2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Rory

I shouldn't be here.

Not once has my coming here for the last couple of years made any difference. No matter how many times I've asked, the answer has always been the same every single time . . .

We can't share those details.

"Morning, Margaret." I greet her after spying the name on the tag she's wearing.

"Good morning," she replies with a frozen, pleasant smile; the same one all nurses wear until they know why people are there, and before they can do their job.

"I need some information." And like a switch has been pressed, her gaze becomes suspicious. Do they teach how to glare at people—the way she's glaring at me—in nursing school?

"What kind of information?" she asks, as her gaze continues to weigh me. It's as if she's trying to understand whether I'm a threat to national security or an innocent bystander.

I need to play my cards right or she'll be sending me home soon.

"My boyfriend was brought here a couple of years ago after an incident." I stop because I'm not sure how to continue. "I was brought here as well, and I was in a medically induced coma for nearly three weeks."

Her look is kinder somehow, probably because she knows what going off to sleep means, and how injured I must have been if they'd had to use such drastic measures. I'm hoping that'll help me when I ask for what I need, what I'm begging to know.

"He was declared dead at the hospital and his family made all the decisions. As I wasn't there, and—"

She interrupts me and asks the one question I can't ever lie to.

"Were you two in a partnership?"

"Yes . . . no, we weren't," I say, kicking myself in the ass because it should be easy to lie. But with a past like mine, the truth is the only thing I can live with.

When everything around you is a lie, the only salvation is the truth. How many times had my mum promised to stop doing drugs? How many times had she promised to get better so we could go on amazing adventures? How many times had I ended up hiding in my wardrobe to avoid her rage when she was craving another fix?

The nurse's voice pulls me away from my past and back to reality. A past I'm more than happy to forget.

"Then you already know that we can't share any information," she says, her tone apologetic, and soon she goes back to the documents in front of her, effectively cutting me off.

"I just—" But I can't continue because she cuts me off by talking over me. Again.

"There is nothing we can do for you."

"Please," I beg with my full being. "I need to know." The desperation that was filling me this morning at the thought of no longer being able to cry is destroyed by the tears running down my face. Drop after drop that I can't stop from falling.

Her gaze softens a little, as it does with everyone who knows what happened, but I already know it won't change anything. No matter how many tears I let fall, how many pleas I make, and how many desperate requests, the answer is always the same.

No.

A big, fat, crushing no.

It cuts deep, as if it's the first time hearing it, not the hundredth.

"We can't share that information. I'm very sorry, but please go."

With a thud, my head bounces on the glass dividing us, and for a few seconds, I can't move. My brain, evaluating the next move as if it doesn't already know, freezes my body in place.

"I'll have to call security if you don't leave," she reminds me, with a voice more understanding than her look.

"I'm going. Sorry to take up some of your time," I say, before pushing myself back and turning around to find my way out. Her head bending down to look at the documents is the last thing I see.

My heart is already broken and bruised from losing my lover, but it breaks a little more each time they refuse to tell me anything about what happened to him. The same reaction I had when they told me he was dead happens today with this denial.

The stream of tears falling from my eyes, and the desperate sounds coming out of my mouth, have the effect of attracting attention from too many people, making me dash away without looking to where I'm going. Looking for a place to hide. A place where I can let out some of my anger, frustration, and desperation.

When I bump into someone, I nearly fall on my ass, and I would have if it wasn't for the strong hands curling around my shoulders to keep me up.

"I'm sorry," I say without raising my head, and trying to shrug his hands off me, but he doesn't let go.

"Are you okay?" he asks, and I pour two years of pain and sorrow on him.

"I need him. I need to say goodbye," I mumble, but what I really want to say is, "No, I'm not. It's been too long since I've been okay. I can't sleep, I can't think, I can't do anything. I'm so fucking tired."

"I can help you."

Hope springs inside of me, like a flower popping out of the ground, and I grab for it with all my might, like it's the first drop of water after a long drought, because finally there is a tiny light at the end of the tunnel. Because he is the first person taking an interest in me after too many years without.

I shouldn't, but I pour all my fears, desire, and hope onto him. He seems surprised, but he doesn't leave. So, maybe, just maybe, I'll finally be able to get my life back on track.

"I just want to know where he is. I want to witness him being still alive in others. I want John back."

"I'm sorry for your loss," he says, and the feeling of his hand leaving me makes me feel even more alone.

Without thinking, I take a step forward and into his arms, letting my chin rest on his shoulder because I need all the comfort I can get. He's the first person to touch me since I lost my lover. I ignore the havoc those hands are provoking in me because I'm sure it's only related to how lonely I've been since I lost John.

He puts his arms around me, and I take all the warmth his body is letting out, until my tears stop and I can hear what he's whispering in my ear.

"Everything is going to be okay."

