Free Run Away by Laura Salters Page B

with Kathy, and so forced herself to brush her hair, apply some dried-­up mascara she’d found at the back of a bedroom drawer, and pick out the nicest day dress she owned: a floaty, buttercup-­yellow affair with a delicate daisy print. Why was she so worried what Sam’s mum would think of her? She spritzed some floral, overly sugary perfume onto her neck—­in case Kathy hugged her—­and borrowed a dainty black leather watch from her mother’s impeccably organized jewelry box. Her heart twitched as her fingertips grazed the woven bracelet that sat next to it on her wrist. She pressed her eyes firmly together until the moment of intense grief had subsided.
    It wasn’t even eleven yet.
    Time to check my e-­mails once more .
    Still nothing.
    K A T H Y K I N G F I S H E R W A S quite obviously grieving. Kayla tried not to feel embarrassed that the middle-­aged woman sitting opposite her in a busy coffee shop was sobbing loudly into a sodden handkerchief, drowning out the clattering noise of the cappuccino maker grinding coffee beans and ferociously frothing milk. She tentatively handed Kathy the paper napkin that had been placed underneath her lemon and poppy seed muffin.
    Am I grieving wrong? It hasn’t even been a month yet . Why am I not this publicly distraught? Shouldn’t I be weeping into whatever nearby material I can find, crying Sam’s name repeatedly through a dry and sticky mouth? Or dabbing at my haggard face to try and soak up some of my never-­ending tears?
    Dr. Myers insisted everyone dealt with loss differently, and Kayla understood that. But she couldn’t help but feel guilty that she wasn’t as overtly upset as she should be. It wasn’t that she didn’t love or miss the ­people she’d lost. It was more that she couldn’t connect with the deaths, couldn’t make enough sense of them to even begin to feel that kind of sadness.
    She found herself looking at her mum’s watch. Eight minutes. Kathy Kingfisher hadn’t spoken a word since saying, “Hello hi Kayla nice to meet you I’m Kathy would you like a coffee or maybe some cake,” all in one sentence, as if trying to get the words out before she had a breakdown. Which she did, three-­point-­five seconds later. Kayla had bought the coffee and the cake, and sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair in equally uncomfortable silence ever since. For eight minutes.
    Kayla looked around and saw a queue, as there always was at a busy chain like this, waiting to order, a generic soundtrack of inoffensive, devoid-­of-­personality music playing in the background. The controlled temperature was on the cooler end of the thermostat—­lower temperatures made you feel hungrier and more likely to overindulge in cake, her coffee shop expert of a father had taught her. The air smelled of espresso and the warm rain clinging to customers as they traipsed in from outside.
    They were in Newcastle city center, as Kathy had driven up from Yorkshire that morning to chat with Kayla about what Sam had been like in his final days and weeks. She’d initiated contact with Kayla by asking Escaping Grey for her number, and considering the circumstances, they’d waived their confidentiality rules. Kayla was glad they had. She felt less alone, knowing she wasn’t the only one suffering in the aftermath.
    Through a line of mothers with prams and a group of teenagers with vibrant hair colors, Kayla caught the tattooed male barista staring at her. She looked away quickly, guiltily, before remembering she actually wasn’t in a relationship and flirtatious eye contact was by no means off-­limits. She also realized the poor guy was probably just concerned for her companion’s mental well-­being. She shot him an apologetic glance, but he’d turned his back to her.
    Kayla cleared her throat. No reaction. “Kathy? Would you like me to get you anything? Some water or some fresh tissues?”
    Kathy looked up, as if noticing her for the first time, and sniffed deeply. “Oh