Page 74 of The Truth About You and Me
‘You may, just…’ She pulls out a pair of gloves from her pocket. They’re mittens, a rainbow of colours. She glances at me, pulls her bottom lip with her teeth then pockets them.
Our hands meet and I focus on keeping my thoughts as neutral as possible. She bursts out laughing and drops my hand.
‘What?’
‘You’re trying to block me by singing about my milkshake bringing all the boys to the yaaaaard?’
‘Shit. Sorry. I have no idea why I’m thinking that.’
‘I do. You’re taking me to the American Diner?’
‘Well, bang goes my surprise.’
A look of hurt flashes across her face before she replaces it with a smile. But I’m reminded of how tricky it will be, for us to have a future, for me to keep even the smallest secret from her. ‘It’s still a surprise to me. Let’s pretend you’ve told me instead of thinking about it?’
‘I can do that. So, Maggie’ – I swing her hand in mine – ‘I thought I’d take you to the American Diner in town? They do incredible banana milkshakes.’
‘That sounds like a great idea, Jack!’ We laugh but she drops my hand and tucks it back into her jacket pocket. ‘How did your session with Dr Levin go?’
‘Good. I mean, I now hate the letter K with a passion but…’
‘How come?’
‘He made me eat liquorice while shaping it out of playdough. There is method in his madness though, but even though I’m making progress, it’s…’ I let out a breath. ‘It’s hard, you know?’
‘And the shop?’
‘I…’ I think of the subletting offer I’ve received and the pain I felt once I’d used the read-aloud function. The hour it took to write a response that’s still not finished.
‘I’m not sure if I can, even with the progress I’m making. I’m afraid of making a twat of myself on a daily basis if I go ahead. Watch out!’ My arm instinctively reaches out to help her avoid the huge pothole filled with last night’s rain, and instead of gallantly helping her across the puddle, her instinct to avoid my hand has sent her falling into it.
‘Well, crap!’ She looks up at me, her body sitting on the road, hands slapping down into the water. We both begin laughing. I want to help her up, but she shakes her head.
‘Shit, I’m sorry.’ I try to say the words but we’re both laughing so hard that my words barely make a dent in the atmosphere. She waves away my apology instead flexing the tips of her purple boots back and forth like she’s sunk into a bubble bath rather than a metre-long crack in the tarmac. Our laughter dies away as she folds her legs and begins to stand, redundantly brushing down her clothes.
‘See? You’re worried about looking like a fool trying to recover from a stroke and look at the mess I’m in!’
‘Here.’ I take off my coat, but she shakes her head.
‘There’s no point in both of us being soaked.’ She looks over to the other side of the street at a bus trundling towards the stop. ‘I can’t go for dinner like this. Fancy coming back to mine? I need to change.’ She gestures to her clothes, nodding towards the bus.
‘Yeah. I’d like that.’ We run across the road and I raise my hand, hailing the bus. Maggie hesitates, eyes scanning the windows. It’s empty save for a couple of teenagers locked face to face on the back seat. I step back to allow her to take a seat and go to sit next to her. She shakes her head in warning. The space is too small. I take a seat on the opposite side of the aisle. The humour and laughter is falling off Maggie, eyes trained on the window and the street passing us by. She turns back to me, a brave smile in place, but there is a sadness there. We don’t talk for a while, the reality of our relationship standing between us like an extra passenger. Could this ever work? Eventually she smiles, reaches for the bell. ‘This is my stop, but it’s late, Jack, so if you want to go home, I?—’
‘I’m not tired. Unless… you want me to go?’
She inhales deeply, pulls at the cuffs of her sodden coat, chews on her nail then gives her head the briefest of shakes.
We discuss the film. The ease of before feels more constricted as we walk down her narrow street. There is a change in the air. Maggie is becoming quieter, her laughter more controlled. She gestures towards a green door. It’s unassuming, but there is a charm to it, potted plants hanging overhead: glimmers of colour on a dark road.
‘This is me,’ she says, but the words sound overly bright. She wiggles the key, her movements taut, her shoulders tense as she takes off her coat and clicks on the lights.
‘It’s not as impressive as your place but’ – she has her arms wrapped around her as she looks around – ‘it’s home.’
‘I love it. It’s very?—’
‘Cluttered?’
‘You.’