Finally, after three long years, I'm able to cry for the loss of the only person I was close to, the only person who was always there for me, and the only person who was able to love me unconditionally.

"Everything will be better," are the words he's repeating over and over. I wish I could believe him, but in these last couple of years, the sorrow and guilt have festered, making them the only thoughts in my mind.

I'm lost without John, unable to move forward or look back to find strength in the moments we spent together. I never thought that guilt would ruin something beautiful, but it did. All those memories we shared are lost in the darkness my life has become since we've been apart.

"Let me buy you a coffee," he says, when I'm finally able to stop the tears and the wounded animal sounds I'm letting out. It's like I'm stuck in a trap, trying to get free, and making things worse.

I follow him as if my life depends on it. When I place my ass on the chair, I'm less out of sync, and it's as if I can think again.

What am I doing? The question runs and runs in my mind, making circles, but I can't find an answer.

Could it be because he's the first person to take an interest in me?

Since the accident, and after spending a few weeks in an induced coma because of the injuries from the car crash, my life has been spiralling into the ground. Even if I've tried to stay afloat all this time, I'm now close to letting go and sinking.

I'm ready to be in a place where John is with me. A place where someone is interested in what I do, how I feel, and in my life.

Right now, I'm a lone boat entrapped in a current that's pushing me towards the rocks. I'm getting closer and closer, and once there I'm going to crash, and no one is going to be there to catch me. To save me.

Did I follow this stranger because he's the first person to throw me a lifebuoy?

I don't even know how we get to the coffee shop, but I'm sitting on a wooden chair when a cup of coffee appears in front of me, followed by sugar, milk, and a wooden stick to stir with, if I need to. Then the guy sits in front of me and everything I've done up until now becomes more real, and I blush under his scrutiny.

He's as tall as me, but his body packs more muscle than mine. His black hair is shaved on the sides, and longer at the top. And it's as if his hazel eyes are scrutinising me, trying to reach my soul.

"Thank you," I say, and I blush even more when my words are all crumbled and incomprehensible.

"Are you feeling better?"

I nod, not trusting my voice to come out clear and strong.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

The way he asks questions sounds a bit professional, or as if he's used to asking them and analysing whatever the other person is saying. This mannerism is totally in contrast with the warm light in his eyes. Because his eyes are looking at me as if they're telling me to trust him.

Can I really trust a stranger when I could never trust anyone who should have loved me?

"I'm here if you need someone to talk to," he says, leaning back in the chair and blowing on his drink, before taking a sip. The movement relaxes my frenzied brain.

"I lost someone," I say, but then I pause because I don't really know what happened.

"I'm sorry for your loss." His words carry an undertone of pain that calls to mine. Our pain feels similar, and it opens a door I've been trying to close since I woke up from the accident.

"It happened three years ago. I don't remember much. One second we were driving, laughing, and impatient to be home. Then the next, I was in a hospital bed waking up from a coma. And then they told me the person in the car with me was dead."

Alive one second, dead the next.

"That must have been brutal."

I laugh, an ugly laugh, unable to contain the desperation inside me, the pain, the sorrow, and the rage.

"I couldn't remember anything about the accident and, even today, what I do know is what they told me. It's like my brain refuses to remember, to relive whatever happened that day. I need to remember because I can't live with the idea that it was all my fault."

"Accidents happen all the time, and they're called accidents because they're nobody's fault. We're all human and we can make mistakes. We live with them and try to do our best to make up for what we did wrong."

It seems like he's talking from experience, but I don't ask, because he's here for me, not to open his heart to a stranger clinging to him like the ivy clinging to a wall.

One day maybe I can return the favour.

"By the time I woke up and was able to be released from the hospital, the funeral was already done. I missed my chance to say my last goodbye."

"That sucks. I know it's not the same, but you can always go to his grave." The way he suggests it, makes it seem like something he does himself.

"I don't know where it is," I say, expecting a surprised face, and I'm not disappointed.

"I assumed you were together." The friendly face turns dark, as if his trust has diminished and he's ready to walk away.

"Yes, we were." I probably put too much force in my answer and he recoils as if I punched him.

I'm tired of people doubting me, judging me, and tired of those people who think they're better than me. I love John, and I don't care if these assholes beat the shit out of me because of who I am. I'm not going to deny who I am and who I love.

"I'm sorry if I've misunderstood," he says, but it doesn't seem as caring as it was before.

"His family didn't accept me, so John cut ties with them. It was supposed to be me and him against the world forever." Our forever didn't last long, but I never regretted being with him. And I hope he never regretted being with me.

Were we punished because we decided to be together? I want to slap that thought out of my head as soon as it appears. We did nothing wrong; we deserved to be happy.

