When I Ran Away by Ilona Bannister (best books under 200 pages .TXT) 📕

“That’s good, thank you, Jeej.”

I wasn’t angry about the box. Or the mess in the loft. Or the insanity of waking up early to vomit and dealing with every last tiny detail of Johnny’s life and then working ten hours every day in a haze of nausea and Doritos and Coke. I wasn’t angry at how unfair it was—I was angry because I knew a woman would never hand me a half-ton of cardboard when I asked for a shoebox. I was angry that Harry wasn’t a woman.

That’s still the problem. He hasn’t been trained since before he could speak to intuit the needs of others. He hasn’t been shown how to push against the pulsing muscle of his heart to make room for everyone who needs a space in it. When he does try I say his attempts are inadequate. I don’t accept his limitations. But he doesn’t admit he has them. He doesn’t do what I would do. He doesn’t apologize for his presence, take up as little room as possible. Every time he pretends to step up but doesn’t and every time I’m disappointed. But neither of us explains and neither of us changes.

We used to say thank you and please. We used to try to be what the other one needed and wanted. I thought we were special. I thought we wouldn’t take each other for granted like all the other couples I knew because we’d lost each other for so long.

I used to love him, I used to think he saved my life, I used to think he took care of me, I used to…lots of things.

I hit reply.

I am terrified of the pain I feel. It’s paralyzing me. I’m afraid that I’ll hurt them. I won’t mean to but I will. That I already have. I’m afraid that I can’t get better, that I will always be like this, brittle and cracked and empty. I used to love you but I don’t remember how to now. You used to love me too but I’m sick and I know you’re afraid of me and you can’t look at me anymore. I need your help, I need your hel—

Delete, delete, delete, delete. I delete that. If I say that then he’ll have to do something. And what if the something he does is leave me. Because I’m not who he thought I was. Because the kids are better off without me. Or what if he says he’ll stay if I promise to get better but I can’t. And I don’t, ever, and I’m always like this. Or what if I tell him and he decides to…What if I tell him and he knows but then he does nothing at all?

I start typing.

Amoxicillin in the fridge. Yellow bottle. If he missed the breakfast dose don’t double up just make sure you give it to him on time at lunch and at 4.

Press send.

London, October 2013

The tub is huge, deep, with claw feet. The floors and walls are white marble tile. Gold taps. Gold-frame mirror. This bathroom is nicer than any apartment I’ve ever lived in. I slip into the hot water and try to remember how this feels in case I never stay somewhere this nice again. The wedding floats around in my head.

There were chandeliers and champagne. Just like the weddings you see in the movies about English people. Every other guy looked like Benedict Cumberbatch. And I was doing OK. I didn’t understand seventy percent of what anyone said to me and I did a lot of fake laughing but everyone was nice, said nice things about New York; complimented my dress even though a banana yellow mini wasn’t right for a black-tie wedding, I now knew. But everybody drank so much so fast that it didn’t matter. And Harry held my hand the whole time, explained the references I didn’t get, gave me all the gossip about the people I had met, and I thought, OK, we can do this.

Then, a loud booming voice and a big hand on Harry’s shoulder and we were face-to-face with Hannah and one of the beefier Benedicts, more like a Daniel Craig, who gave Harry a huge bear hug. Hannah stood there being beautiful. Her dress was long-sleeved, fitted black lace over a nude slip. Racy and restrained. I looked like Tweety Bird next to her.

“Hannah, Rupert, this is Gigi,” Harry said as Rupert lunged toward me for two violent cheek kisses, unsteady on his feet. Hannah put out her hand and let only the fingertips touch slightly when we shook. Clearly still a bitch.

I was about to say, “Yes, we met once, that time in New York,” but she cut me off and said, “Lovely to meet you, are you enjoying London?” and stared straight into my eyes, telling me to play along.

“I, um…” And before I could answer, Rupert slurred, “Yes, I’ve heard about you, Jenny, Harry doesn’t stop talking about you, lovely to meet you. Anyway, I know this is a wedding but we’re also celebrating ourselves tonight, aren’t we, Hannah?”

“Oh, Rupert, honestly, don’t make a fuss, it’s not the right place,” she said with a smile and an eye roll, covering up something he was close to revealing.

“We’re expecting! She’s up the duff! What do you think of that, Hazza, I finally did it! Where’s the champagne—ah! Thank you, sir,” Rupert said, accosting a waiter and taking his whole tray of champagne flutes.

“Expecting…expecting.” Harry said it twice. He was looking at her when he said it, for only a few seconds, but I saw it. Something unfinished between them. Something unresolved in his voice.

“Well, aren’t you going to congratulate us?” Hannah said with a sparkling smile as she touched his arm, which is OK if you’re friends, which is what he told me they were. Except that then her hand ran down the length of his forearm. All the way down to the wrist. It took