Page 81 of Not That Complicated

“I can guarantee that I’ll sue if he does.”

“What about Adam?”

I sat there and failed to come up with a response.

“Ray,” he said gruffly after a long, painful silence. “Come back.”

“Is that a legal request?” Was that a feeble quaver I heard in my voice?

“No.”

“You have my number and my email. I’ll text you my parents’ address. Let me know when your team’s done, okay? Bye.” I hung up, shot him the address, and pulled onto the road before I could second-guess myself, and do what everything in me was screaming to do: go back.

To Adam.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I fell asleep in mychildhood bed. I went out like I’d been hit in the back of the head with a bag of wet sand. The only other time I’d fallen asleep without fidgeting and flopping around, or drifting in in and out of a queasy half-dreaming, half-waking state before finally going under, had been in Adam’s arms.

Okay, that was a lie and very melodramatic. No need to romanticise things.

I’d been blackout drunk twice in my twenties. I’d also been knocked out twice; once by walking at full speed into a cupboard door a roommate left open, and once by a cricket ball.

For reference, I wasnotat a cricket match when that happened, and I don’t want to talk about it.

The point was, I’d been thinking of Adam as I lay in bed, and apparently I was so obsessed with him that simply imagining that the pillow I’d tugged under the covers and furtively spooned was Adam had enabled me not only to fall asleep but to feel relaxed and safe enough that I overslept. I was hopeless.

Next thing I knew, I’d be rhapsodising about how the fork I was eating my breakfast eggs with reminded me of the fork Adam had slipped between my lips while feeding me cheesecake, and—

My father cleared his throat.

I glanced up and the kitchen swung into focus.

The radio played softly in the background. It was tuned to Classic FM—and for once the station was playing classical music rather than talking, or trying to sell me pet insurance, a new car, concert tickets to a Classic FM concert, insurance so my offspring aren’t crushed by my death, Marks & Spencer food delivery, and more insurance. Also a pre-planned funeral so my offspring aren’t emotionally crushed by my death. And funeral insurance.

Giselle and Dad were watching me, smiling.

“What?” I said.

“Should we leave you alone with your eggs?” Dad said. “It’s nice that you’re enjoying them. Quite the compliment to my cooking. But are they that good?”

I looked to Giselle in question.

“You’re eye-fucking them, darling.”

“Ew.” Appetite gone. I dropped my fork with a clatter.

“Gigi,” Dad said with a little more pain in his amusement.

Giselle sipped her coffee serenely.

Screw it, I was still hungry. I grabbed my fork and shovelled in the rest of my eggs.

“You’ve lost weight,” Dad said. “Are you on one of those diets again?”

“Mm-hmm,” I mumbled through a mouthful of toast. “Three meals of stress a day, and a little social ostracisation for a snack. Ten out of ten would recommend for swift and brutal weight loss.”

Dad gazed at me levelly then returned his attention to the newspaper. “You’re a graphic designer, Raymond, not a stockbroker. If it’s stressing you out to the extent of losing weight, we need to talk about you changing career.”

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