Read Online The Date: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist by Louise Jensen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louise Jensen
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We’ve settled into a fragile status quo, still sharing Branwell, sharing the mortgage, but never sharing our thoughts. Our feelings. I don’t know if it’s too late to fix us.I don’t know where to even begin.
Branwell’s paws click-click-click against the laminate floor as I follow Matt into the kitchen. I lean against the worktop I once chopped vegetables on for dinner.
‘Are you okay?’ He may not look like Matt anymore, but his voice, with the gravelly edge, still makes my stomach flip. Concern bubbles under every word.
‘Yes,’ I say, but what Ireally mean is no, and he knows me well enough to understand this. He takes a step forward, but hesitates, his arms hanging helplessly by his sides.
‘Do I look? Do you?…’ His voice rises, and I know he’s putting himself in my shoes. Trying to imagine how he’d feel if I was the one who looked like a stranger. I shake my head.
‘But…’ He trails off, but I know he wanted to say ‘it’sme’ and the undertone is there. How can you not recognise me? Frustrated, he rubs his fingers over his chin in that Matt gesture I know so well, although it’s been years since he had a beard. Familiar. He’s still familiar to me. And this is the first positive thing I’ve felt for days. The urge rises to bury my face in his neck. He’d still smell of spice. Not everything is lost.
‘What happened?’he asks.
‘I’m not sure.’ I touch the lump on my head. ‘I think I fell.’ I tell him what he wants to hear, what I want to believe, because the alternative is too much for either of us to bear. Another man might have put his hands on me. Another man who I shouldn’t have been out with in the first place.
‘I wanted to visit. Ben said you weren’t up to seeing anyone?’
‘No. I wasworn out. Still am. I’ve been signed off work for two weeks but the doctor said he might extend it after that. It depends what the specialist says, I think.’ The yawn I’d been stifling breaks free.
‘Sorry. You look shattered. I’ll load up your car. Let you get off home.’ The word home spears me and I clutch at my stomach as though I’ve been impaled. This is home. I want to say. Here. Withyou. But the words are as dry as dust on my tongue and I face the sink and splash water into a glass, and when I turn around again he has gone.
I allow myself a few more moments of self-pity before following him. Standing on the step, I flick through the pile of mail Matt had pushed into my hand before he headed outside to set up the dog crate in my boot. Mr Henderson is resting his forearmson his wheelie bin as he watches, and I know at least one person will miss me. Matt squeezes past me to collect Branwell’s toys and there’s a moment where our bodies touch. Matt pauses, just for a second, and that pause tells me the emotions that zing between us are not mine to bear alone. I’m suspended in the hoping, the wanting, the bird in the cage of my chest fluttering to be free, but,instead of speaking, Matt gathers Branwell’s things and heads out to the car once more, and I am left standing in the hallway of this place I once called home.
The slam of the boot tells me it’s time to leave but I take my time climbing into the car, locating my keys, snapping my seatbelt closed. When there’s nothing left to fiddle with I start the engine, and Matt says, ‘Take care of yourself,Ali,’ as he taps my boot.
Disappointed, I pull away.
----
As the distance between us grows and grows, it’s as though the elastic binding us is tightening around my neck, and rather than drawing us closer I know it will stretch and stretch until one day it will snap. Really, I don’t know what I’d expected when I came here today, bruised and frightened and desperate for comfort,but I’d hoped for compassion and understanding. And love. I’d hoped for love. Tears spill and I stretch and pull open my glovebox for a tissue, and it’s there. A Terry’s Chocolate Orange: ‘ Just because I love
Branwell’s paws click-click-click against the laminate floor as I follow Matt into the kitchen. I lean against the worktop I once chopped vegetables on for dinner.
‘Are you okay?’ He may not look like Matt anymore, but his voice, with the gravelly edge, still makes my stomach flip. Concern bubbles under every word.
‘Yes,’ I say, but what Ireally mean is no, and he knows me well enough to understand this. He takes a step forward, but hesitates, his arms hanging helplessly by his sides.
‘Do I look? Do you?…’ His voice rises, and I know he’s putting himself in my shoes. Trying to imagine how he’d feel if I was the one who looked like a stranger. I shake my head.
‘But…’ He trails off, but I know he wanted to say ‘it’sme’ and the undertone is there. How can you not recognise me? Frustrated, he rubs his fingers over his chin in that Matt gesture I know so well, although it’s been years since he had a beard. Familiar. He’s still familiar to me. And this is the first positive thing I’ve felt for days. The urge rises to bury my face in his neck. He’d still smell of spice. Not everything is lost.
‘What happened?’he asks.
‘I’m not sure.’ I touch the lump on my head. ‘I think I fell.’ I tell him what he wants to hear, what I want to believe, because the alternative is too much for either of us to bear. Another man might have put his hands on me. Another man who I shouldn’t have been out with in the first place.
‘I wanted to visit. Ben said you weren’t up to seeing anyone?’
‘No. I wasworn out. Still am. I’ve been signed off work for two weeks but the doctor said he might extend it after that. It depends what the specialist says, I think.’ The yawn I’d been stifling breaks free.
‘Sorry. You look shattered. I’ll load up your car. Let you get off home.’ The word home spears me and I clutch at my stomach as though I’ve been impaled. This is home. I want to say. Here. Withyou. But the words are as dry as dust on my tongue and I face the sink and splash water into a glass, and when I turn around again he has gone.
I allow myself a few more moments of self-pity before following him. Standing on the step, I flick through the pile of mail Matt had pushed into my hand before he headed outside to set up the dog crate in my boot. Mr Henderson is resting his forearmson his wheelie bin as he watches, and I know at least one person will miss me. Matt squeezes past me to collect Branwell’s toys and there’s a moment where our bodies touch. Matt pauses, just for a second, and that pause tells me the emotions that zing between us are not mine to bear alone. I’m suspended in the hoping, the wanting, the bird in the cage of my chest fluttering to be free, but,instead of speaking, Matt gathers Branwell’s things and heads out to the car once more, and I am left standing in the hallway of this place I once called home.
The slam of the boot tells me it’s time to leave but I take my time climbing into the car, locating my keys, snapping my seatbelt closed. When there’s nothing left to fiddle with I start the engine, and Matt says, ‘Take care of yourself,Ali,’ as he taps my boot.
Disappointed, I pull away.
----
As the distance between us grows and grows, it’s as though the elastic binding us is tightening around my neck, and rather than drawing us closer I know it will stretch and stretch until one day it will snap. Really, I don’t know what I’d expected when I came here today, bruised and frightened and desperate for comfort,but I’d hoped for compassion and understanding. And love. I’d hoped for love. Tears spill and I stretch and pull open my glovebox for a tissue, and it’s there. A Terry’s Chocolate Orange: ‘ Just because I love
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