CHLOE

"Chloe. Chloe. Chloe!"

I gasp, opening my eyes to bright sunlight, my arms pushing away thin air in front of me. For a moment I am disorientated while the fragments of my dream dissolve slowly and the road in front of me comes into focus. We are travelling along a narrow country lane, open fields either side of us. My heart is hammering and I am panting heavily, my hands stretched out before me. In the driver's seat Harry is alternating between staring at me with a look of alarm and glancing at the road. Self-consciously, I lower my hands to my lap and swallow uncomfortably, my mouth dry and parched. I feel sick to my stomach.

"You alright?" Harry asks, his eyes wider than usual. "What the fuck were you dreaming about?"

I take a deep breath, trying to shake the image of Chris' mangled, bloody face from my mind; the manifestation of my subconscious fear. I know. I know these dreams are trying to tell me something that I am afraid to uncover. I am terrified of what they are trying to reveal. But I know the answer is so closely within reach now, and will not stay locked away for much longer. Another wave of nausea crashes over me and I ball my hands into fists, fighting it silently until it passes. "Nothing."

Instantly I regret my dismissal. He turns his face back to the road, his jaw set. Before I can organise my mind to think about explaining myself to him, he mutters, "You know, considering you wanted to talk, you're still not giving much away."

His words hit home. "I'm sorry," I apologise, with as much sincerity as I can load into my voice. "It's just..." 

I hesitate, knowing I owe him my honesty but still afraid of showing him too much, thanks to the years of being ignored and disregarded by everyone around me. He says nothing, his eyes still on the road, but I can tell he is listening.

"I'm just not very good at opening up to people," I confess in a rush. "Ever since I came to London I tried my best to blend into the background so nobody would look at me. I just sort of became invisible. I felt like an inconvenience. When someone spoke to me I always worried they were doing it out of duty rather than interest, so I would never really talk in detail for fear of boring others. I got in the habit of just saying I was fine, because no one really wanted to hear the truth."

"I want to hear the truth," he interrupts.

The blunt simplicity of this statement brings a lump to my throat, and with it the realisation that he is the first person since my parents died to take any genuine interest in me at all. It takes every ounce of mental and emotional strength I have not to fall apart in front of him. I stare blindly out of the window, blinking rapidly and swallowing hard. Before I can answer him, our unfamiliar surroundings register in my mind and I turn to him, frowning.

"Wait a second - where the hell are we? How long was I asleep?"

He looks at me with utter confusion and shrugs his shoulders. "How the fuck should I know? You've been out about two hours."

"And you've just been driving this whole time?" I demand.

His expression is one of mild annoyance. "Well, yeah. Apart from when I stopped in a layby to switch the plates. What else was I supposed to do? You said to keep driving. So I kept driving."

I can feel my mouth twitching at the corners. Harry's inability to think for himself never fails to amaze me.

"What are you smirking at?" he demands, looking so affronted that I can't stop the laugh that is bubbling up inside me. He stares at me as if I have grown another head while I dissolve into giggles next to him. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, nothing," I wheeze. "You're just very... compliant. Obedient," I clarify, when he raises one eyebrow in bewilderment.

It is at least ten minutes before we pass a road sign to indicate where in the world we are, and after a hurried consultation of the map I conclude we are towards the bottom end of the Yorkshire Dales and heading south. 

"We're going to need fuel soon," Harry mentions, his eyes flicking to the gauge on the dashboard. "We might want to think about heading towards a town or something where we can find a petrol station. And I'm starving."

I am reluctant to go anywhere near civilisation where our stolen number plate could be tracked but I also know we won't get very far without putting some fuel in the car. At Harry's admission of hunger my stomach has emitted a distinct growl, reminding me that the car is not the only thing that requires fuel. I direct Harry through a tiny village called Grassington and out the other side to a larger town called Skipton where we eventually find a Tesco garage, and can fill the car up. I keep my head down when I run inside the kiosk to pay, and take it upon myself to grab enough food and water to last us a couple of days while I'm there. Once back in the car, I use the atlas to navigate us south out of Skipton and onto the country lanes again. The open countryside stretches for miles either side of us, with not a soul to be seen for sometimes half an hour at a time. I feel sick from staring down at the map for so long, but it is worth the nausea to take a route that will avoid being recognised on any kind of CCTV. A quick toilet break is taken in a tiny country pub in the middle of the Peak District, and our sandwiches are munched in the car in a layby. It is early evening, when we have been travelling for around seven hours and are somewhere in the vicinity of Cambridge, that Harry finally asks me what I know has been on the tip of his tongue since I brushed him off earlier: "Are you ready to tell me about your dream yet?"

