(No Control | Holding Me Ransom - 25 - All I Ever Wanted Was The Truth)
"Will you let me explain?" I ask tentatively, and she sighs softly and looks out of the passenger window.
"Harry, you say this every time. And then I come away even more confused, with even more mystery surrounding everything."
She sounds exasperated and fed up, and of course she's right. I promised to tell her everything at Libertine, and... well. Look how that turned out.
"I know," I admit reluctantly. "I wanted to tell you everything that night we..."
No - I can't talk about that night.
"The night you came back to my hotel in London," I say, quickly. "I intended to, and then we got... carried away. And then when I woke up you'd already left..."
I remember the feeling of heartbreak and rejection when I woke with a start in the hotel in London, all alone. Forever alone.
I glance at her, but she is staring forwards at the road ahead. I wonder what is going through her mind. She is so closed up around me now. I know it's because she no longer has any trust in me, and that hurts more than anything she has said today.
"Please will you hear me out?" I beg.
It's a couple of seconds before she answers and I wait on tenterhooks for her response.
"Fine. You can come up to my room. And then when you have explained you can leave."
"OK," I agree quickly, ignoring the bluntness of her dismissal. "Thank you."
I can't help smiling at her hopefully, and my stomach flutters when she smiles back. I am officially pathetic. I am hopelessly in love with her, and I need to remember that I am here to be honest with her, not to beg her to take me back. Her presence is clouding my judgment, and I need to focus.
We arrive at her hotel and I pull into a space near the entrance. There are a few people milling about in the late afternoon sunshine, but I barely notice them as we climb out of the car and head towards the main doors. I am too fixated on this girl walking alongside me, who holds the key to my happiness in the palm of her hand, along with the power to break me at any moment with her newfound indifference.
"Aren't you worried about being seen?" she asks curiously.
"Not as long as we're quick."
That's the least of my worries, although it probably shouldn't be. But I only have enough headspace for how I'm going to explain everything to her before she kicks me out, and the thought of reliving what happened in New York - the real, full story - is making me feel sick. I haven't repeated it completely to anyone since it happened; not Mum, not Gemma, not anyone. My heart is pounding already, and I feel strangely emotional.
We get into the lift and the minute the doors close, silence engulfs us. I want to reach over and take her hand, touch her skin, breathe in her scent. Instead I watch the floor numbers ticking by as we ascend. She leads me down the corridor to her room, slips the card into the slot and lets us in. Once inside I let the door click shut behind me, and manoeuvre my phone out of my pocket and lay it on the table.
"It's not the kind of room you're used to staying in," she says apologetically, and I turn in surprise to see her pulling at her own fingers nervously. Is she embarrassed about this hotel?!
"Since when have I been bothered about things like that?" I reply, trying to hide my confusion so I don't add to her embarrassment. I don't want her to feel uncomfortable around me, but I feel I have lost the right to ask her to elaborate further on her apparent unease. We're both standing awkwardly, staring at each other, when her gaze shifts to the bed. I glance down at the pillows and try to stop my mind from picturing her there, with a dark haired faceless stranger. I swallow hard.
I don't know what time this idiot is arriving tonight. I don't know how much of her time I have. I hate that I even have to bring it up, but I need to know how long we've got.
"What time is your... your date?"
"Not for a couple of hours," she says, and I tear my gaze away from the bed and stare unseeingly at the wall while the image of someone else kissing her, touching her, holding her, dances in front of my eyes.
"Do you want a drink or something? I have a kettle..." she offers, and I smile gratefully at her for trying to break the tension.
"Yeah, tea would be great, thanks," I reply. "Could I use your bathroom? It was sort of a long drive." My bladder feels about to pop at the mention of a drink.
"Oh, um, yeah, go ahead," she says nervously, and I slip past her awkwardly, making sure my skin doesn't touch hers. I close the bathroom door behind me and stare at my reflection in the mirror while I go through the motions.
I look terrible - she was right. Despite having a bit of a tan I look pale and pasty, and there is no mistaking the bags under my eyes. It's a good job I'm not trying to win her back - I wouldn't expect her to look twice at me in this state.
I flush the toilet, wash my hands and open the door to see her fumbling to stir the cups of tea, a strange look on her face.
"Thanks for that," I start to say, in reference to the tea, but change it to "What's the matter?"
"Nothing," she says quickly, her voice high and unnatural.
"Don't fib. You've gone all squeaky. What is it?"
"I'm fine."
She isn't fine. Her hands tremble as she hands me my cup, but I know better than to push my luck by interrogating her. I need to keep her on side, at least until I have explained everything.
I let it drop for now, and take a seat in the small armchair by the television so we don't have to sit next to each other other on the bed, and she perches on the edge of the quilt. We have exhausted the pleasantries and she is looking at me expectantly. Is it bad that I still don't know where to start?
I take a deep breath and my phone beeps on the table. I let the breath out again and twist round in my chair to pick it up - I'm sure it will be Paul, tearing me off a strip for giving him the slip and zooming off to Cardiff, but as soon as I press the button to light up the screen it is not the unread text that makes my heart jump, but the realisation that the message came through a few minutes ago and Jess's photograph is still my background picture. She is skittish and jittery all of a sudden, and it only started while I was in the bathroom. Did she look at my phone? Did she see the picture?
I am terrified at the idea of her knowing how I feel about her; terrified of the potential rejection all over again. Yet at the same time I want to fight for her, fight for us. Now she is sitting right in front of me I am reminded even more obviously of what she means to me, and I am struggling to hold myself together, to keep my emotions in check, when all I want to do is take her in my arms and never let her go until she has healed all my wounds and I have healed hers.
I look up at her, searching her face for a clue of how she feels, or whether she has seen the picture and knows I am still in love with her. She stares back at me, hurt and confusion in her eyes. I can't tell what she is thinking anymore. I used to know her inside out.
"What's going on, Harry?" she asks, shakily. "You promised me an explanation. Well, I'm waiting. Come on. Let's hear it then."
I'm trying to keep calm on the outside, but inside my stomach is churning sickeningly. I lean forward and look into her eyes. Her beautiful, beautiful eyes.
"I don't really know where to begin," I admit.
"Tell me the whole story," she says, holding my gaze confidently. "Even the bits I've heard before. If you're finally going to tell me the truth, you might as well do it properly."
She's right.
"OK," I nod, my heart sinking and fear rising. "OK, I will."
I have nothing left to lose.
Here goes.