Rhys is standing and I can tell he’s going to reach for me, so I do the worst thing I can do. I turn my back on him and walk out of the pub.
I go straight home and shut myself in my room, curling on the floor with Rita and crying into her patient furry face. I ignore my phone, which beeps every few minutes, and I ignore my dad, who puts his head around the door to ask me if I’m ‘feeling all right, blossom?’. At some point Lucy comes into the room and tells me some long, rambling story I don’t really listen to properly about how she broke up with her first boyfriend when she was sixteen.
I want to tell her that Rhys and I haven’t broken up so this story is irrelevant, but my voice has deserted me (or maybe I just don’t feel like talking – who knows what the difference is? Certainly not me) so I just lie there until she leaves.
At some point I move from the floor and on to the bed, pulling up my knees to my chin and resting my head on them, tracing circles on my duvet cover and thinking about Clark. I wonder what he’d think about Rhys. He’d like him, right? Except when he makes me cry.
You know how people say life goes on? Well, it does. It goes on and suddenly four years have passed and you’re seventeen instead of thirteen. Clark would be twenty-three. But he’s not twenty-three, and he never will be. That’s how death works. I swallow, bite down on my lip and push my chin harder against my knees.
Clark wasn’t perfect – I should say that. He wasn’t the best looking or the smartest or the funniest. He wasn’t going to cure cancer or play for England. He probably wouldn’t have changed the world. But he was good, and he was kind. He acted like a brother, as if the word ‘step’ didn’t matter at all.
I skip dinner, choosing instead to burrow my face into my pillow and ignore Dad’s attempts to cajole me out of my room. I distract myself from thoughts of Clark by running over and over the argument I had with Rhys until I’m not even sure what parts are really true. I keep thinking of the way Rhys signed ‘uneven’. How he looked at me when Daniel said he didn’t need to pay.
There’s another knock at my door and I groan against the pillow, not even bothering to lift my head. I hear the sliding rustle of it opening and then closing, followed by the soft thump of Rita’s tail on the carpet.
‘Go away, Dad,’ I say. ‘I just want to be on my own.’
No response. I sigh loudly, waiting for the presence in the room to leave. After a pause, I feel the end of the bed sag a little. Rita’s collar gives a jingly shake as she gets up.
I wait a little longer, then give up. I sit up with a huff, spinning round to face Dad, then let out an unglamorous shriek. It’s not Dad. It’s Rhys.
Christ. I bolt upright and huddle against my headboard, trying to smooth down the creases in my – Christ – old One Direction T-shirt. My hair is all over the place. There’s make-up smudged all over my face. I look a state and a half.
Rhys is watching me, an anxious half-smile on his face. Rita’s head is resting on his knees, the traitor. He lifts the hand he’s been using to stroke her neck. Hi.
‘What are you doing here?’ I demand. I feel too wrong-footed, still too raw, to use BSL.
You wouldn’t answer my messages.
‘Because I don’t want to talk to you.’
He signs one word. Please. There’s such patient sincerity in his face. Damn him. Damn him and his constant perfection. Why can’t he get flustered, just once?
It occurs to me that maybe I’m flustered enough for both of us. ‘Does Dad know you’re here?’ I ask.
He nods, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. Of course. I didn’t break in.
‘Rhys,’ I say, then stop. My voice is all crackly. ‘Can’t you just let me be upset with you for a while?’
He frowns. I have. That’s why I waited until now. It’s fine if you don’t want to talk to me. But can you at least let me talk to you?
I shrug.
OK. He hesitates, then shifts along the bed so he’s sitting in the centre of it, facing me. Rita lets out an offended huff at losing his attention and sinks down on to the carpet. Listen. I’m sorry I was weird about you talking to that guy. And I’m sorry that I obviously didn’t explain why I was weird very well. Of course it’s great that you are getting better at talking. I want you to be happy. I just want to be part of that.
He pauses, clearly waiting for me to respond, but I keep my hands still in my lap, watching and waiting for more.
Maybe it’s my own thing that I’m worried I’m not part of it, or won’t be part of it. And I shouldn’t make you think it’s your fault. But I just wanted to be honest with you. He inclines his head slightly so our eyes meet. I’m sorry. His hand moves in a slow, deliberate circle around his heart. I’m sorry.
I look at his sweet, gentle face. His soft brown eyes trained on me, full of hope and promises. I try to think of how to reply.
I don’t ever want to let you down, he adds. I don’t want to disappoint you.
I shake my head. I don’t understand why you’d say that. Why would you disappoint me?