A Quiet Kind of Thunder(32)

I turn my head so I can see them both. Davey is staring at me, his cheeks still wet, his dark eyes wide and woeful.

‘He’s sad because Bell gets to dress like a fairy,’ she adds. ‘Isn’t that right, Davey-do?’ Davey nods mournfully.

‘Hey, Belly,’ I say, brightening my voice. She swings her head towards me, already beaming. ‘Can Davey be a fairy too?’

Bell looks appraisingly at Davey. She shrugs. ‘Maybe.’

‘Do you want to lend him your wand?’ I ask. ‘So he can be a fairy?’

‘Not my wand,’ Bell says seriously. ‘But he can have my wings if he wants.’ She wiggles out of the wings that are elasticated to her back and holds them out to Davey.

‘Go on,’ Tem coaxes, jiggling her brother in her arms. ‘Fairy it up.’ As Davey reaches a tentative hand out to take the wings – purple and sparkly – she grins at me over the top of his little fuzzy head. Tem and I are determined that Davey and Bell will grow up as best friends who fall in love. It has to happen. It’ll be the cutest thing ever.

Tem sets Davey – bewinged, all smiles – on to the ground and sits next to me. ‘Go on, you two,’ she says encouragingly, pointing the kids towards the lake. ‘Go and give the ducks their treats.’

Bell hops off the bench and trots the few steps down the bank to where the ducks are clustered. Davey follows, shaking his back as he goes so his wings flap.

‘So,’ Tem says as soon as they’re out of earshot, ‘how’s it going with your beau?’ She grins at me. ‘Full details, please.’

‘I’ve told you everything,’ I say, laughing. ‘Nothing new has happened since yesterday, I promise.’

‘You told me the basics,’ Tem says. ‘I want the details. How do you feel about everything? Do you like him more now you’re kissing or less? How many times does he message you in a day? Do you think you’ll get together properly soon?’

I try and answer her questions as best I can – more, lots, I hope so – even though no level of detail seems like it’ll be enough for her. She is still giddy on my behalf, happier than I can quite allow myself to be yet, while it’s all still in the possible stage. I tell her about sitting with Rhys in Caffè Nero, how he’d walked me home and we’d argued the whole way about whether the best Pixar film is Toy Story or WALL-E (‘Clearly Finding Nemo – you’re both idiots’), how we’d had to keep stopping in the middle of the street if we became entangled in a particularly long sentence.

And then Tem says it.

‘Aren’t you worried about people looking?’

I pause. I realize that I’m still holding a piece of stale bread between my fingers. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, like, you don’t talk because it makes people notice you, right? But doesn’t talking with your hands in public make people notice you more?’

My heart stills. That’s what it feels like – not a thundering panic or a twist of pain; it goes quiet, like it’s bracing itself. I can feel something building in my head. Something coming that will ruin everything, that will take me back to where I used to be, that will spoil what I have with Rhys. Six small words that can root in my head and never leave. Aren’t you worried about people looking?

Tem looks at me, expectant. Her expression is open but placid, like she doesn’t realize the potential avalanche she’s created in my addled brain. Doesn’t she know? Doesn’t she get it? That in anxious heads like mine all it takes is a few words to bring a careful foundation tumbling down? All I can think is, Oh please. Please don’t take this away from me, please. Please let me have this.

I gather myself. ‘It’s . . . different.’

‘Why?’ It’s a genuine question and I know she’s not trying to destroy me. But my head is going, Yeah, Steffi, why? It makes no sense. Of course people will look.

‘Because . . .’ I try really, really hard to come up with a reason why it’s different. For my own sake as much as hers. I hit on, ‘Because it’s still just ours. No one knows what we’re saying. What I’m saying. Just Rhys. So . . . it’s different.’

‘Oh, OK.’ She nods, considering this. ‘So it’s not the sound of your voice that’s the problem, but the words you actually say? What makes you not talk, I mean.’

Here’s the thing about anxiety: it’s not rational. It’s not rational, but it’s still real, and it’s still scary, and that’s OK. That’s one of the things my therapist used to tell me. It doesn’t make it any less difficult because it doesn’t make sense. But that’s pretty hard to explain to people like Tem, who are too pragmatic to worry about much of anything.

‘Mmmm,’ I say. ‘Look, I’m just crazy, OK? Can we talk about something else?’

Tem’s brow furrows. ‘You’re not crazy, Stef.’

‘Whatever.’ My entire body is fizzing with anxiety. My fingers are twitching. ‘Belly,’ I call, desperate for a distraction. My sister spins on the spot. ‘Don’t put your feet in the water, OK?’

‘OK!’ she calls back sunnily.

Tem changes the subject. ‘Hey, can I ask you a favour?’

‘Sure,’ I say, my eyes on my little sister, who is adjusting Davey’s wings with an expression of absolute concentration.