Page 73 of Echoes in the Storm
“Rugby Boy?” Bevan suddenly finds his balls, stepping forward into the fray.
“That young thing out there who gave me water to drink.”
They exchange another look before Bevan announces, “I’ll go talk to him.”
“Honestly,” I call after him before the door swings shut. “He’ll be fine with it.”
I have no idea if he will, but just because my love life spent all of six days trying to fly before it crashed from its nest in an angry, wrinkly pink ball doesn’t mean Susie and Bevan can’t start something beautiful here tonight. Even if it is rather shocking and somewhat unhygienic in a bathroom stall.
Each to their own, I guess.
By the time I’ve wiped my face clear and chewed a dozen of Susie’s mints, Bevan returns looking suitably satisfied.
“Nixon will take her home,” he tells Susie. “He’s not drinking. On that mega-serious training shiz for the provincial team.”
“Nixon?” I ask, double-checking there’s no vomit in the ends of my hair.
“Yeah. Jimmy Nixon. That’s who you were talking to.”
“Oh.”Winning.“Thanks for checking with him. You two go enjoy yourselves.”
I shoo them out the door as two drunk women crash in, doing a double take at Bevan standing in the ladies.
“I’m leaving,” he acquiesces, his hands raised.
Susie pushes him out the door, but not before placing a quick kiss to my cheek. “Be careful. And message me if it turns ugly; I’ll come right back.”
“Go,” I repeat, waving them goodbye as the pair disappear up the hallway back to the bar.
I manage to make it back to the table in a singular straight line, but Jimmy’s not there.Whatever.I take a seat anyway, knocking back half the glass of water.
“Hey, you’re back.”
I turn my head to my left to find my chivalrous rugby boy standing with a huge grin on his face.
I plaster a matching, yet fake, one on mine to say, “I sure am,” with as much gusto as possible.
Yep, I’m back. Because if not here, then where? Not as though I have anything to go home to anymore.
Or anyone.
Duke
“These are great.” The government-appointed therapist flicks through the pages of the journals I’ve kept these past weeks.
It’s been twenty-four days since I left Cammie in Burbank, and the only way I’ve coped through the dark hours is by throwing myself into the journaling she suggested I do.
“I have a lot of time on my hands,” I say simply, leaving out the part where I’m still living with my mother at thirty-two years old because I can’t find a job, journaling in the dark, with a torch by my side.
One step at a time.
“Well, I can tell from the few words I’ve read that you really pour your heart into them, Duke.” Dr Dench sets the books aside, placing her hands one atop the other on her sensible suit skirt. “How about we start with a little about you. If I were to ask you to describe yourself in three words, what would you say to me?”
She gives me her undivided attention, which I don’t like. I’ve only tolerated that from one person, and she’s not here right now.
“I don’t know.”
“Take a moment to think about it, and then give me the first words that spring to mind.”