Page 122 of Until Now

‘Maybe that has something to do with the fact he absolutely hates me. Because I’m gay.’

‘He doesn’t hate you because you’re gay.’

‘Ohhhhh! So he calls everyone a dyke, then. Explain something to me,’ she adds as I open my mouth to protest. 'If it were you the other night, you just got home to find your partner went out without asking for permission. What reason would you have for threatening to break up with him if he doesn’t come home?’ When I don’t answer, her eyes harden. ‘You’d do it because you know he’s terrified of losing you, and hanging that over his head will send him running right back to you. And that’s exactly what he did to you the other night. He knows you’ll chase him—‘

‘I don’t chase him.’ I staple the papers with so much force the staple snaps, and I throw it in the bin beside my desk. ‘I went out with you, didn’t I?’

‘Because you didn’t tell him you went out with me. Cleary, otherwise he wouldn’t have been a fucking dicky oxymoron about it.’ She sets down the policy forms, swivels her chair to face me, and hooks her leg over the other. ‘I was there last Christmas, Fran. I saw how he was with you. He thought Jase was shagging you and wanted to see how he’d react. Everyone saw it—‘

‘He’s not always like that.’ But my finger throbs, that excruciating bolt of pain still fresh as an open wound. ‘He made me dinner last night.’

Amelia quirks a brow. ‘Are you joking?’

‘No, he made gammon and—‘

She holds up a hand. ‘No, I mean, are youjoking? You think him making you dinner cancels out every shitty thing he’s done to you?’ She shakes her head. ‘That’s what abusers do. They tear you down so much that when they do something nice for you, you think it’s amazing, when really, it’s the bare minimum. He’s made it so he doesn’t have to pull his weight anymore.’

I hate that she’s right. I hate that after every revelation hits me, I try to ward off the thoughts with excuses. I hate that even the mere thought of breaking up with Archer makes me see that broken boy in his driveway, his face wet with tears; makes me think of all the times he’s given me his undivided attention in the bedroom; the moments of comfort wehaveshared, when we’ve watched TV and snuggled into each other and fallen asleep in each other’s arms, when we’ve made tea together, when I’ve helped him on a project at work and when he’s listened patiently to me rant about a particularly arrogant customer. It’s like in those moments, I’m not remembering his hand around my throat or his fingers in my hair or every order he’s given me, because I convince myself, in those times of pure, unrelenting happiness, that it will remain like that.

But it never does.

Emmy places a gentle hand on my bare knee and gives it a squeeze. ‘Word of advice: your first love is never your last.’

But Archer was never my first love.The thought makes my heart ache.

‘What do you mean?’ Emmy asks.

I blink. She looks at me with raised brows, her expression expectant. ‘About what?’

‘Archer was never my first love?’

Oh.

Shit.

Did I say that aloud?

Her eyes narrow, and I feel the question hang in the air between us, but a man dressed in an impeccable tweed suit slides up to the desk, sets down his briefcase, and smiles pleasantly at Emmy.

I let out the breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding as Emmy slowly—very, very slowly—turns to the man.

Quick, Frankie. Think!

I need to cause a distraction, anything to postpone the conversation she’s going to fling upon me in about thirty seconds. Maybe I should just faint and ask to be sent home? Or I could just discreetly set off the fire alarm? Or I could pretend to fall?

But it doesn’t matter, because the man strides away and Emmy turns to me, eyes wide and urging. ‘If Archer isn’t your first love,’ she says, ‘then who the fuck was?'

My mouth dries. ‘Oh, would you look at that! I think I’m getting a super important phone call.’ I dig it from my bag, but she snatches it from my hand and holds onto it.

‘Not a chance. You’re going to tell me, right now.’

‘Okay, fine.’ I take a deep breath. ‘My first love…was this stray cat on my street. He’d always scratch at my window—‘

‘Frankie Adeline Johnson, I solemnly swear that I will throw your phone into the shredder if you don’t tell mewhat the fuck.’

I wish I wasn’t wearing makeup so I could run my hands over my face and just scream. What do I care? Why does it matter? It’s not like he’s part of my life anymore. It’s not like he’s going to overhear me. ‘There was this… one guy,’ I start, and I glare at the hopeful glint in my best friend’s eyes. ‘At school, so none of this matters at all, because I was wayyyy too young and stupid to actually know what love was, but… I really liked him. And that’sit, so don’t ask me anymore questions.’

But Emmy cocks her head. I sigh and set down the pen I’ve just picked up. Of course she isn’t done. ‘Did you tell him how you felt?’ she asks.