A Fractured Echo

Chapter 6

Christmas arrived at high-velocity thanks to a crazy couple of weeks where I barely had time to catch my breath. I'm not sure what Jodie did or said to close down the argument with Cheryl, but there had been no further encounters with the resident menace. Instead, the preferred weapon of choice seemed to be throwing dirty looks at me whenever we passed each other in the house. A look I could handle, it didn't require a response, nor did it have the opportunity to cause me any hurt or annoyance. Any time Jodie and I had been together, she'd steadfastly refused to tell me how things ended, only alluding to the fact that Cheryl should leave me alone from now on.

While that initially filled me with the kind of comfort you'd expect from receiving a reassuring hand squeeze or encouraging hug, I didn't plan on holding my breath. There was a tiny little niggle that wouldn't leave, that she was simply biding her time, waiting carefully for the perfect opportunity to strike. People like Cheryl didn't let things drop, regardless of whatever was being held over her head, they just plotted and waited for the perfect opportunity.

Unlike past behaviour, I refused to live with that cloud hanging over me. I was done with being held back by fear and intimidation. When it happened, I'd deal with it. Until then, it was business as usual.

The morning after our night out, Jodie knocked on my bedroom door at what felt like the most ungodly hour, although a glance at the alarm clock told me I'd slept for twelve hours straight and it was almost noon. As a form of redemption for waking me from what was possibly the longest sleep I'd had since I woke from the coma; she'd had the good grace and common sense to be clutching a very large latte and a bacon sandwich from the greasy spoon at the corner of our road.

As we devoured brunch, sitting like two bookends on the floor with our backs against the bed base, Jodie fished something from the back pocket of her jeans and set it down on the carpet between our legs.

Puzzled by the small printed card, but too busy cramming porky goodness into my mouth to pick it up, I queried its relevance whilst chewing a mouthful of sandwich.

"What's that?"

"That my beautiful friend...is your ticket to a date with a handsome young trainee solicitor." She beamed, clearly amused by the fact she'd been able to spring this upon me.

It left me struggling to find the words. "How...why...when?"

"No need to thank me." It was impossible to miss her deliberately saccharine tenor.

"I'm not thanking you yet, not until you explain." I bristled.

"What's to tell? When you pulled your scalded cat act, Tristan was concerned that he'd said something to make you run, so he gave me his card and asked me to pass it on." The explanation seemed so simple, yet my suspicious mind automatically wondered what the catch was.

Sensing my reticence to take the number, she picked up the crisp white card and placed it on my thigh. "At the very least, let him know you're okay."

"I'll think about it." I sighed. The idea of having to give someone I'd known for less than two hours an explanation for why I'd rushed out in the middle of Ash's set was not exactly making its way to the top of my agenda. Then again, Tristan seemed nice, if not a little overly keen to ply me with compliments. That bit made my skin prickle to the point of discomfort, leading to an overwhelming sense of awkwardness as I struggled to find a response that felt appropriate.

It was a situation that most women would walk over hot coals to be in, and maybe in another life perhaps I would have been more eager to welcome it, but in the here and now, I appeared to be programmed somewhat differently.