31 : Blaire

                                    

                                          
B L A I R E
                          
•
                          
I can't believe that Mum died at the end of March and it's already May. I've lived through the whole of April without her. A whole month she never got to see, never got to experience. She'll never know that the Notre Dame caught fire; she'll never see the first ever photo of a black hole; she'll never hear Taylor Swift and Brendan Urie's duet. 
                          
It hits hard when I come down for breakfast and Elizabeth has the radio on, and Me! is playing. Mum loved Taylor Swift. She used to call her Tay, like they were best friends, and she thought it made her cool to be a sixty-something who was into current pop culture. On long drives, we used to load up Red, 1989 and Reputation, and sing at the top of our lungs.
                          
And now there's a whole new album, and the first time I hear Soon You'll Get Better – just a few days ago, at Sukie's house – I bawled my eyes out. 
                          
"Morning, Blaire," Elizabeth says, turning down the radio. "You're going out?"
                          
"To the café," I say with a nod, swiping a banana from the bunch in the middle of the table. I'm starting to feel more comfortable here, like this is my house too. I don't need permission to eat a banana, to go out and see my friends. 
                          
"Have fun," she says. "Is there any chance you could go to the shop for me?"
                          
"Sure. What do you need?"
                          
She digs through her pockets for her card and holds it out to me. Usually she gives me cash, always just enough for whatever she asks for. She must trust me more now, I think. We've made it to the next level. "Whatever you want for supper tonight. It's your choice." 
                          
"Okay." That's a lot of responsibility. "Is there anything you don't want?"
                          
Her nose crinkles as she thinks for a moment and with a shake of her head says, "No. Get what you want, and I'll cook it."
                          
In which case, I may need to stock up on herbs and spices. "Thanks. See you later, Elizabeth."
                          
"Oh, and Blaire?" she calls as I'm leaving. 
                          
"Yeah?"
                          
"Treat yourself. Whatever you want from the café, it's on me. Use my card."
                          
"Are you sure?"
                          
"Of course." She smiles. It's small, her lips are shut, but it's a smile. She's done that a lot more the past few days, and it's both disarming and comforting. "Are you seeing Sukie?"
                          
"I hope so."
                          
Her subtle smile grows a fraction, eyes shining. "I hope you have a good time."
                          
I can see in her eyes that she knows how I feel, and if Elizabeth can tell that I like Sukie when we've spent the past five weeks barely talking, then there's no hope that everyone else hasn't already figured it out. My cheeks start to get warm, and I take that as my cue to leave.
                          
Sukie and I don't have plans to meet today, but I know she'll be at the café and I haven't been able to stop reading The Key to Anchor Lake since I checked it out yesterday morning – except the moments I had to give my tired eyes a break, and I curled up on the sofa with The Anchor Lakey piping into my ears. 
                          
Last night, I listened to episode sixty, and my heart broke to hear Oli promise to return, a promise I know he's broken. Sure, he came back for Christmas, but not since then. Not since he left a souvenir he can't undo. 
                          
I cycle slowly today, enjoying the warm sun on my face and taking it easy so I don't overheat. Apparently, the temperature's supposed to get up to almost twenty degrees today, so I've taken the plunge and switched out my black leggings for cropped white ones. I even shaved my legs last night, as pointless as it seems when they're already prickly again, less than twelve hours later.