“Yes. I’ve told you before that mental health isn’t my speciality, but I do know that OCD, and anything else that’s festering alongside it right now, is entirely treatable. It’s not easy, and it doesn’t happen fast, but youcanfeel better, Jamie. I know you can.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start. I registered at the addiction centre.” Jamie jerked his head at a letter tacked to the fridge. “But the waiting list is three months, and I don’t think they can help me anyway. I get all the support I need to stay clean at my meetings.”
“What about your GP?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Why not?”
Jamie shrugged for what seemed like the thousandth time. “The one up the road was full, and I couldn’t be bothered to find another one. It’s bad enough that I have to go to Derby to find an NA meeting.”
Inwardly, Marc fumed, but this wasn’t the time to rant about cuts to local authority funding. He took a mental stock of all the doctors and health-care professionals who owed him a favour. “I can get you in with someone. You’ll probably still have to wait a few weeks, but they’ll know better than me exactly what you’re dealing with.”
“Connor said you’d do that.”
“Connor?”
“Yeah, we were talking tonight. Sorry if you didn’t want your friends to know my dirty past.”
“I don’t care what they know.” It came out as a growl, but Jamie didn’t react. Just smirked vaguely before his expression sobered again. Marc cleared his throat. “Anyway... if I got you an appointment, would you go?”
Jamie chewed his lip. “I don’t want to jump the queue. There must be people who need help more than I do.”
“There’s always someone worse off, but I can do something about your situation. Will you let me?”
“Marc—”
“Please?”
“Like I can say no to anything when you look at me like that.”
“That a yes?”
Jamie nodded slowly. “Okay.”
Marc breathed a silent sigh of relief. He was fairly sure of his diagnosis, but he’d been honest when he’d told Jamie that he didn’t know much about treatment options. Medication? Therapy? Who the hell knew? But the baby step forward was all they had, and Marc embraced it as tightly as he did Jamie.
They couldn’t stay in the kitchen forever, though. Eventually, Marc forced himself to pull away. “So... do you want to give me the grand tour? I’ve never been in your place before.”
“It’s not cl—” Jamie visibly caught himself. “Okay. I guess you’ve seen most of it anyway. Come on.”
Still clutching Marc’s hand, Jamie led them out of the kitchen and into the living room. “I sleep on the couch when I’m not with you, but you knew that already, and you can’t say anything, because you do it too.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.” Marc drifted to Jamie’s iPhone that was still quietly kicking out metal music. “Can I?”
Jamie nodded, and Marc picked up the phone and scrolled through the open Spotify playlists, unsurprised to find that Jamie’s taste in music was as eclectic as the man himself. “You’d get on with my mate Wedge. He tortured us with that Bombay Bicycle shit all the way to Kabul.”
“Bombay Bicycle Club isn’t torture. It’s like the chillest music ever.”
“Not when you’re trapped in a cargo plane with three tracks on repeat, it isn’t. Nine hours, man. It was worse than his Sister Sledge obsession.”
“I like him already.”
“You’d go off him quick. He’s a pain in the arse.” Marc put the phone down and looked around. “Where’s your bedroom?”
“Next to the bathroom. This place isn’t like yours. All the rooms would probably fit in your kitchen.”
“That’s not a bad thing. I feel lost in that big old house, especially when you’re not there.” Marc reclaimed Jamie’s hand and dragged him from the living room. “It’s one of the reasons it took me so long to move back here. Oh wow... this is like IKEA.”