He frowns. Why?
My heart tightens. Is he really so angry with me he’s going to make me go through it all? That you got hurt.
That wasn’t your fault.
For not looking after you.
You did.
I take in his set jaw and feel my own start to quiver. Don’t cry. Why didn’t you message me? I ask.
I didn’t know what to say.
You could have said anything.
You didn’t message me, either.
I was waiting for you!
Is this an argument? It’s so hard to tell. I don’t understand what he means by what he’s saying. BSL depends just as much on body language and facial expressions as it does on individual signs, and he’s giving me absolutely nothing in this area.
Are you angry with me? A last resort. A pathetic thing to say. But I have to ask.
Now he makes an expression. It’s like his whole face crumples. No, Bronze, he says. I’m angry with me.
I’m startled. Why?!
Now he looks angry. Because I screwed everything up. I ruined our trip. I made you panic. You had to look after me. I’m supposed to look after you.
I shake my head. I’m about to say that we look after each other, but his hands are already moving again.
I had to depend on you. I don’t want to do that.
My heart hurts. You don’t want to depend on me?
No.
Why not? But I know why. Because I’m not strong enough. Because I am the last person who can carry the weight of another. Didn’t I prove that on Arthur’s Seat? If he has to depend on someone, it needs to be someone better than me.
Because I want to be able to look after you.
You can do that too!
But I didn’t. I finally understand what the expression on his face is. Frustration. He’s buzzing with it. I didn’t look after you. I just made things harder. I can’t take that. It’s too hard.
I can feel tears pressing behind my eyes. ‘What are you saying?’ I ask out loud.
‘I don’t know,’ he replies. His unslinged arm drops to his side. ‘That’s the problem.’
I don’t want to go home. Not yet, anyway.
I take Rita to the park and let her off the lead, watching her fly joyfully across the grass as if her owner isn’t currently trying to hold off a breakdown. Rhys and I haven’t broken up, but we don’t exactly feel together right now, either. I’m so confused by what he said and what he didn’t say, what I’m feeling and what I want.
I’m trying to understand what he meant, but I keep coming back to that moment on Arthur’s Seat when I had the panic attack. That was right in front of him. He saw me do that. I feel so ashamed of my stupid, weak self that I want to claw my hands into my skin and rip it into pieces. Of course he doesn’t want to depend on me. Who would? I don’t even want to depend on me. I just don’t get a choice.
I stop at home to drop Rita off and then head straight back out again. The need to see Tem is suddenly so strong it almost hurts. I decide to get the bus, but when I step up to pay the driver I find my voice has deserted me. God, I’m falling apart. I’d come so far and now I’ve slunk right back down again.
‘Where you going, love?’ the driver asks, brusque and impatient, into the awkward silence.
I look at him. Speak, Steffi. Your voice is yours. This choice is yours. I could hold up two fingers to indicate that I want a ￡2 ticket. He will understand this – I know from experience that they always do – but, God, I have to be able to do this.
I focus on a small nick on the corner of his jaw. I imagine this man shaving in front of the mirror, in the home he probably shares with his family, when he is an ordinary person with ordinary worries and not anyone remotely scary.
‘Bourne Street,’ I say, my eyes on the nick. My voice comes out funny, kind of flattened and deep, but I don’t care. I have done what I thought was impossible. I have spoken when my voice had disappeared; I have found it again.
I rip out the ticket when it appears and stumble to the nearest free seat, slightly dazed, replaying the moment in my head. I hear myself saying Bourne Street, Bourne Street, Bourne Street over and over until the words lose all meaning.
I get off at the Bourne Street bus stop and walk the five minutes to Tem’s house, suddenly wishing I had Rita back by my side. My bus confusion has disappeared, replaced by the all-encompassing terror of facing an angry friend.
It’s Ebla who answers the door. As soon as she sees me I know that she knows, and I almost turn and run away.
‘Ah,’ she says. ‘Hello, Steffi.’ The faint accent that is all that remains from her life before England is always clearer on the syllables of my name. Tem used to say my name that way, back when she was still learning to talk and her entire world was her mother, her father and me.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I’ve . . . I’ve come to see Tem?’
Ebla hesitates and my heart gives an almighty lurch. I am as welcome in this house as I am in both of my own. Tem and I are Steftember. There is no hesitation when it comes to us.