If I had to call it, I’d say that Tom looks even more nervous when I come back from my ‘run’ than he did when I left. His phone is still next to him.
‘My run was good,’ I say pointedly.
‘Sorry yeah – where did you go?’
He is forcing himself to make conversation and pull his mind from whatever it was on, but he looks so troubled that I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.
‘The park,’ I say, pulling off my socks and eyeing him. What is it? Has Rachel been in touch?
I walk straight into the shower, determined that whatever type of girl I had become, I will never be the girl who checks her boyfriend’s phone.
But I kick the side of the bath in frustration. Because I’m lathering up my shower gel and thinking about it. Why can’t I be that girl? Is it because I’ve always judged her so harshly, made the ruling that she’s the worst girl?
Or is it because deep down I don’t think Tom’s a cheat, so whatever and whoever Rachel is, he will tell me when he’s ready?
But the truth is that I simply can’t face handling anything else right now. Suspecting is manageable. Knowing and having to walk away from Tom when we are in the midst of all of this, isn’t. I turn my face up towards the showerhead but bury my head firmly in the sand.