbouring, complications that we dragged around with us like steel chains fastened to our ankles. The roles we played had become so engrained in our nervous systems, that we were in danger of becoming too afraid to let the other know what lay behind those masks we wore. Somebody needed to make a move. Something needed to break. In the end, it was him, who had done so. He had been brave, and had come forward.

He had confessed to me once, that he could see the guilt I carried clearly, that day; as though I had worn it like a coat. And that was what had done it, for him. It had shaken him to the core; he had said. My response to that was: if he hadn't said anything, then the halo he thought I wore, would have been reversed, and he would have been condemned. If it ever came to that, I told him; he would be better off placing me in a sanitorium, and leave them to handle me, instead.

There was a place on campus, he had stated in those messages we had exchanged; a place that did his favourite blueberry muffins and hot chocolate. He was working all day, but if I went there and bought them for him, he promised he would pay for the next round of drinks, and I could have more of his time. As I wanted to be on my best behaviour, and as I had gotten there too early, I had headed to that place beforehand, treating myself to an extra coffee in the process. I would go on to sit outside his lecture room after that, waiting patiently; glad my hands were too full for me to chew on my nails, but still able to doubt myself, nevertheless. However, it was that little voice, which had been so loud and harsh when I had betrayed Will, that paid me another visit, to my dismay. In my stillness, I sat and I had listened to it.

You have been too rash in leaving the house, it spoke: you don't even know what you're going to say...

It was the truth, of course. I didn't know what to say. I didn't have a plan. I had left the house in a hurry, too keen to want to just sit and watch the hands pass around the clock in the kitchen, silently counting down the minutes until I needed to leave.

But I knew, if I'd stayed there, at the house, I would have talked myself out of meeting him; I tried to reason with it. And it would have been a foolish thing to do, to leave things as they were.

That had also been true, I told myself. It would have been foolish of me to leave things as they were. It would have led me down the path of rationalising Adams behaviour, turning a blind eye to all the warning signs, and ignoring the words which had slipped past Stefan's lips, less than seven days ago. It was something I couldn't afford to do, and I was certain it was something he wouldn't have wanted me to do, either. His betrayal of Adam, and his story, would have meant nothing if I had just ignored his attempts at protecting me. His sacrifices would have been pointless, then. And the whole thing would have been an insult to him, a detriment to his memory. It had ended badly between him and Johanna, and that was what I would remember. I was not going to let the same fate happen to me and Adam. I would not be Stefan. I would not be that person who, one night, would sit there with wine on their tongue, and a cigarette in their hand, telling another how they had killed their lover.

It was a small comfort to hear Luke's voice through those university walls. It broke into my thoughts, as though it was a gentle reminder that things weren't all bad, that all was not lost. It was a distinct, low rumble, interrupted only by the occasional bits of laughter from his students. He seemed to have a natural flair for the profession, a certain passion for his subject. When his class emptied, some ten minutes later, everybody was chatting and appeared enthusiastic. It was then I knew he had been a success. I steeled myself before going in, once they had all filtered out; the last of the stragglers gone, the last of the questions answered. And he smiled when he saw me approaching, causing me to relax momentarily. It had not been enough to stop me ignoring the anxiety which had settled into my chest. But it was enough for me to ignore the phone in my pocket.