"I went to their house and asked where the grave was, but they couldn't send me away fast enough." I fly over the words they unleashed on me, the name calling, the shame, and the last stab—the accusations about me being the one who'd killed their son. I gloss over the fact that until I found the courage to check with the police, I'd believed their accusations to be true. I had to know, because I couldn't sleep at night or live with the doubt any longer. I can't even explain the relief, the way my lungs could finally expand, and bring air and life inside my body. It didn't bring peace, though, because I still missed him. I couldn't tell him I loved him one last time.

However, I still don't remember what happened, and sometimes, what John's parents told me sounds true.

I have nightmares, but they're a muddled mess of voices, sounds, and screams. Flashes of that night that I can't seem to puzzle together.

Some days I want to remember so badly, and others I'm not entirely sure I want to see John's last moments.

"That's fucked up." His disdain is clear in his tone, and it seems like he wants to say more, but he doesn't. His fury, though, speaks volumes.

To make the awkward silence less heavy, I take a sip of my coffee and put all my attention on it. I turn the cup in my hand so I can avoid looking at him. His gaze is too inquisitive and penetrates inside me as if he's able to read between the lines or just straight inside my head.

"What are you going to do?"

Fuck if I'm not asking myself the same question.

All the fucking time.

I can't keep coming here, asking the same question over and over again, expecting a different answer, knowing full well that I'll receive the same reply. But the more time passes, the greater the possibility that at some point they'll call the police and have me banned from coming here again.

"You should stop coming here," he says, and I scoff. He's smashing through an open door.

"I can't. I need to find those people. I need to see with my own eyes that John's somehow still alive. That what happened to us was for the greater good. I need to know that his death was to save someone else. Otherwise, everything would be in vain." If I find those people, I can say goodbye to him through those he saved.

"I might have a way," he whispers as if talking to himself, and jumps when I invade his personal space.

I'm on the edge of the chair and in his face as soon as his words hit the air. Whatever it is that he wants from me, he can have it. I won't even have to think about it.

I look at him, and now he's the one avoiding me by finding his cup interesting. From his face, it's obvious that he'd like to recall whatever offer he made, but I won't let him. If he can help, he should. I ignore my conscience telling me I'm forcing people to break their rules, and the man in front of me doesn't look like someone who has ever broken them. Even if that's the case, he can't take his offer back.

"I'll do what you want, but please . . ." I take his hand in mine. "Please help me." I let my desperation rise to the surface in all its strength. I allow myself to feel the pain that rots my interior day after day, and I present it all to him, hoping he'll feel it on his skin.

"I shouldn't—"

I stop him before he can finish.

"Please, I can't keep living like this. Having my hopes crushed day after day." I hope it works, because I really need to move forward, and I can't do it on my own.

"I offered before I could really think about the consequences." He shakes his head as if trying to bring some clarity to himself.

"Please help me," I say, trying to convey everything by tightening the grip I have on his hand and adding the other one as if to cement our agreement.

"I'll try." Then he mumbles something that sounds like, "Even if I have to ask someone I'm not fond of."

I bend my head to touch our linked hands, and stay like that to try and control the emotions trying to spiral out of me. Hope is rising so fast that it makes my head feel light, as if I've reached the clouds, or as if I'm a step away from meeting John again.

"I'll do my best. But I can't promise anything," he reiterates, probably seeing the effect his half-promise has had on me.

"It's more than anyone else has ever done for me, and even if it doesn't happen, I'm still grateful."

"Give me your details and I'll contact you when I know more."

He doesn't give me his number, probably afraid I'll stalk him, and he's probably right.

Once my number is saved in his phone, he stands and gives me a quick glance, and it's clear he's still unsure about his offer.

"I have to go. I'll call you." With a nod, he's gone.

I watch him walk away and wonder if he's really going to call me. Only then, the fact we didn't exchange names leaves me a little less hopeful about his offer to help.

I'll be back here next week if I don't hear from him, because that's the only thing I can do, so maybe I'll spot him again. Or I can follow him now, and ask.

I'm on my feet and walking towards the way he went, and I'm glad when I spot him a few steps in front of me. Only then do I notice the way he walks and the way his body is hunched in on itself, and my heart goes out to him as if his pain is mine.

"Hey," I say when I reach him.

It seems he turns around too quickly because he loses his balance, but I keep him upright without a problem.

"Sorry for spooking you. I wanted to ask for your name. Mine is Rory Jones." I extend my hand, waiting for him to take it. He looks at me for a while, and just when I'm ready to pull it back, he reaches out.

"Samuel Walker."

We shake hands, but he's quick to pull back.

"I need to go," he says, looking at his watch, and then the door.

I'm not sure whether it's a way to get rid of me or not, but I don't have anything more to say that will keep him here and convince him to help.

"Thank you. Bye," I say, before turning around and going back to the coffee shop. I don't want him to think I'm following him, even if the temptation is huge. I have to trust he'll call.

I'll be waiting.