When We Were Young

by Elin Annalise

  I stare at him, feel my heart pound. That’s it? He just wants to say he’s missed me? Nothing about a second chance—and maybe that’s the only reason I messaged him about finding his album, believing that if I see him face-to-face, then he’ll realize we have to be together. I mean, sure, I didn’t really think anything would happen, not when I thought he was with Celine.

  But he’s not with her now. And we’re sitting together.

  I wait and stare into his beautiful eyes, wait for him to say it.

  But doesn’t. His mouth stays still, and he rubs my hands between his.

  Nothing.

  I nod and swallow quickly. “I’ve missed you too.”

  And I need to leave, leave before this hurts me anymore.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Oscar

  I lean in closer to Emma and ask her about her life now. She tells me about her job in car sales, and I think that’s odd for a media and literature graduate and for someone who drives a Skoda that’s so obviously on its last legs, but I don’t say anything. I just listen.

  She tells me how she’s moving back in with her parents, but she doesn’t give a reason, and I don’t want to pry. This just feels too fragile, and I don’t want this to break, to end.

  I don’t want her to go.

  Having her sitting next to me feels right. So right. And I want to talk, talk properly, but this conversation—it’s not right. It feels superficial, talking about these surface-level details of her life, when what I really want to talk about is her. Is us.

  I want to know if she’s still a little scared of thunder. If she’s still got two cacti on her windowsill. If she still keeps a diary and believes it is bad luck to write her entries in black ink.

  I want to ask how her family is. How her mother is after her recent operation.

  All this time, I’ve remained friends with Emma on social media, in a vain attempt to keep up with her, to know what she’s going through. But as I sit here and ask her about her work—a job she clearly doesn’t like—it just all feels so unimportant.

  And I need to know the important things about her again.

  I need to know her.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” My voice breaks as I ask the question, and she turns toward me.

  She shakes her head. “No. I’m not seeing anyone.”

  She reaches toward the coffee table, puts her mug there. Without a coaster. But I shake that thought away and deposit mine there too.

  She turns more to me, and I think I see it in her eyes. The familiarity. The longing. And something else.

  I reach out, for her hand.

  She puts her fingers in mine. Her touch is electrifying—still. Even after all these years.

  “Do you think...?” I swallow hard, and then I take her hands, envelop them in mine. And I feel it—the fragility of this. I can’t go quickly. I can’t. I don’t want to lose her. Not again. I can’t.

  And I won’t—I won’t make any mistakes this time. And she must want to see me, because I said she could mail the album back, but she said she’d be in the area anyway and could drop it off no problem. But I live two hours away from Rose Haven, the seaside town she still lives at, and Wednesday is always her day off. A day that she usually uses to relax—it’s always Wednesday when she posts book photos on her IG, captioning them with something about how nice it is to have a day to relax and do nothing but rest and read. And today she’s here—having driven all the way over when she could’ve been relaxing. So, something tells me, she must want to see me properly. Because...

  I breathe deeply, and I swear I can feel her pulse in her hands. “I’ve missed you.”

  My words hang between us for what seems like an eon, but then she nods.

  “I’ve missed you too.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Emma

  I should’ve just mailed the album back. Got it done with, without seeing him at all. Because now...now I’m feeling things. Things he isn’t feeling.

  I swallow quickly and look at my hands, still in his. “I’m going to have to go, sorry.” I wince at the apology, but that’s me, always apologizing when there’s nothing to apologize for.

  “So soon?” Oscar looks surprised.

  “I was just dropping it off, really. Thanks for the tea.” I pull my hands from his and stand up. My back clicks a little.

  I stare at the hard lines of his face. He’s filled out a fair bit, but it’s only noticeable close up. I want to touch his face, I feel that urge within me.

  But I don’t. I can’t.

  I brush down my jeans—I don’t know why—then reach for my jumper.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  His voice makes me jump, not because it’s loud, but because of the emotion in it.

  I turn to look at him, and he rubs his ear.

  “Breaking up with you was the worst thing I ever did. And all those things afterward.”

  All those girls...

  “Why?” I whisper.

  He presses his lips together, then exhales. For a long time, I don’t think he’s going to answer. It’s like a thousand different things are going on in his head, and they’re things I’m not privy to. Things that aren’t open to me.

  I used to be able to read him so easily. We knew what each other were thinking, all the time.

  “I’m so sorry. I—” He shakes his head. “I want to explain it, have all these reasons, things I can say to make you understand. But I can’t make you understand, and there are no reasons. Not really. Just that I was a horrible person. And there are things I could make up, things I could say were the reasons why I did it—but it would just be lies, because I don’t know why I did it... All I know is it was the biggest mistake of my life, doing that to you.”

  I gulp and nod, feel a tear spill. He reaches out, and his thumb wipes it away, and the contact is enough.

  Enough to make me feel it. Feel what we have.

  Because it never went away.

  It just got wrapped up, buried.

  But it’s still there, still accessible, if I want to unwrap it all, find it again. Find Oscar.

  “Emma, you still mean a lot to me. An awful lot.”

  And I wait for him to say it—that he loves me.

  But he doesn’t.

  And I can’t do this again. I can’t forever be waiting for him to say it, if he’s just going to break my heart again. I need to move on. I shouldn’t have come here.

  I take a step toward the door.

