_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

small. Unenviable. As I’m thinking this, I think how ridiculous I am to
imagine that Scott could possibly care about the state of my life at this
moment.
I motion for him to sit down on the bed. He obeys, wiping his eyes
with the back of his hand. He breathes out heavily.
“Can I get you something?” I ask him.
“A beer?”
“I don’t keep alcohol in the house,” I say, and I can feel myself going
red as I say it. Scott doesn’t notice, though, he doesn’t even look up. “I
can make you a cup of tea?” He nods again. “Lie down,” I say. “Rest.”
He does as he’s told, kicking off his shoes and lying back on the bed,
docile as a sick child.
Downstairs, while I boil the kettle I make small talk with Cathy,
listening to her going on about the new place in Northcote she’s
discovered for lunch (“really good salads”) and how annoying the new
woman at work is. I smile and nod, but I’m only half hearing her. My
body is braced: I’m listening out for him, for creaks or footsteps. It feels
unreal to have him here, in my bed, upstairs. It makes me dizzy to think
about it, as though I’m dreaming.
Cathy stops talking eventually and looks at me, her brow furrowed.
“Are you all right?” she asks. “You look . . . kind of out of it.”
“I’m just a bit tired,” I tell her. “I’m not feeling very well. I think I’ll
go to bed.”
She gives me a look. She knows I’ve not been drinking (she can
always tell), but she probably assumes I’m about to start. I don’t care, I
can’t think about it now; I pick up the cup of tea for Scott and tell her I’ll
see her in the morning.
I stop outside my bedroom door and listen. It’s quiet. Carefully, I twist
the doorknob and push the door open. He’s lying there, in exactly the
same position I left him, his hands at his sides, his eyes shut. I can hear
his breathing, soft and ragged. His bulk takes up half the bed, but I’m
tempted to lie down in the space next to him, to put my arm across his
chest, to comfort him. Instead, I give a little cough and hold out the cup
of tea.
He sits up. “Thank you,” he says gruffly, taking the mug from me.
“Thank you for . . . giving me sanctuary. It’s been . . . I can’t describe
how it’s been, since that story came out.”
“The one about what happened years ago?”
“Yeah, that one.”