And she hated herself for dropping everything - the late night working, the impending deadline, the microwave meal still waiting on the kitchen counter, the promise of a solid six hours of sleep before work - to grab her bag, still unpacked from work, and head out the door again. She turned back only to discard the suit jacket in favour of a more casual coat, and hated herself for still caring what he thought of her appearance, but she only ever wanted to be Kitty around him, never Kitty Riley. The pencil skirt and heels threw off that image, but he wanted her there, so she went, because she could still remember with piercingly painful clarity how it felt when he didn’t want her, not there, not anywhere.
How many nights like this had there been now? She’d lost count. Maybe she was numb to the sight of him like this now, sprawled out across the sofa laughing at his own jokes on good nights, whimpering over the toilet bowl on worse ones, but that didn’t stop her heart from hurting as her feet followed the familiar route to the underground and then to his front door. And then back to the casual daytime texts, the afternoon phone calls, hushed and conspiratorial because she was at work, the promises she made to herself that this would change, that he would get over this, that she only had to be there for him, be his friend, for something to give.
But how many nights like this would there be from now? How many until she could no longer deny that she was, in fact, one of those women she kept swearing she’d never be again. She didn’t want to keep hanging on. She loved him - Christ, she adored the stupid bastard - but she didn’t know how much longer she could stand it being like this.
And she was furious. She kept everything calm and caring when she was around him, but she was furious that, after everything, this was still what was happening. At what point did his crimes become worse than hers, so she was allowed to discard the gentle hints, the subtle sympathies, and tell him to get his act together before he lost everything? She kept telling him that she wouldn’t leave him alone, that she’d always be there for him, that they’d be okay, even as she kept telling herself that every night like this would be the last.
And yet, night after night, she found herself here, buzzing herself in and knocking on his door, hoping that this would be one of the good nights.
Why does she keep coming back?
He wasn't complaining. He was desperately grateful, but he wasn't sure she knew that. Or maybe she did. Maybe that was part of knowing him. So few people knew Langdale Pike – actually knew him, as a human being – and they were all sensible enough to keep a safe distance and most of them fucked off eventually. It was standard procedure. Kitty was different and he didn't know why. She had read so far past the headlines, she should have crumpled him up and tossed him out years ago. Yet, here she was, still turning pages, still answering when he called. Still not sick of it. It was mad, really. How long did he think he think it could last?
The blogger cursed himself with every breath as he hauled himself out of bed, pulled on some jeans, changed his t-shirt for a clean one. Cursed himself for always getting it wrong, for never knowing exactly what it was he was trying to achieve with her. Why did he test the limits like this? Throwing it out there that he was drunk, as though he were excusing himself for inviting her over. To justify a request that wasn't really a request. (No pleasantries. No thought to what sort of day she might have had or if she had plans. He might as well have texted, i'm a selfish prick, come over.)
What sort of drunk did she expect tonight? What sort of drunk was he? He didn't even know. He was drinking wine.
When Lang was a little kid he'd had a plastic pirate action figure whose sword-arm had snapped off. His gran had super-glued it back on, told him not to touch it while the glue was drying, but curious little fingers had pried it apart when her back was turned. He had wanted to observe the process. As a result, the glue had done the basic job of reuniting man with limb, but if you tugged at it, it would still come away, attached to the torso by threads of sticky, gluey sinew.
Pike poured himself another glass and knocked it back in seconds. It was alright. They could order pizza. Watch a movie. It didn't matter. He just needed her here. He flopped down on the sofa, picked up the remote, pointed it mindlessly at the telly. Didn't take in anything of the sounds and lights filling the room.
Kitty knew the fine-print. She had seen the rough drafts. She was close enough to smell the ink, and she could tell it was toxic, surely. Still, she ran to his doorstep again and again, and he didn't understand. Couldn't understand why she let him use her like this. As an escape, a distraction, a pastime, a crossword puzzle he never finished.
There came the familiar knock at the door and Pike's stomach gnawed at itself.
Sober, day-to-day, he liked to think (or feel, at least, foolishly) that he could keep her... compartmentalised, somehow. She was another column; separate from the rest of it, from the scraps of daily life that made up his total existence. But in truth, Kitty Riley was anything but separate.
If anything, she was the glue.
Pike ran a hand through his dark curls and opened the door to his realest friend.
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