Bring Me Home

“You are a…you know what, we should stop now before you end up with a bed in here.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, snorting a chuckle. It was the cutest thing I’d ever heard. “That can’t happen. Neither one of us can come back here. I’m serious. You have no idea how much weight I’ve gained. I’m on first-name terms with four different Uber Eats drivers. You can’t do this to me again, I swear.”

I laughed, grabbed her, pulled her into me. “Eat the damn burgers, Heli. You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever known. Besides…” I broke off to kiss her lips, squeeze her arse. “More of you,” I squeezed it again, “More of this…can never be a bad thing.”

She smiled coyly, dropped her head. “Tell that to the button on my jeans. I heard it cry this morning.” She looked up at me then, expression serious, gaze lingering. “I’m so proud of you, Hugo. I just wanted you to know that.”

The deeper I inhaled, the more emotion flooded my lungs. “Fuck, Helen…” I dropped my head, throat swelling, eyes stinging again. “Sorry, I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me today.”

“Hey.” She raised my chin, kissed me. “Don’t do that.” She kissed me again. “Don’t hide from me. You know, you’re actually sorta beautiful when you cry.”

“What?” I sniffed in the ugly tears, my melancholy turning to amused bewilderment in an instant.

“The vulnerability in your eyes…gives you a kinda smoking hot, brooding GQ cover look.”

She made me laugh. She always could. “I’ve done GQ. Twice. Was I not brooding enough for you then?”

“Wouldn’t know.” She shrugged. “It’s not like I followed you over the years. Totally haven’t kept a box with magazines you’ve been in or anything. That would be creepy. And pathetic.”

My lips stretched high. I finger-punched her shoulder. “Helen Jenkins…you have a box of Hugo Hayes memorabilia? Where is it? It’s under your bed, isn’t it?” This was fantastic. For the briefest of moments, the voice in my head that had put me in this rehab centre tried to tell me it wasn’t good, that I’d left her with no option but to forage for scraps about my life…but I shut that voice the fuck down. I regretted leaving, but now I needed to accept it’d happened. I’d served my sentence. I’d never reach the next verse if I kept repeating the chorus.

“You’ll never find it because it doesn’t exist!” Helen turned for the doors at the end of the corridor, strutting with purpose, her ponytail swishing angrily.

I jogged behind her, catching up in only a second. I grabbed her at the waist, spun her around. “I’m gonna find that box.”

She giggled, cheeks pinking. “I don’t have it.” I might have believed her if she’d looked me in the eye.

“You’re perfect, Helen Jenkins.” I had to say it. It was the only thing running through my mind. My fingers drifted up to her face, stroked her warm cheek. “I’m gonna love you forever, you know.”

Her cheek rose against my hand. “I like the sound of that, Hugo Hayes.”

Our lips came together. Instinctively. Naturally. Her tongue brushed the seam of my mouth, dipped inside. She tasted of Pepsi and breath mints. Kinda weird, kinda delicious. Shit. I moaned into her mouth, grabbed at her arse, thrust my hips into her. Her lips smiled against mine and I knew she’d felt it, how hard I was for her. I couldn’t fucking wait to get outta this place.

I broke away, breathless…desperate. “I…really need to stop touching you right about now,” I said.

Helen glanced left and right before reaching down and cupping my dick through my jeans. “I can tell,” she said, clearly trying to kill me on the spot.

“Jesus.”

“Until next time.” She rose on her tiptoes, pecked my cheek. The heat of her lips lingered there, tingling on my skin even after she’d pulled away. “Love you,” she mouthed, beginning her walk away from me.

And there it was, the familiar ache in my chest as she took a piece of me with her. “Love you, too.” I kissed my hand, blew it towards her. “Always.”

Today was a good day. I’d discovered the feeling of happiness today, and I wasn’t prepared to let it go.

Freedom Day. That’s what Phoebe had called it. Though, in reality, I’d never be free. I’d always have anxiety, waves of depression. I’d always be autistic. I didn’t need to be imprisoned by them, however. That’s what I’d learned during my time at Woodhall Lodge. Would the positivity last? I didn’t know. But I refused to sit back and wait for the relapse. If I were to do that, I might as well send it an invitation, put out a welcome mat and offer a cocktail reception.

The best, and possibly most daunting, part of today was that Drew was picking me up. It would be the first time we’d seen each other since my overdose. I wasn’t afraid of saying that word anymore. I hardly wanted to yell about it in the middle of Piccadilly Circus, but I could admit what I’d done to myself, and to those who loved me. I no longer felt the stomach-curdling shame. I’d been sick. I regretted it, and that was a very good thing.