Immediately my stomach clenches and my heart skips more than a couple of beats. For a second I consider brushing him off again, but my conscience needles me. Harry has shared so much with me. I can't shut him out any longer.

"I've had a few," I confess, closing my eyes as it is easier for now not to look at him while I speak. "Nightmares, I mean. Weird ones. Sick ones."

"Sick how?" 

He doesn't know it, but his voice is so smooth and deep that with my eyes closed and nothing else to focus on, it has an instant calming effect.

"I dream about dead bodies. About Chris' dead body. Although sometimes it isn't clear that he's dead, because he's moving or talking. And I'm drawn to him, but when I get close to him I realise his flesh is rotting, or his head is caved in. It's horrific."

"Jeez, Chloe," he murmurs. "That's some dark shit."

"I know." I can't resist opening my eyes. He is driving with one hand on the wheel and one hand tucked between his legs, staring ahead at the road. I can see that his eyes are wider than usual, his brow creased in concern.

"Sometimes I'm trying to run away," I continue, my confidence growing. "And when I wake up I always think my dream is trying to tell me something. Like I'm running away from something."

"Well, you are," he frowns. "You're on the run from the police, with me."

"I know that," I nod patiently. "But more and more lately I've realised there's something else. Something I'm not remembering. Something in my past, maybe. I think the nightmares about Chris are my mind's way of telling me that he's not the only thing I'm running from."

Harry's eyes widen further. "Like what?"

I sigh, closing my eyes again. "That's just it - I don't know. And if I'm being really honest with you, I tend not to think about it too much, because I have a horrible feeling that whatever it is that's buried is really going to mess me up in the head."

Harry is quiet for a minute, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, apparently deep in thought. "So you think you've buried a traumatic event in your past, and now it's trying to come to the surface?"

"When you say it like that it just sounds like I'm being dramatic, and seeking attention," I sigh.

"What - no, I didn't mean it to sound like that," he says, in a tone so gentle it sends a shiver through my body. "I'm just trying to get it clear in my head. I mean... not to sound rude or anything... your parents died when you were a kid. That's bound to fuck anyone up. Do you think maybe it's unresolved issues from all that?"

"It's possible," I concede. "I don't really know. All I do know is, the last few weeks have been pretty traumatic for a lot of people. Maybe all that was just the catalyst that has brought all my own issues to a head."

"You're not alone there," he remarks softly, and my eyes meet his again before he looks away, no doubt lost in the memory of his own catastrophic childhood.

"No," I sigh, and I reach over to him and take his free hand in mine, squeezing his fingers and smiling as he squeezes mine back. "I really think," I begin gently, "that you would benefit from some professional counselling. I think you would be surprised at how much it would help you come to terms with your past."

"I don't do all that sharing caring shit," he says gruffly, pulling his hand away from mine.

"I know you don't. But take it from someone who has been there. It really does help."

"You had counselling?" The look of surprise on his face is evident.

"After my parents died, yes. It was only a few sessions but it helped me to understand my grief. There are different stages to grieving, all of them normal. I learned to accept them and to deal with them. I learnt how to move on."

"I have moved on."

His blindness to his own problems would almost be funny, if it wasn't so heartbreaking. "Harry, I don't want to sound horrible, but you haven't moved on. You have so much stuff inside your head that you need to release. You need to learn how to share your emotions. You need to learn how to trust people."

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

"You were sharing your home, your bed, your child, with Sofía. Yet you said you never told her anything about what happened to you when you were younger."

Again he looks as though he is about to speak and then changes his mind.

"I'm not saying this to criticise you. I'm not saying it to be a bitch, or to nag. I'm saying it because I want you to be happy. And you need people around you who love you. You need people to trust."

"I trust you," he mutters, never taking his eyes off the road.

