She doesn’t answer.
But she doesn’t let go either.
Chapter 5
Christina
The retching starts again,violent and helpless-sounding, and I stand in the corridor for a second longer than I mean to, staring at the downstairs toilet door like it’s going to offer me a sensible explanation for how my first proper date with Phil turned into a one-man cautionary tale about alcohol and poor coping strategies.
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t angry.
Not the shallow kind of anger that fizzles out once you’ve had a rant to your best friend. The deeper, sharper kind. The kind that comes from letting yourself hope for something and then watching it collapse in real time. When I walked into Bella Italia and saw the shine in his eyes and the slightly too-smooth confidence on his face, I knew. I knew before he even spoke.
And yet, I sat down anyway.
Because he had asked me. Because he had finally stopped running. Because I’d been waiting for that moment longer than I cared to admit.
Now I’m in his cottage, listening to him empty the contents of his stomach into porcelain while my ownemotions ricochet between fury and worry and something dangerously close to tenderness.
He probably drank because he was nervous. Because he wanted to feel braver than he is. Because his body responds to fear by shutting down and I assume he thought alcohol might pry him open. And maybe it did. For a while. Then it took everything else with it: his filter, his balance, his dignity, the fragile little trust I’d brought with me into that restaurant.
Phil’s cottage is small and neat, open-plan downstairs, the sort of place where everything has its assigned space. Kitchen at the back with a breakfast bar dividing it from the living room. Dark wood furniture. Muted autumn colours. The cosy aesthetic of a trendy coffee shop, if a trendy coffee shop also had the quiet intensity of a man who alphabetises his cupboards.
Near the front window sits a piano, almost too large for the room, like it arrived first and the rest of the house was built around it. It’s not showy. It’s just… there. Solid. A statement in polished black and ivory that doesn’t match the rest of his restrained little world.
It makes me curious in a way that annoys me, because curiosity is an indulgence I don’t think Phil has earned tonight.
I go into the kitchen and look for a glass. The cupboard above the sink is exactly where it should be, and inside everything is lined up with quiet precision. I fill a tumbler with water and spot a stack of colourful coasters on the counter. I grab one without thinking.
Of course I do. Of course I’m furious and still protective of his coffee table.
The noises in the bathroom stop.
The toilet flushes.
I carry the water to the living room, set it on the coaster, then creep back to the bathroom door. I knock lightly and push it open a crack.
“Better?” I ask.
A low groan answers me. Not the good kind. The kind that says his body has filed a formal complaint and is demanding compensation.
“Phil,” I say, keeping my voice steady, “I’m going to get you into your bedroom.”
“No,” he whispers, then dry-heaves again. “No. I… I should stay here.”
“You can’t sleep with your head in the toilet,” I argue, because apparently I’m playing nurse tonight and nobody asked me if I’d like the shift.
He shakes his head slowly, then winces like he regrets the movement immediately.
“Okay,” I say, adjusting. “Sofa. That’s still an improvement.”
I hook my arm under his, careful not to jostle him, and guide him out of the bathroom. He moves like his limbs aren’t entirely under his command, all awkward angles and delayed reactions. He stumbles into the living room and collapses onto the sofa with a sound that’s half groan, half surrender.
I sit on the edge of the coffee table and hold out the water.
He lifts his head, takes a drink, and some of it escapes down his chin. He doesn’t notice. Or he does and doesn’t care.
There’s something about that, about how quickly his pride has evaporated, that makes my anger sharpen and soften at the same time.