Page 94 of Second Story

Marc gets up from his seat beside him, telling his little brother not to worry, then heads down the train in search of replacement hot chocolate all while Noah’s face flames. It doesn’t matter that it was only an accidental spill that Emma Webber easily mopped up with a napkin. He’s embarrassed, masking it by holding up a folder as if he’s engrossed in reading, but his white knuckles remind me of Kwasi so strongly that I fire off a quick email.

Kwasi is still on my mind when my phone rings a minute later.

Hugo Calling.

I can’t help grinning, but maybe that’s contagious—the next carriage along is crammed with happy people. Their party spirit spills into this one each time the dividing doors open, and I can’t help my own spirits from rising at Hugo getting back to me this promptly.

I keep my voice low, murmuring, “Thanks for getting back to me so fast. Can you hold for a moment, Hugo? I’m in a quiet carriage.” I check in with my seatmate. “I need to take this.” I stand up and point to the sliding doors. “I’ll only be on the other side of those, okay?”

A set of doe eyes lock with mine, and I recognise this brand of wide and wary, this bruised but silent panic that means I sit again in a hurry.

“Or I can stay right here, Emma, no problem.” I speak into my phone next. “Hugo, I wanted to talk to you about a client. One I’m worried is in more trouble than he’s admitted. I wondered if Glynn Harber might have room for him, but I’ll have to catch you later.”

His reply is loud enough that my seatmate has to hear it. “You won’t catch me, Joseph. I won’t be here. A parish emergency has come up, then I’m off to the island. I’m about to leave. Listen, do you have a moment for something important? No need to speak, just listen while I walk and talk.”

I flash another look sideways, which is a mistake—desperate has always been my kryptonite. But so is strength, which Isaac’s mum gathers from fuck knows where, even if her voice shakes.

“Someone needs your help? Go ahead. Take your call.” She also glances across the table, and freezes at who has taken the seat next to Noah in Marc’s absence.

Josh.

She doesn’t want me to leave her with him.

My brother notices and pushes himself out of his usual comfort zone, and a week of seeing him through a clearer lens means I witness what this costs him. He touches the edge of the folder Noah grasps so tightly—the twin of a folder his wife once practically skipped across a living room to give me. “You haven’t made it past the first page since we left London. We’re almost at Cornwall. Want me to show you the page my missus suggested would be most helpful? To me, I mean, when I was figuring myself out.”

I don’t want to miss this. Can’t. Not when Josh turns to a page full of intersecting circles. His gaze darts to the woman he watched get arrested before it lands on a circle the same sunshine yellow as a freshly painted nursery.

Hugo must guess that I’m distracted from his phone call. Before ringing off, he repeats what I must have missed the first time around. “I said that Luke and I want to talk you through a proposal soon. To join our team. Think about it, Joseph.” He wouldn’t have needed to repeat himself if I wasn’t so invested in hearing a different story.

Josh talks to Noah but he keeps looking at Emma. “You see, this circle describes my wife. And everything written inside it is how come Meera knows her stuff. How she knew more about me than I did.” He flicks a look my way. “Neurodiversity is her thing. That’s why she puts these packs together for families. This is her.” He touches a label that Noah reads out.

“Dyspraxic.”

“Yup. That’s one label. She didn’t find out until she was your age. Explained little things like why her handwriting looks like drunk spiders having a rave. And why she’s always covered in bruises. Her family are sporty, and for a long time, she felt bad about being clumsy. That’s the label she gave herself. She tried to fit in, but that would be like painting a room grey just becauseeveryone else does. Look around the next time you go shopping. Grey is everywhere.”

He taps that sunny yellow circle. “She says being dyspraxic helps her to relate to struggling people.” He runs his own finger under a much better definition for Meera. “It built her empathy.”

I see him chance another look across the table in Emma’s direction.

“Empathy doesn’t apply to everyone like her, but she’ll chat shit with anybody. Never stops yapping and asking questions. You’d like her. Everyone does. Can’t believe she chose someone who isn’t the best at communicating, like me. But when Meera said I could choose my own description, like she had, you bet I listened.”

He meets my eyes for a fleeting moment, and I see our father.

“Call myself caring instead of closed off because I couldn’t stand the thought of losing Joe as well as our mother? I’ll take that. Or describe myself as determined instead of obsessive because I couldn’t rest until he got justice?”

I guess it’s true that every scar does tell a story when Josh describes his own so clearly.

“I’m not saying that I would have ended up in a different line of work if I’d gone down the ASD diagnostic route any earlier. But I might have found tools to help me talk to Joe about what happened to him because of me.”

Emma eyes my hands, my wrists, the scars I wear on my outside, and my heart aches as Josh describes the hidden ones he’s lived with.

“I couldn’t deal with not knowing what would happen now and next for me and Joe, if I told him the truth. But I also couldn’t risk...”

He doesn’t need to finish that sentence. I do it for him. “I never wanted to lose you either.”

He nods, then draws in the same kind of deep breath Isaac has made so familiar. Josh looks as determined to finish what he’s started.

“All I’m saying is that overwhelm cost me a lot. Yeah, me and Joe have got the same hardware but we’re running different software. I wasn’t wired to deal with it, and Meera didn’t only notice, she helped me understand why.”

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