"Because you didn't have any other option," I point out, bluntly. "You and I were thrown together. You were scared I was going to shop you to the police, so begrudgingly you let me tag along on this crazy ride. From that moment on you had no choice but to trust me."

"Yeah... well... you never let me down, did you? You proved yourself."

"And think of how many other people who would prove themselves if only you would let them."

"What do you mean?" He is frowning again. "Like who?"

"Like Sofía?" I suggest, my stomach fluttering as we approach the one subject that frightens me above all.

"That ship has sailed," he declares, darkly.

"Why has it?"

"Because she kept me talking on the phone while the police were there, no doubt tracing the call. She fucking sold me out. And she knows you're with me. I was on my last chance with her before all this. There's no going back for us now."

I should feel happy that he is so sure his relationship with his girlfriend is over, but I can't ignore the bitterness and despair in his voice as he talks about her and the demise of their life together.

"What if there was a way back? What if she's working with the police to get you home safely?"

"So they can chuck me in prison you mean?"

"What if it's not about that, though? What if she still loves you and wants to work through your problems?"

"Problems like me being a murderer? Problems like me facing a twenty five year stretch?" His hands are clenched around the steering wheel, his knuckles taut and white, and the muscles in his neck are tensed, protruding from beneath the collar of his tshirt. I can almost feel the stress radiating from his entire being.

"You're talking like you're the only one at fault," I say softly, resting my hand on his leg. He doesn't pull away this time.

"I am the one at fault. I fuck everything up, it's just what I do." 

"Then you need to break the cycle. I've seen a completely different side to you as we've got to know each other. You're not a bad person, Harry. But it comes back to what I said earlier: you need help to battle your demons. They're what lie at the root of all this. And if Sofía knew half of what you've been through, I bet she would think very differently about you."

Harry doesn't say anything but keeps his eyes fixed resolutely ahead. I stare at his face; the anguish and despair are clearly visible, etched into the stark lines of his frown. He doesn't have to tell me outright that he still loves Sofía - it is painfully obvious for anyone to see.

"We need to figure out a way to get you back home," I ponder, gazing out of the side window at the fields that are nothing more than a blur of green, wishing there was a simple way out of this mess that wouldn't involve a life sentence.

"I've been trying to work that out since day one," he mutters. "But unfortunately you can't batter the life out of someone, go on the run for a month and expect to walk back in the door and make a cup of tea like nothing happened."

An image as clear as day of Chris lying on the ground in the dirt flashes before my eyes without warning and I take an involuntary gasp that I manage to disguise as a cough when Harry looks over at me suspiciously. The smell of his blood has filled my nostrils again and I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to scream, be sick, or both.

"What about you?" Harry asks suddenly, and I force the nauseating image of Chris's body from my mind and focus on Harry's smooth skin and deep green eyes. "What will you do when all this is over? Where do you see yourself?"

I shake my head slowly, a million thoughts now flickering through my mind, all of them more pleasurable that the previous vision. "I don't want to go back to London. I want to go back to Broadstairs. It's where I was happiest. I'd like to go back to college I think, and maybe do a nursing degree one day. I'd like to help people. And I wish I could have a family of my own. That's all I've ever wanted since -" My voice breaks and I stop dead. Harry looks at me sharply again. I take a deep breath, desperate not to give myself away. I don't think I'm ready to share this part of my soul with anyone just yet. "-since I lost my parents," I continue, as smoothly as I can. "It'll never happen. But I just want to feel like someone in this world needs me."

There is a long silence, before Harry says in a strange voice, "I need you." 

Considering he doesn't 'do all that sharing caring shit' he is articulating himself better than ever when it comes to his own feelings. However, he clearly isn't entirely comfortable with revealing his private thoughts, judging by the expression of shy, awkward embarrassment on his face. 

"You need me now," I agree, doing my best not to scrutinise every inch of his face as he opens up to me. "But once we figure out the solution to all this, you won't."

"What do you mean? How can you say that?" He shifts in his seat and rubs the back of his neck with his left hand. 

"Because it's the truth, Harry. You have a life and a family of your own. You have Sofía and you have Dylan. They need you, and you need them. There's no place for me."

