“Comfort comes in many forms.”

Perhaps it did, but it left in many forms too. “Look, I wish I was better at not caring. And, actually, I’ve worked fucking hard at not caring. Except then I started caring and look where it’s got me.”

“Where has it got you?” she asked gently. “If you mean on the phone with me at two in the morning, that’s been a constant of both our lives for as long as I can remember.”

“Bridge, when we’re on our deathbeds, I hope the last thing we do is ring each other. But I kind of meant Oliver.”

“Yes, what happened? This article has nothing to do with him.”

“I know, but”—I tried to assemble my thoughts, which remained stubbornly unassembled—“he was nice to me, and that made me feel safe, and maybe not worthless. And so I got all soft and happy and shit. And then this happened and I couldn’t cope. And it’s going to keep happening, and I’m going to keep not being able to cope as long as I’m trying to live like a normal person.”

Bridget let out a long, sad sigh. “I love you, Luc, and that does sound terrible. But I don’t think ‘make yourself miserable’ is the one-size-fits-all solution you think it is.”

“It’s worked so far.”

“Do you really believe you’d have felt better about that article if you’d read it alone in a flat full of empty Pringles tubes?”

“Well, at least I wouldn’t have had to break up with someone through a bathroom door.”

“You didn’t have to break up with him. You chose to break up with him.”

I ground my forehead against the tiles. “What else was I supposed to do?”

“Well, this might be quite a radical notion.” I could always tell when Bridge was making a huge effort not to sound cross with me. I was telling it right now. “But did it at all occur to you that you could have told him something upsetting had happened, and then have a conversation about it?”

“No.”

“Do you not think maybe that might have been a good idea? Do you not think maybe that might have helped?”

“It’s not so simple.” Shit, I was crying again. “Not for me.”

“It could be, Luc. You just have to let it.”

“Yes, but I don’t know how. I saw this thing in the paper, and suddenly I felt as if I’d spent the last month wandering around with all my clothes off, and I hadn’t even noticed.”

“But you liked being with Oliver.”

“I did,” I snuffled. “I really did. But it’s not worth this.”

She made a supportively confused noise. “I don’t understand. What this? The article would have come out anyway. And you can’t break up with someone so you don’t have to break up with him.”

“No, it’s neither of those. It’s both of those. It’s this whole big everything. Fuck, I’m such a fuckup.”

“You’re not a fuckup, Luc. You sometimes do fucked-up things. But, and I mean this in the nicest possible way, I still don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

I tugged at the ragged edge of my nail with my teeth. “I told you, it’s everything. I can’t… I’m not… Relationships. I can’t relationships. Not anymore.”

“There’s not a magic formula,” she said. “It’s hard for all of us—you’ve seen how many times I’ve messed it up—but you just have to keep trying.”

Sliding the rest of the way down the wall, I curled up on the bathroom floor, with the phone tucked against my shoulder. “It’s not that. It’s…bigger than that. It’s…”

“It’s what?”

“It’s me.” I had that creeping nausea again that isn’t quite about your body. “I hate how being with someone makes me feel.”

There was a little pause. Then Bridge asked, “How do you mean?”

“Like I’ve left the gas on.”

“Um. I’m sort of glad you can’t see my face now. Because I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I did that thing where you pull your knees and elbows in, and try to get so small you disappear. “Oh, you know. Like I’m going to come home one day and my whole world will have burned down.”

“Well”—she made a pained sound—“I don’t really know what to say to that.”

“That’s because there’s nothing you can say. It’s just the way it is.”

“Okay,” she announced, with the unwarranted confidence of a World War I general sending his men over the top, “I’ve got things to say.”

“Bridge…”

“No, listen. There is actually a choice here. And the choice is, either you never trust anybody ever again, and pretend that stops people hurting you when clearly it doesn’t. Or, um, don’t do that. And maybe your house will burn down. But, at least you’ll be warm. And probably the next place will be better. And come with an induction hob.”

I couldn’t tell whether Bridget’s strategy of distracting me from my problems by being odd was deliberate or not. “I think you’ve drifted from ‘giving me a pep talk’ into ‘advocating arson.’”

“I’m advocating taking a chance on a nice man who you’re clearly into and who’ll treat you well. And if you think that’s arson, then yay, arson.”

“But I’ve already dumped him.”

“Then undump him.”

“It’s not that—”

“If you say ‘It’s not that simple’ one more time, I’m going to get in an Uber, come over there, and poke you sharply in the ribs.”

I gave another weird weepy laugh. “Don’t call an Uber. Their business practices are unethical.”

“The point is, this is all fixable. If you want to be with Oliver, you can be with Oliver.”

“But should he be with me, though? I mean, he drove me all the way to Lancashire to see my dad, stood up to my dad for me, drove me all the way home again, and then I broke up with him through a bathroom door.”

“I agree,” conceded Bridget, “that wasn’t ideal. And you probably hurt his feelings quite badly. But, ultimately, whether he wants to be with you is his decision.”

“And you don’t think maybe he’ll decide not to go out with the crying man in the toilet?”