“RTC—a car crash?”
“A road collision, doesn’t have to be a car, but yes... you’re pretty much there.” Marc took a bite of his dinner and all thoughts of work were instantly forgotten. “Bloody hell. You’re gonna cook this every day while you’re working upstairs, right?”
“I’d imagine so. Unless you want to exist on noodles.” Jamie was picking at his own food with the air of a man who had the whole world on his mind.
Marc cleared half his bowl, then nudged Jamie with his metal foot. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“Yup.”
Fair enough. Marc had spent enough time with Jamie to know that it would come out eventually. They ate in a companionable silence, and Marc made no move to leave the table until Jamie had finished most of his dinner and pushed his bowl away.
Marc dumped the bowls in the sink, content to deal with them in the morning, but Jamie appeared silently at his side and turned the taps on.
“You don’t have to clear up too,” Marc said.
“Actually, I do. I don’t like dirty dishes, even in someone else’s house. They give me the creeps.” Jamie added washing-up liquid and then stuck his hands in the sink. “My therapist in California said I might have mild OCD, but I already knew that because I had it before I chose drugs to make me happy.”
“Do you think you have it again now you’re clean?”
“If it ever really went away, but that dude also said I had PTSD, depression, and chronic anxiety, so I think he was a bit of a label freak.”
“It is possible to have all those conditions at once, you know. And you might have had them before you got hooked on drugs. That’s what I was trying to say the other day—badly, obviously—that addictions can be the result of other issues.”
“I didn’t take heroin because I wasn’t doing enough housework. I took it because I was homeless and cold and fucking terrified that my stepdad would find me and make me go home. The fact that it stopped me tapping everything I touched was a bonus.”
And there it was—the characteristic slew of information Jamie liked to release in one breath and knock Marc for six. “Why didn’t you want to go home with your stepdad?”
“Because he kept trying to fuck me,” Jamie said flatly. “He never did, but hanging around the park on smack seemed like a better plan than hanging around waiting for his next try.”
The hot meal Jamie had so diligently prepared turned to acid in Marc’s belly. Rage, grief, sympathy—he felt it all in the space of ten seconds, but Jamie cut it dead with a firm shake of his head.
“Don’t,” he said. “Whatever you’re thinking, I don’t need to hear it. I’m not traumatised by it, never have been; I just needed to get away. And I’m not scared of sex, so don’t even start with that shit.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.” Jamie washed the last dirty dish and set it carefully on the draining board. “I get that childhood can influence what happens for the rest of your life, but my dirty stepdad didn’t make me take drugs.”
“Okay.” Marc watched as Jamie wiped every inch of the sink and the surfaces around it—and wiped them again... six times. “What about the OCD? Do you think you might have it?”
“I don’t care if I have it.”
“Why not?”
“Man, you’re such a doctor. Have a day off, mate.” Jamie put the sponge down, though Marc could tell he wasn’t quite done, and that leaving it alone was just about killing him. “Why are we always talking about my shit? You’re the one who must have PTSD. All soldiers get it, don’t they?”
“If only it was that predictable. I’ve seen some horrible things, but I seem to have come out of it okay for the most part. I’m very lucky.”
“Or you’re dead inside.”
“That too. What do you think? If you don’t have it either, perhaps we’re both a little cold.”
Jamie moved like a snake and dragged his lips over Marc’s cheek. “There isn’t anything aboutyouthat’s cold, which is why I need to go home. I’ll be back tomorrow. Leave a key somewhere if you’re not going to be home. I won’t trash the place, I promise.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving Marc nothing but a spotless kitchen and grumpy cat to keep him company for the rest of the night.