The Show Must Go On

Chapter Eighteen: Devotion

Chapter Eighteen Soundtrack: Devotion by The Staves

There is no recovery from that, unless I throw myself in front of the Uber and wait for it all to end. Nas's eyes are stormy, and the tight set of his jaw is nearly enough to make suicide preferable to explaining myself.

I hear Sandra's voice in my ear, telling me that suicide jokes aren't funny from someone who's depressed, but I do what I do best with Sandra and I ignore her advice.

Instead, we are trudging across London to my flat, which Nas entered into Google Maps without looking at me. The streets are eerily quiet: I guess everyone else realised that transport wasn't an option, and stayed tucked up in bed, instead of walking miles beside an irate colleague.

And yes, okay, I would clearly rather walk with Nas than be stabbed. That's obvious enough that I assumed he realised. My inhibitions about spending time with him don't come from fear, or even hatred, not really.

But does he realise that?

Does he think I still hate him?

Do I still hate him?

I risk a look up at him to find him still resolutely ignoring me. God, he's so petty sometimes. I take the opportunity to trace the hard line of his jaw, down to that vein on his neck that always exposes his frustration. His hands are tapping softly against his trousers, telling me that he's deep in his thoughts.

As we walk, the streetlights dip in and out around us, creating pockets of light where he comes into sharp relief, and pools of darkness between them where I can barely make out his features. The only sounds are our breaths and, in the distance, a siren passing.

Okay. Fine. I'll apologise.

'Thank you for walking me home,' I offer tentatively. My voice breaks the quiet as we step back towards the light.

He only nods. He's still not looking.

'I'm sorry for... Ah, Nasir, I'm sorry a lot with you at the minute.' This comes out with a laugh and he finally glances over. His gaze sweeps across my face like he's trying to decode me. I add, 'Things were easier when I didn't care about offending you.'

He chuckles at that. 'Offending me used to be your goal.'

'And that was easier.'

'So what's your goal now?' he asks. We're back in the darkness, and I wish I could read his face again.

What is my goal now?

It will take longer than the walk home to understand that. Instead, I offer him a different truth. 'I hate cars.'

Sandra has been telling me for months to start telling people. She thinks the fear of speaking it aloud is keeping it trapped in my mind. And I know I can tell Nas, because Nas has always seen the worst in me. What harm can this do?

He doesn't respond, but I know he's listening. I can feel his body angling towards me, even as we walk, as though every muscle in him is attuned to me.

'I was in a car crash a few years ago. A bad one. Two people died.'

He tenses beside me and, for a moment, his hand brushes against mine. Before he speaks, I continue, 'I have some pretty bad scarring, but I only needed stitches. Physically I'm fine. But I haven't driven since, and sometimes even getting in a car, or if a driver turns too quickly when I'm walking... It's like this black haze stops me from seeing, and I can't get enough air to breathe, and my heart beats so fast it's painful. I don't know how to stop it.'

'Are you seeing someone?' he asks softly.

What? 'Like a date?'

He laughs, then catches himself and clears his throat. 'Like a therapist.'