Ride or Die. Khurrum Rahman

      ‘Can’t find any. There’s a couple of glasses in the sink, but they need washing.’ He waited for me to reply, and when I stared back at him in open-mouthed disbelief, he said, ‘It’s cool. I’ll wash them.’ And with that he disappeared again. My fingernails dug into the arms of my chair, and my heartbeat started to race again, my head started to pound.

      I heard the tap come on, then I heard him hiss, ‘Fuck! Hot!’ He clattered around for a while, longer than he would need to wash one glass. I got to my feet and peered around the door and into the kitchen. Jay had taken his coat off and placed it on the worktop, and he was bent over the dishwasher stacking days-old dirty dishes.

      I backed away as he closed the dishwasher door. A moment later he returned, a clean tumbler in his hand which he placed on the coffee table. I held his gaze. He tried to return it, but I could see the uncertainty in his eyes as he stood awkwardly in front of me.

      ‘Do you mind?’ Jay asked, nodding at the bottle. When I didn’t answer, he poured himself a small shot and sat on the edge of the family sofa which I still hadn’t sat on since.

      He took a sip. It started small and then developed into a gulp, possibly for courage. He made a sickly face before wiping the back of his mouth with his hand. I reached for the neck of the bottle and Jay covered the top of his glass with the flat of his hand.

      ‘Can’t. Driving,’ he said before realising that I was pouring one for myself. ‘Oh, right, yeah, you go ahead.’

      ‘What do you want?’ I asked.

      ‘Just…’ He shrugged. ‘Wanted to see you. See how you are.’

      ‘Why?’

      Jay took his time finding the right words and, unable to bring them to his lips, he said, ‘You know why?’

      My hand shook as I poured another for myself. ‘You think that you owe me something. Is that it?’

      ‘Yeah. Yeah, I do.’

      ‘As if it all happened because of you?’ I said. It sounded harsh, and maybe I wanted it to.

      Jay’s eyes wandered round our living room, stopping at the canvas of Jack dressed as a sheriff on a rocking horse. ‘Is that how you feel?’ he asked, carefully.

      ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s how I feel.’

      The words had left my mouth without regret and without meaning. I watched him, nodding his head in agreement, his eyes going back again to the canvas of Jack. He blinked away the tears.

      My words were designed to cut him, and they did.