"Sofía won't want anything to do with me!" he exclaims, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. "Weren't you listening before?"

"Weren't you?" I counter. "You're adamant your relationship with her is over but it's on her terms, not yours. If she would have you back, you'd be there like a shot."

"I -I don't know that I would."

We stare at each other for a second before Harry tears his gaze from mine to the road again. "Why not?" I whisper.

"Because of you," he answers in a small voice.

"What do you mean, because of me? What difference do I make?" The world seems suddenly to have ground to a halt while I wait for his answer with bated breath.

"You make all the difference," he answers. "You have changed everything."

I feel a rush of dizziness at his words, and fight to keep my face impassive. "Not everything," I croak, my voice catching in my throat. "You have Dylan. He is yours and Sofía's. He is your priority, and always will be. That's how it should be."

Harry doesn't argue with this. He pinches his lip between his thumb and forefinger, his shoulders hunched forward and the line in his forehead so pronounced it looks like someone has carved it into his skin. He says nothing for such a long time I decide the conversation must be over, and revert to starting out of the window again at the evening twilight. 

"It's so fucking complicated."

"I know it is," I half laugh, even though nothing could be funnier than falling in love with a man on the run, wanted for murder, who has a damaged past, a conflicting present and an uncertain future.

"I don't know anything anymore. I never used to bother with feelings, and all that shit. And now, since I fucking killed someone, it's like the floodgates have opened. I'm thinking about all sorts of shit that I never considered before. I'm worrying about people, and the future, and what the fuck is gonna happen to me and everyone I've hurt." He rubs his hand over his face and takes a deep breath in, before slowly releasing it and locking his arms straight in front of him.

"That's a good thing," I reassure him, smiling over at him but he doesn't look at me.

"It's a bit difficult to come to terms with when you've never had these type of thoughts before," he grumbles, and he looks so put out that I can't help but chuckle. "And since we're driving and there's nowhere for you to escape, and we're being all honest with each other and all that shit," he says in a rush, and my stomach performs yet another sickening roll, "are you going to tell me what your deal is with the whole sex thing?"

The frankness of this unexpected question sends my vision a little blurry, and I am forced to grip the sides of my seat to steady myself, a prickly heat breaking through every pore in my skin.

"I'm just going to come out and ask you," he is saying, and I can hear the nervousness in his voice. "And I'm sorry if this sounds insensitive. Were you... did someone, like, do something to you? Without your consent, I mean." 

"No," I hear myself answer, from far away. "I wasn't raped, or assaulted, if that's what you're getting at."

I don't hear his response over the noise in my ears from the blood racing through my veins, pumped by my now pounding heart. I want to tell him, but I don't feel ready. I don't know if I will ever be ready. But, I realise, this is not because I don't trust Harry. My reluctance to talk about what happened is down to my fear of reliving it all again when I have kept it buried for so long. And Harry is the one, the only, person I can trust. 

I take a long, deep breath in, lifting my head to stare at the road in front of the car, forcing my eyes to focus on the horizon and trying to slow my heartrate, to calm my nerves. I can sense Harry looking at me, but I can also tell he is waiting with patience and must realise I am gathering my thoughts and courage before I can speak. 

"I got involved with someone," I begin, my voice trembling, "after I moved to London. I was lonely. I had no friends or family. I was completely on my own. I just needed to be part of a group, to make some friends. He asked me to hang out with him after work one night. So I went to his flat with him and his mates. I ended up having sex with him a couple of times. But it wasn't a nice experience."

I tuck my hands under my legs to stop them from shaking. It is taking everything I have not to turn away from Harry and hide my face, such is the shame and embarrassment I feel.

"Did he hurt you?" Harry asks, in the same gentle tone that makes me skin tingle.

