Of course I had decided to leave my car at home that day, it hadn’t been raining that morning and it was often quicker and easier to walk to Shipquay Street than to try and beat the morning traffic from Northland Road. So by the time I got home that evening, I was soaked to the skin. There was nothing for it but to strip off and stand under a hot shower until I warmed up. I had dressed in my pyjamas, wrapped my hair in a towel and was staring into a mug of milky tea when I heard my phone ping with a notification. Hoping it was Maud texting to see if I needed to chat – because I really did feel as if I needed to chat – I lifted my phone and unlocked the screen.
I swear I thought my heart would stop beating when I saw a message request from Cian Grahame.
*
I stared at the name in front of me. The icon beside his name was the same profile picture I had been looking at for the better part of the last two months. It was him. Actually him. The last person on earth I ever thought would message me.
I threw my phone onto the cushion beside me as if it were suddenly too hot to hold. Cian Grahame was messaging me. I wanted to both read the message and not read the message. I was simultaneously curious and scared. Intrigued and freaked out. I involuntarily muttered a quick ‘fuck’ and lifted my phone again, turning it round and clicking the accept message button so that his words popped up in front of me.
Emily,
I just wanted to thank you for the kindness you showed me when I came to the surgery with Jack today – and to apologise for the manner in which I spoke to you. Especially when I first arrived at Scott’s. I know you understand how hard this is for me – and I appreciate that you listened while I ranted and raged in the staff room after. People, they don’t always listen. Not really. Grief gets tired for other people pretty quickly. But you listened – and you listened without prejudice. As an outsider – someone who could perhaps give me a bit of a healthier perspective on things.
You also made a good cup of tea. I’d love to repay your kindness by buying you a cup of tea, or coffee, at some stage. Just a way for Jack and I to show our thanks? And for me to show you that I’m not always an arsehole who gives strangers a tough time.
While my gut reaction was to smile, to feel excited that he wanted to meet me, that he appreciated how I had listened, part of me felt that something about it all just didn’t sit right. But I pushed those feelings down because I wanted to feel the happy feelings more.
Perhaps, I told myself, this was just what it appeared to be – that Cian just needed someone to talk to? Maybe he just needed to think about a cup of tea instead with someone he could listen to? Cling to the normal in the incredibly abnormal?
I picked up my phone. Typed a quick response.
No need to apologise. Or to offer a cup of tea. It was the least I could do. This all must be so hard.
I hit send, expected no more. Hoped, perhaps for a response, somewhere deep inside. Hoped that he would talk to me. That he would confide in me – even though I really didn’t have any right to assume that. Was that mad of me? I felt confused but unable to step away from it.
It was only a matter of minutes before his message arrived in my inbox.
I think every day will be hard now for us. I’m just trying to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I have to, for Jack. Please say you’ll meet us for a cup of tea? It’s the least we can do – and to be honest, the distraction, a chance to talk to someone new – would be good.
I felt for him. Imagine the whole world being in your business, watching you, pretending to support you in your grief but ultimately when night fell, he was alone in his house with his son and his thoughts.
I typed back quickly.
Of course. Let me know when suits. And if there’s anything I can do?
His response was almost immediate – as was the friend request he sent me so we were officially ‘connected’.
Would Saturday suit? Afternoon? Or is that too short notice?
I replied that it would and that I looked forward to it and we agreed to meet at 2pm at Primrose Café.
When I put my phone down, confident that night’s exchanges of messages were done, I found I had to make a conscious effort to keep those happy feelings floating at the top. This was okay – it was perfectly normal that he would reach out to someone slightly removed from the situation he was in to find some sort of listening ear. Wasn’t it?