Bring Me Home

Helen’s hand appeared on my knee, squeezing softly in silent solidarity.

Embarrassed, I turned my face away, wiped my eyes on the sleeve of my hoodie.

“Sorry,” I muttered, sniffing. “Shit, don’t know where that came from.”

“You’re being honest,” Phoebe said. “That hurts sometimes.”

“Yeah.” I laughed, tears still falling. Fuck. This might have been the worst session yet. “I came back for selfish reasons, I know I did.” I turned to face Helen. “But I do love you. Fuck, I love you,” I said, begging her to believe me with my eyes before returning to Phoebe. “I’ve always loved her.”

“Are you worried she doesn’t see that, Hugo?”

I shrugged, afraid of my own answer. “She knows why I came back. She knows because she knows me. Better than anyone. Probably better than myself. I needed her help. I’m afraid…I’ll always need her help.”

Helen’s hand hadn’t moved. Her thumb made small circles over my knee. I closed my fingers over hers, held them tight.

“You know, Hugo,” Phoebe began, “There’s a huge difference between being dependent on someone and turning to them for support. Part of learning to manage our mental health independently is learning to recognise when we need to ask for help, seeing when it’s time to bring in that person or persons we trust the most to take control when we can’t necessarily do it ourselves. I believe you did that when you sought out Helen.”

“It’d been eight years,” I argued. “She could’ve been married. Had kids. Forgotten all about me. It was selfish.”

“Helen?” Phoebe said, proffering her hand.

I shifted just a little, looked at her cautiously. Helen’s head tilted, smile faded. “But I wasn’t, and I hadn’t. I’m here because I want to be. I know you’re a big shot music star, but you don’t have any power over me, Hugo. I don’t owe you anything. I’m not here because I feel sorry for you. I’m here because I love you, you bloody idiot.”

I laughed at that, just a small one. “Why…” The word slipped out accidentally.

“I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. So simple. Nonchalant. “Why does anyone love anyone? You’re kind. Accepting. But so is Chrissie, and I’m not in love with her. You have an incredible voice, but so does Adam Lambert. You make the best hot chocolate…but so does that guy with the beard at the Starbucks behind Tesco.”

“Are you going somewhere with this?” I interrupted, eyes wide, grin wider.

“My point is I could list a tonne of amazing things about you. Are they the reasons why I love you? Probably. Are they why I’m in love with you? I doubt it. I don’t think we get to choose why that happens. Love just…is. I don’t know why my heart feels fizzy when I see your name flash up on my phone, or why my skin tingles when you touch it. I don’t know why I just feel…better…when you’re in the same room, or why you keep popping into my mind when you’re not. It makes no sense that I feel physical pain when I see you hurting, or that when I hurt you’re the only one who can take it away. It’s all senseless, but it’s true, and it’s perfect, and it’s why I’m here, Hugo. It’s why I’ll always be here.”

“What do you think, Hugo?” Until then, I’d forgotten Helen and I weren’t alone in the world. “Do you see it now?” Phoebe continued.

I locked my gaze with Helen’s. As a bright smile danced upon her lips, tiny lines feathered her pretty green eyes, evidence of the time that had passed…but she was still there, behind those eyes. My girl. My Helen Helicopter. “Yeah,” I breathed. “I see it. I see you.”

The beauty of her smile never dropped. “And you keep conveniently forgetting the fact you came back right as I needed you, too. I’d just lost my mum. I was losing myself. I didn’t know where I belonged anymore. Then you came back…and I remembered. I belong right next to you. I always did. Being with you…makes me me.” She leaned closer, held a finger under my chin, which sent a shockwave through my entire body, and added, “So, no more trashing bedrooms then, huh?”

I rolled my eyes and dropped my head, trapping her finger to my chest. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I hope they made you clear it up yourself.”

I rolled my neck, peered up at her. “Yes, ma’am.” They wouldn’t have, in fact, but I did it anyway. It was my mess and I insisted I rectify it.

“Stop calling me that,” she protested, jerking her head back.

“Stop talking to me like a headmistress and maybe I will.”

An exaggerated cough cut through the air, a reminder from Phoebe, yet again, that this was, in fact, a therapy session. Helen and I turned sharply in unison. Phoebe grinned. She looked pleased, which I liked. I felt pleased, too. Happy, I dared to think. I thought on it for a moment during the silence, really dug into what was happening inside my head. I wasn’t desperately sad. I wasn’t merely even either. I felt…invigorated. Peppy. I felt, with a fair amount of confidence, happy.