BooksBarbecue
Back Again, Rachel
Chapters (98)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. 82
  86. 83
  87. 84
  88. 85
  89. 86
  90. 87
  91. 88
  92. 89
  93. 90
  94. 91
  95. 92
  96. 93
  97. 94
  98. Acknowledgements

We left for the airport, checked in, endured security, had a seventy-minute wait in the lounge and got on the plane, all without exchanging a word.

About two hours into the flight, Quin suddenly uttered, ‘I don’t know why you thought I was proposing.’

‘I don’t either.’ I genuinely hadn’t a clue. But what was clear was that, in that moment, the thought of a long-term commitment to him had been terrifying. So much so, I hadn’t been able to hide it.

‘If it had ever been on the cards,’ he said, ‘not that it was, you have my word that now it never will.’

‘Quin, I’m so sorry for hurting you. I don’t know what—’

‘I need you to stay at your own place tonight.’

‘Quin.’

‘I’ll drop you at mine,’ he said. ‘Your car is there.’

‘Quin—’

‘I don’t want to talk to you.’

I bit my lip and stayed silent. By now I thought I understood where my wild overreaction had originated. Quin and I had had a tense few days. He’d resented the soul-searching I’d been doing about my past, about Luke.

And I’d resented him for resenting it.

Our glamorous weekend had done heroic work trying to conceal the strain, but our mutual grievances had kept breaking the surface.

At Dublin Airport, we got into his jeep and drove, in silence. When we reached his house, he yanked my carry-on from the trunk and clattered it to the ground. With an angry beep, he locked his car, then rattled his front door open and slammed it shut behind him—leaving me outside in the cool night.

Feeling sad and foolish, I hung around, hoping he’d return. I watched the lights go on inside his house, then watched them all go out again. When the last one disappeared, I had no choice but to go home, already worried about what tomorrow would bring.

Whatever it was, I sensed it was going to be bad.

73

And sure enough, at 6 a.m., when I jolted awake into heart-pounding anxiety, the truth finally caught up with me and landed intact: Luke had left me because I’d started using drugs again. Abusing. I’d plunged right back into addiction and become totally unreachable.

There was no more uncertainty, no more flip-flopping. The knowledge snapped into place, then clicked, turning on lights, flick, flick, flick, illuminating everything with a grand sweep.

Nothing had changed but everything was different.

The reality was there, hard and clear: as soon as I’d seen there was a chance of getting sleepers from Carlotta, I’d relapsed into addictive thinking, then addictive behaviour. In so deep I hadn’t even known I was in trouble.

No wonder he had left.

Not because he blamed me for Yara. Not because he’d stopped loving me. But because I was, once more, an active addict.