_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

some battles aren’t worth fighting. I’m careful—usually. I cover my
tracks, so it isn’t usually an issue.”
He gave a little shake of the head, almost imperceptible.
“I didn’t think you were here to judge me,” I said.
When the session ended, I asked him if he wanted to have a drink with
me. He said no, he couldn’t, it wouldn’t be appropriate. So I followed
him home. He lives in a flat just down the road from the practice. I
knocked on his door, and when he opened it, I asked, “Is this
appropriate?” I slipped my hand around the back of his neck, stood on
tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth.
“Megan,” he said, voice like velvet. “Don’t. I can’t do this. Don’t.”
It was exquisite, that push and pull, desire and restraint. I didn’t want
to let the feeling go, I wanted so badly to be able to hold on to it.
I got up in the early hours of the morning, head spinning, full of
stories. I couldn’t just lie there, awake, alone, my mind ticking over all
those opportunities that I could take or leave, so I got up and got dressed
and started walking. Found myself here. I’ve been walking around and
playing things back in my head—he said, she said, temptation, release; if
only I could settle on something, choose to stick, not twist. What if the
thing I’m looking for can never be found? What if it just isn’t possible?
The air is cold in my lungs, the tips of my fingers are turning blue.
Part of me just wants to lie down here, among the leaves, let the cold
take me. I can’t. It’s time to go.
It’s almost nine by the time I get back to Blenheim Road, and as I turn
the corner I see her, coming towards me, pushing the buggy in front of
her. The child, for once, is silent. She looks at me and nods and gives me
one of those weak smiles, which I don’t return. Usually, I would pretend
to be nice, but this morning I feel real, like myself. I feel high, almost
like I’m tripping, and I couldn’t fake nice if I tried.
AFTERNOON
I fell asleep in the afternoon. I woke feverish, panicky. Guilty. I do feel
guilty. Just not guilty enough.
I thought about him leaving in the middle of the night, telling me,
once again, that this was the last time, the very last time, we can’t do this
again. He was getting dressed, pulling on his jeans. I was lying on the
bed and I laughed, because that’s what he said last time, and the time
before, and the time before that. He shot me a look. I don’t know how to
describe it, it wasn’t anger, exactly, not contempt—it was a warning.