Page 136 of Proof By Contradiction
Each one. Sternum.
He’s right. I’ve known this. Knowing has never stopped me.
Laurence’s grip on my wrist tightens. Barely. Enough.
‘Why does this bother you so much?’ I say it, and the question surprises both of us. ‘It’s my life. My risk, my decision. Why is your reaction this?’
Nothing fits. Whateverthisis, personal isn’t the container.
‘Because someone has to protect you from yourself!’
Ron’s voice snaps, and then breaks. Breaks onprotect.
Pain.
I see it. Less than a second, the gap before the recovery. The thing in Ronan’s face I can’t name. His eyes aren’t on Laurence. They’re in the space between us. The hands, the joined hands. The naturalness of it. That’s the knife. The pain is wrong. It exceeds the situation.
He looks away. Runs both hands through his hair. The big tell. When the performance has cost too much.
‘You have no idea what you’ve done,’ he says. The voice is different now. The fury is gone. What’s left: exhaustion and a sadness so specific it has edges. ‘You have no idea.’
‘Then tell me.’ My voice. Smaller than the one that saidI love him.‘Tell me what I’ve done that’s so terrible. I found someone, he found me. We’re?—’
‘You’re reckless. Both of you. And when it collapses.’ He stops. Swallows. The swallow is deafening. ‘When it collapses, I’ll be the one picking up the pieces. Same as always.’
Same as always, after Dad stopped talking. After Mum stopped trying. After every fight where Ron showed up with his jaw set and his car keys.
I want to argue. Want to sayyou don’t have to carry this.But the words die because he does. He’s been carrying it since I was a kid—the breaking.
Nobody moves.
The rain has started. I can hear it against the windows, Manchester doing its relentless thing, and somewhere in the building, someone’s television is on, canned laughter drifting through the wall.
Ron is by the window again. His reflection in the glass, distorted, older than twenty-six, burdened by the weight of what he knows.
Laurence’s hand on my wrist. Still there, still holding.
I look at Laurence. He doesn’t let go of my wrist.
I look at Ron, his reflection. His thumb rubbing the base of his left palm, the same tic from the bar, the same nervous circuit, and somewhere underneath the fury and the fear and the brotherly duty, there’s a frequency I can’t tune into. Don’t know where it’s coming from.
He turns from the window. His eyes are dry, but the effort of keeping them dry is visible in every muscle of his face.
‘I haven’t decided what to do,’ he says. All his defences stripped. ‘But I need you to understand this, Ewan. This isn’t over.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Ronan closes around my arm. It’s a claim, not a grab. Ron’s fingers wrap the bicep as they have since Lewisham. Muscle memory.
‘You’re coming with me.’ Low. The register of an order. ‘Now.’
His grip is strong. Ron has always been stronger, with more muscle and a heavier frame. I feel the pull. Towards the door, towards the corridor. Towards a train back to London.
I plant my feet.
‘No.’
It comes out wrong, too loud, too much, the vowel distorted by pain.
