A Quiet Kind of Thunder(52)

‘I’m not blaming myself.’

‘Good, then talk me through your thought process.’

I take another sip from my cup, trying to remember. ‘I was in bed,’ I say finally. ‘Thinking about how nice it had been that day, how lucky I was to have Rhys and Tem and my family. And then . . .’ I swallow. ‘And then I got scared.’

Jane nods. ‘Scared of what?’

‘Scared that . . . it wouldn’t last. That it would go away.’

Jane is silent for a while, letting us both digest these words. Her, hearing them for the first time. Me, hearing them aloud.

I try to smile. ‘Isn’t that stupid?’

‘No, Steffi,’ Jane says quietly. ‘It’s not stupid at all.’





Sometimes, I just get so tired of being me.

It takes a few days for me to pull myself out of the post-birthday post-panic-attack funk, but I manage it eventually, as I always do. I don’t see Tem or Rhys that weekend. Instead, I go to work on Saturday and spend most of Sunday with Rita at Dunstable Downs. December is just over the hill and it’s starting to get properly cold. Rita flies over the grass, as perfectly happy as only dogs seem to be. As I watch her run, I think about how I wish I didn’t think so much. How everything would be simpler if it were just . . . simpler.

I take Monday off school – Jane’s suggestion, and therefore valid – so I don’t see Rhys until Tuesday, which is also the beginning of Advent. I had thought I would tell him what had happened, or at least give him some kind of an insight into what a mess my head can be, but as soon as I see him I know I can’t. How could I ever explain the tangles my anxiety ties me into? I’d sound ridiculous. Yeah, I got scared after my birthday, so I had to not see anyone . . . sorry . . . A proper explanation is beyond my BSL skills, so that’s that. When Rhys says, Are you OK? I nod yes, and don’t elaborate.

We make a vague plan to do something after school, but it rains so we end up driving to the park and just staying in the car. I’m not complaining, mind. It’s nice in his car. Being with him, just the two of us, in the dry, cosy car, makes me feel safe and happy, warm and fuzzy. We kiss for a while across the front seats, then move to the back seat where we can talk with more room. We each lean against one side of the car and have a long, sprawling conversation about pretzels (soft versus crisp, sweet versus savoury) and then sport (he can just about tolerate football) and finally what the cutest animal is. He is showing me a picture of a quokka on his phone when I take it from him, put it on the seat beside us and climb into his lap.

I can be assertive, see. I can be bold. I can be the kisser instead of the kissed. I’m not shy all the time.

We kiss until the rain stops. The fisherman jumper I’m wearing ends up on the floor of the car. Rhys’s hands are steaming hot against my bare skin – my bare skin! – but I can feel the hesitation in his movements and his breath. Are you sure? he is asking me. Is this OK? It’s more than OK. It’s a fucking revelation.

This is as far as we go: his fingers under the strap of my bra, a shudder of a breath against my neck, a tentative thumb on my nipple. And then when he slides his hand away he takes mine and squeezes it. We kiss with closed lips and smile at each other. It’s dark now, which is why Rhys leans round me to switch on the roof light.

I’m still on his lap and my heart thumps as he looks at me, his whole face slightly tense, as if he’s trying to hold this moment in place.

‘OK,’ I say out loud, half laughing with embarrassment, reaching for my jumper.

Sorry, he says immediately. He’s blushing. You’re beautiful.

I shove my head into my jumper so he can’t see me beaming and pull it slowly over me so I have time to rearrange my face. Thanks.

Are you . . . he hesitates and bites his lip. I suddenly know what he’s going to say, and I’m struck by a crazy urge to laugh. Isn’t the answer obvious?

Am I what? I ask innocently.

He swallows. Are you a virgin?

I smile. Yes. Are you?

He nods. Yes.

My heart starts thumping again. He kisses me, more gently this time, then pulls me in for a tight hug. I wrap my arms round his neck, rest my head against his and we stay like that for a while, in this moment, in this place.

If I had an older sister, this would be when I’d go flying up the stairs to speak to her. That’s what older sisters are for, right? To do your make-up and tell you about sex.

But, anyway, I don’t have an older sister. So, naturally, I go to Tem.

‘God, Steffi,’ is her first response. ‘You’ve gone from nought to nipple in one month. That’s impressive.’

I’m so hyper on oxytocin and Pepsi Max that I crack up. I laugh so hard tears brim around my eyes. When I wipe them, trying to get myself under control, I see that she’s grinning at me.

‘It’s so great seeing you this happy,’ she says.

I screw the cap back on my Pepsi Max, hold it between my knees and rest my chin on it. ‘It’s great being this happy,’ I say. A sense memory of my panic attack just a few days ago flickers in my head but I think, No. I imagine a door in my head and close it firmly.

‘So long as you’re not rushing,’ she cautions. ‘There’s no hurry, right?’

‘Sure,’ I agree. ‘I don’t think we will. But . . . I mean, if things carry on like they are now, we definitely will. Some day. Fairly soon. Ish.’