Page 43 of Reckless

When I thought of Robbie Finch, it was never Newcastle Robbie I pictured first. Lonely, self-destructive, hurting and looking to hurt more. It was this one: quiet and sincere, uncertain but kind. Reserved yet utterly loyal. Caring for those around him in his own way. Stubborn, yes. But I was probably ten times as stubborn as he was.

I was so bloody glad to see him.

“I brought you some eggs.” He held up a small burlap sack.

My chest loosened, and I almost smiled. “Sit down.” I nodded towards the sofa. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

“I don’t want tea. I just came to see if you needed anything.”

“Can you stay a few minutes?” I asked, surprising myself. Right now, company was what I needed. And I let myself say so.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll just, uh—” he held up the eggs again. “Put these in the kitchen. And I can make tea. If you want some? You can just—sit here. And I’ll bring it to you.”

Now I did smile. It was on the tip of my tongue to say he didn’t have to make me tea in my own house, but I stopped myself. I let him go to the kitchen and put the kettle on, while I sat on the sofa, tipped my head back, and closed my eyes. I didn’t open them again until the kettle whistled.

Years of my life had been spent listening to sirens, blaring alarms, beeping machines, angry people, exhausted people, grieving people. I could remember coming home some nights and slipping into bed beside Neal, then lying awake even though I was bone tired, thinking his snoring was the most beautiful, peaceful sound in the world. And other nights where I thought if he snored one more fucking time, I’d put a pillow over his head and smother him, because I simply couldn’t deal with any more noise. But mostly, I remembered loving the sounds of him sleeping. The rustle of sheets and creak of the bed when he rolled over. The occasional soft groan or mutter. The lack of urgency in those sounds, the absence of crisis. The sounds of someone alive and well and at peace.

I was coming to love the everyday sounds of Dauntless Island. The sea. The spitting of the kettle. The cries of gulls. And I was starting to think about how I might like the everyday sounds of someone here, in this house. The clink of mugs in the kitchen while I sat on the sofa. Someone snoring beside me in bed.

Robbie had come to me. He’d come to me when he was hurt, and he’d trusted me to help him. And I’d responded by lecturing him—which, yes, he had put himself at risk, and yes, he was lucky that a few bruises were the worst he had to show for it. But he’d needed a friend right then, not a telling off. And now here he was, being what I needed, when I hadn’t done the same for him.

He entered the living room with two mugs and set one carefully on the sidetable nearest me, on one of the stupid coasters Neal had given me made to look like written prescriptions for coffee, tea, wine, whisky. He sat at the other end of the sofa and kept his mug clutched in both hands.

“I owe you an apology,” I said.

He stared into his mug. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. You came to me for help. The last thing you needed was a lecture. I really am sorry.”

He still didn’t look at me. “Probably exactly what I needed.”

I waited to see what else he had to say, but he didn’t elaborate.

“You don’t have to apologise for going to Newcastle and doing what you do,” I told him. “Or for not being here for me when I’ve never given you a chance to be. I’ve done a terrible job letting you know how I felt.”

He finally looked up. It lasted about two seconds before he looked down again. He adjusted his grip on the mug but didn’t drink. One corner of his mouth tugged up grimly. “’t’s okay. I knew we weren’t serious or anything. I just…” He shrugged.

“You wouldn’t ever want to be serious?”

He glanced sharply at me. “I didn’t say that. But I know I’m not really…”

“Not really what?”

“Your type.”

I gazed at him, wondering whether he was trying to let me down gently—It’s not you, it’s me—or whether he truly thought I wouldn’t want him. “What’s my type?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“You had a husband. I know I’m not, like… a replacement for that.”

“I’m not looking for a replacement for Neal.” I could hear the coolness in my tone and willed myself to try harder, open more. I could feel him withdrawing. And before I could stop myself, I shifted closer and put an arm around his shoulders.

And to my surprise, he leaned into me.

I froze, just for a second. Then, gently, I took his mug from him and placed it next to mine on the side table. I pulled him tighter to me. Closed my eyes and rested my head against his, mindful of his bruises.

“I care about you a great deal,” I murmured. “And I should have let you know that.”

He gripped a fistful of my shirt. Not hard, but he twisted the fabric a little and let out a long, hitching sigh. “I’m done with Newcastle,” he said, his voice muffled. “Really. That part of it, at least. But I still don’t know if I’ll be what you want.”