"Not on purpose," I reply, struggling to keep my voice even. I am mortified at discussing these private moments in this way, but I also understand that telling him will help me share the burden I am carrying. "It was my first time, so it was bound to hurt, I suppose." Out of the corner of my eye I can see Harry shaking his head fervently, but he doesn't interrupt me. "He was... rough. Too fast. I didn't enjoy it. But I wanted him to like me and I wanted to fit in, and I was too embarrassed to tell him I didn't like it. I was afraid he would laugh at me, at my inexperience. I didn't want to do it again, but I thought maybe it would get better the more we did it, so I let him. But it didn't get better, and the third time he tried I said no. He pushed it a bit, tried to get me to do other stuff, but I got upset and walked out. We were at a house party, and everyone saw. After that, he told everyone on the estate I was frigid. For a while, every time one of his mates came into the pub they gave me this knowing smile or made some sort of crude comment to me. They got bored of it eventually, but I was just so humiliated that I just cowered every time I saw any of them. I retreated into myself further, and became even more scared to try and make friends in case I became a laughing stock again."

My chest is feeling tight; the weight of my secret squeezing the air out of my lungs. Beside me Harry is nodding sympathetically. He must sense I have reached a natural pause because he says softly, "That must have been fucking horrible. What a dickhead. Who is he? Do I know him?"

"He isn't around anymore," I manage to say. "I haven't seen him in a long while."

"Well at least you don't have to think about it now," Harry offers, with an air of someone who hasn't a clue how to react in this situation but wants to say something positive. 

"I think about it every day," I blurt, a sob rising in my chest. "I haven't stopped thinking about it since the day it happened. It's part of me. Not physically anymore, but mentally; emotionally. I can't forget it, even though I wish I could. It repulses me, but it breaks my heart at the same time. I didn't want it, but I know I'm still grieving for it. How can I miss what I never even had? I don't know how to get rid of these feelings, but I don't want to feel this way anymore. I just want it to be over!"

I am gasping now, my breath coming in short, ragged bursts. My fingers clutch the edges of my seat again and I can feel myself rocking back and forth as the memories come flooding back, one by one: Nausea. Fear. Dread. Nervousness. Embarrassment. Shame. Rejection. Worthlessness. Defeat. 

Harry's face is the picture of bewilderment next to me in the car. "Chloe... are we still talking about the same thing?"

I shake my head blindly, my cheeks wet with tears and my body shaking with uncontrollable sobs. I didn't think I would ever tell anyone. I didn't think I would ever have anyone to tell. After two years of determination to keep this secret, I am now desperate to release it. It has been destroying me from within for so long, but now I know that if I share it, it can no longer consume me.

"What?" he is coaxing, gently but urgently, his voice muffled beneath the ringing in my ears. "What happened? You can tell me. Whatever it is, you can tell me."

"We only did it twice," I choke, my words tumbling out of their own free will. "But we didn't use anything. It was over so quick both times, but it was enough. When I told him I was pregnant he didn't want to know. Told me he didn't want a kid. Told me to get rid of it. And like the stupid, obedient little weakling that I am, I did as he said. I wasn't strong enough to say no. I let him bully me, like I do everyone. I think about it every day, wondering what it would have looked like, whether it was a boy or a girl. I got rid of my baby, and I have to live with that decision for the rest of my life. Because not only did I effectively kill my own child, I also developed an infection afterwards. I didn't want to make a fuss so I didn't get it checked out straight away. By the time I did, it had caused too much internal scarring and now I can't ever have children. All because I was too much of a coward to stand up to him!"

My voice has risen to a shriek, I am barely making any sense, and I don't know if I am even coherent. I can't see in front of me; the tears are falling thick and fast. I feel the car veer to the left and slow down, I hear a screech of gravel and a click of a seatbelt. Then I feel Harry's strong arms around me protecting me from the world, the warmth of his embrace soothing my inner turmoil, the softness of his hand stroking my hair as I release the pain I have kept inside me all this time. 

But still I can't rid myself of the overwhelming guilt, because still I haven't told him the full truth. Instead I chose ambiguity over clarity, using his unwavering trust in me to my own advantage rather than being honest and open with him, like he has been with me.

I don't deserve him, and I never did. 

---***---

Sorry this update is late! It's been an eventful weekend. We've all had summer colds which turned into a cough for two of us, so we ended up taking the whole family for Covid tests just to be on the safe side. Thankfully they were all negative, but it was a worrying 24 hours while we waited for the results. My heart goes out to anyone affected by this virus.

Anyway, this ended up being a rather long chapter, with Chloe finally telling Harry (most of) her story! I'd love to know what you think of it, so please leave me a comment and let me know! And a vote is always appreciated too xx