He watched her as she shuffled in her seat, trying to disguise her anxiety, and wondered if anyone else had noticed. The way she clung to her wine glass just a little too tightly, the nervous way she fiddled with her necklace, her slightly hunched shoulders and dipped chin, her well-disguised jumpiness every time the door behind her opened or closed. These tiny indicators probably went unnoticed to everyone else, but to Peter they screamed at him.
They say that people with addictions develop a third eye, an ability to spot the signs in other people that no one else would ever pick up on; Almost an intuition. Even if there are next to no outwardly visible signs, somehow they just know that something is wrong. Tiny, unconscious signals become magnified as he saw elements of himself in those poor souls, making a big deal out of leaving after only one drink, knowing full well they were off home to polish off a new bottle of Vodka.
He only had to look at Carla to see that despite the tough veneer, inside she was screaming, desperately clinging on and barely getting by. He couldn't understand how no one else saw it. It wasn't just her drink problem that seemed obvious to Peter. At the bottom of that was a whole stream of desperate unhappiness. Loneliness, fear, isolation, guilt… She was probably even more damaged than he was, and that said something. He wasn't completely sure what had happened in her past to mess her up so badly, but from the snippets he'd managed to extract – Carla didn't 'do' dwelling on the past, he knew it had been bad. Sometimes he wondered whether she had ever been truly happy, or if she was ever likely to be again.
Peter smiled thank you to Stella as he paid for a white wine and an orange juice – the usual, and walked back to his seat where Leanne was waiting for him.
"You took your time!" Leanne half-joked.
"Yeah, sorry, just a lot on my mind, that's all." He replied, trying to avert his gaze from Carla, ordering a second bottle of Red and hurrying back to her seat, just a little too quickly. How could no one else see what was going on? Why did no one say anything? Peter felt his blood boil as he gazed around the room at the pub full of clueless, selfish punters. Sipping his orange juice, he forced a casual smile and changed the subject.
"Did Si get off to school OK?"
"Yeah, fine… Are you sure you're alright?" Leanne placed a supportive arm on his shoulder. "You seem distracted".
"I'm just tired, Lee. Y'know, with work and everything."
"Ok well, we'll have this and go home then, yeah?"
"Yeah… sorry".
Carla was already pouring a second glass, or more accurately, topping up her original one. Another trick he'd come to be familiar with – the never ending glass. The fear of reaching the end of the glass, of being without, even for a second; he knew this feeling well. And besides, if you never actually finish a glass, it's easier to lose track of how much you're drinking, easier to kid yourself that it's really not that bad. Denial: the single most important asset for any self-respecting alcoholic.
It tortured him, how close they used to be. How close they came to becoming much more than friends, and how much, no matter how hard he tried to deny it, part of him regretted that nothing had come of it. Seeing her lying there unconscious that dreadful night, after she'd tried to kill herself… the memory haunted him to the day. Seeing her so vulnerable, literally at death's door, had made him realize how much he cared about her, how much he needed her. His reaction to Frank's attack had shocked even him. He couldn't explain it even to himself, but the thought of him doing that to her… It was like he could physically feel her pain. That darkness, the fear, the sadness; it was as if she was an extension of himself, that they were somehow bound together by some invisible force.
And now what were they? Scared to even speak to each other in case someone caught them, sneaking around like they'd done something wrong. As angry as Peter was at the ultimatum he'd been given, a part of him was almost glad, because it saved the awkwardness. It saved him from having to face her, and trying to hide his feelings, to fight the desire to just grab her and hold her tight, to never let go. He was in love with her, he was almost certain of it now. But he was equally certain that, although he knew she felt the same – or at least used to, this was something she just couldn't deal with right now. It had taken long enough to even let people touch her, to not jump at any sudden movements. The very last thing she needed right now was him getting too close.
He also knew that what Leanne had said was true. He was as much a part of her problems as Frank was, if not more so. If it hadn't been for him, she'd have stayed at that meeting all those months ago, and chances are things would've worked out very differently. But no, he had to play the hero. In a bid to boost his own deflated ego, he'd played mentor, promised to help her – but then he'd abandoned her, pushed her away. Why did he do that? He hated himself for it.
Truth was, he'd got scared, scared of getting too close, of falling for her. So he'd backed off, pretended he didn't feel the same. He'd pushed her towards Frank just as much as Carla had fooled herself into thinking she loved him. If Frank wasn't a twisted, evil rapist, Peter would have felt sorry for him. They'd both used him as a pawn in their twisted game, he was right about that much. But in all this, all she'd done is hurt her more, damaged her further. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn't. Without intending to, everything he gave her he took away in the other hand. He both healed and destroyed her, and it killed him.
"Hello? Earth to Peter?" Leanne laughed, waving her hand in front of Peter's face.
Jolting back to earth, Peter tried to act normal. "What? Oh, sorry…"
"If you're done with that," Leanne gestured to Peter's empty glass, "We'll get off."
"Right, yeah. Let's go".
As they headed for the door, Peter briefly caught Carla's eye. She smiled slightly, awkwardly, before picking up her glass and taking a large gulp.