Love is a Laserquest - Alex Turner/Arctic Monkeys Fan Fiction

Stuck on the puzzle

2014

After my run in with Alex, I don't see him or the leggy blonde at the Mannerly again. And before long– according to Google– he's back on tour, on his way to Germany and the Netherlands, and I haven't heard a word from him– angry or otherwise. So I let myself wallow for a good couple of weeks. I can't help it, I sink into the feeling like an old coat, wrap it around myself, hug it to me. I let myself have a good cry every couple of days, drink cups and cups of tea, and whiskey, mope about in my sweats and smoke, and though I feel guilty for it, Rosie says I deserve to wallow if I need to.

"I don't though," I say to her, a week after telling her about my encounter with Alex and his new girlfriend. "I was the one in the wrong– I don't deserve the luxury of wallowing now."

"You was both wrong," she tells me, stripping one of the guest beds while I empty the wastebasket. "You lied, and 'e broke your 'eart. Doesn't mean you don't feel bad, love."

"I should have told him the truth years ago," I moan, sinking into the chair at the desk, feeling weak.

That's been happening a lot lately– since Alex told me he had met someone. I feel faint, overcome, like a weak-limbed, baby deer at random intervals. It's like the emotion, the thoughts, the pain, just buckle my joints into nothingness.

"It's past, babe," Rosie tells me sternly, hands on her hips. And God bless her, honestly, because I don't know how many times she's patiently given me the no-nonsense, 'Get off the ledge, dear' talk in the last month. "If 'e won't talk to you now, the least you can do is give yourself time to 'ave a little moan and whine, before you get back up, yeah?"

I stare at her dubiously.

"Give yourself a break for once, babe! Really!"

So I do. I let the anxiety unwind from my mind, unspooling in tears, and excessive drinking, and napping. Years of fear and guilt stretch out for hours while I sit on my couch watching the telly, and I absorb it, hold the feeling, turn it over and look at it from all angles. I examine things from retrospect now, and I deal with it. I know I'll rebuild, whether that's with Alex in my life or not– whether he ever speaks to me again or not– but for now, I sit in the pain.

The one thing I haven't done is tell Dad. Something in me isn't ready to share this pain with him– to burden him with my problems and my failures and my grief, though I know he would welcome it, shoulder it willingly. I don't feel like I deserve that kind of comfort or relief yet.

So, we talk briefly on the phone, over text, and I tell him that Alex is back on tour, that work is fine, I'm fine, everything is fine, and I'll be coming home to Sheffield to visit soon. He doesn't sound convinced, but he doesn't pry.

It's nearly midway into June when I receive the phone call, while I'm sat in my kitchen on a Saturday morning, drinking my coffee.

I don't recognize the number, but I answer anyway.

"Hello, is this Lily Davis?"

"Yes," I reply, and for some reason my whole body has become electric with anxiety. The deep, authoritative male voice on the other side of the line sounds too official, too important for it to be a telemarketer or something. "Who's this?"

"This is Doctor Saks, at Northern General Hospital," he says, and my vision goes fuzzy. "Is your father Thomas Davis?"

My whole body goes hot and cold at once. "Yes," I breathe.

"Miss, your father was brought in this morning for tightness in his chest and shortness of breath," he tells me. "He's currently in surgery for what we believe is a massive heart attack. Would it be possible for you to get to Northern General?"