Forty-Six
Back at home, I shower and dress in clean clothes. I have to hunt around in my wardrobe to find clothes that aren’t Constance. I discover, stuffed in a bin bag, a bunch of my old tee-shirts, including one Jed had made for me a couple of years back.
“You’re the magic that holds the sky up from the ground.” It’s from a Ben Folds’ song, of course. One of my favourites. “Magic”.
It smells like dust, but I pull it over my head anyway. It’s comfortable. None of my “Viggo” clothes feel comfortable.
With a pang in my belly I realise this shirt feels like Jed. It feels like safety and comfort and home. And magic.
I slump down at my desk. Beezus nips at my feet. I let my eyes drift over the piles of books that litter the table in front of me. School books and books Viggo has lent me.