  “Emma, please.” His voice cracks, and I look at him. “I was a fool, I really was. But I need you.”

  I turn on him. “Eight years have passed, Oscar. Eight years. You’re just saying this because you’re lonely.”

  “No. I’m saying it because it’s true—and you’re here. This means something. I can tell. We belong together.”

  I gulp, and then I’m crying. Big, messy tears. “No, everything that’s happened... Oscar, too much has happened, and I don’t know if we can...”

  “Please.” His eyes are dark. “Let me prove this to you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Oscar

  The windows glow a pale yellow—the soft winter light that Grandmother always loved—and it catches Emma’s hair, and she looks beautiful. The curves of her lips are soft, and I imagine pressing my mouth to hers, breathing her in, inhaling her.

  “I’m going to have to go, sorry.” Emma’s voice startles me.

  “So soon?” My heart pounds. No. She can’t leave. Not yet!

  “I was just dropping it off, really. Thanks for the tea.” She pulls her hands from mine, then stands and looks at me before brushing down her jeans and reaching for her jumper.

  And she’s going to go, walk out of this house, and I won’t see her again.

  And I can’t lose her.

  My chest tightens, and I look at her. Her hands shake as she holds the jumper, and she’s not looking at me. Her gaze is on the doorway.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

&n
bsp; She turns to look at me, and my chest feels fluttery.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, and I think of how well Emma’s fit in mine. My heart squeezes and I rub my ear. “Breaking up with you was the worst thing I ever did. And all those things afterwards.”

  I grimace and look at her, see the hurt in her eyes. Hurt I never wanted to see. Not at all. Not again.

  “Why?” she whispers, and it’s the question I’ve asked myself so many times since.

  Why did I really do it?

  Because Jared and my mates said I shouldn’t just be with one girl? Because university was a time for fun?

  Because I was horny and there were girls who lived in my building who made eyes at me and it was easier just to go across to their rooms than traipse across half the city?

  I stare at Emma, see the tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I—” I shake my head. “I want to explain it, have all these reasons, things I can say to make you understand. But I can’t make you understand, and there are no reasons. Not really. Just that I was a horrible person. And there are things I could make up, things I could say were the reasons why I did it—but it would just be lies, because I don’t know why I did it... All I know is it was the biggest mistake of my life, doing that to you.”

  A tear rolls down her face, and I reach out to wipe it away. It’s instinct, and her skin feels soft, and she’s staring at me. Those crystal blue eyes so clear.

  And it’s there—that feeling in me. The one I denied for so long, just pretended it wasn’t there, because I was scared.

  “Emma, you still mean a lot to me. An awful lot.” The words rush out of me, a huge expulsion of feeling and truth.

  And it’s good to say it. It really is. But I need to say more. Need to tell her I love her and—

  Anger flashes in her eyes, and she takes a step toward the door.

  “Emma, please.” My voice cracks, and I curse under my breath before returning my gaze to her. I have to get her to understand. “I was a fool, I really was. But I need you.”

  She glares at me. “Eight years have passed, Oscar. Eight years. You’re just saying this because you’re lonely.”

  Lonely? She thinks this is what this is?

  “No. I’m saying it because it’s true—and you’re here. This means something.” My voice shakes. “I can tell. We belong together.”

  She gulps, and tears run down her face. “No, everything that’s happened... Oscar, too much has happened, and I don’t know if we can...”

  No. No. No! This isn’t how this is supposed to go! And the voice in my head is screaming at me to tell her that I love her—only she’s not going to believe me if she thinks I’m desperate.

  “Please.” I have to make her know I won’t hurt her again and I have to make her understand my love is real, is there. “Let me prove this to you.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Emma

  “I need to show you something,” Oscar says. “Wait here.”

  Before I can even say anything, he leaves the room and I hear him bounding up the stairs, most likely two at a time. He always ascended stairs like that at university, at my building, at his. The memory makes me smile, but I catch myself. What am I doing?

  Nothing good can come from this.

  I should leave.

  I pull my jumper on and head to the front door. Just as I get there, I hear his voice from upstairs.

  “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You go back to sleep.”

  Go back to sleep?

  My heart hammers against my chest. Someone’s up there? But Celine left him. That’s what he said... Unless she didn’t? Unless she’s still with him? In this house...right now?

  A strange feeling takes over me, and I find myself on the stairs. I know why I need to look, need to see—because knowing Celine’s still here will mean I get my answer. That I will know for certain that what we had is over.

  It’ll mean I can move on.

  And I need to. My heart aches.

  I climb the stairs, my chest jittery. Nausea washes over me.

  There are three doors on the landing. Only one of them is open, and Oscar’s murmurings are coming from that room, so I head in there. I get ready to see Celine—maybe she’s ill, in bed and he thought I never needed to know and—

  Oscar turns to me, his arms cradling something close to his chest.

  “A kitten?” I stare at Oscar and the fluffy bundle in his arms. “Oh my goodness.”

  He nods, eyes wide. “Six of them.” He jerks his head to the right, and I see, on the bed there’s a huge tabby cat and five more kittens. “Took her in only a couple months ago and never expected to become a father.” He chuckles. “It’s stressful.”

  But he’s smiling.

  “Sorry, I’ll just be a moment,” he says.

  “It’s okay.” I watch him as he talks to the kitten, smiling, before he puts the baby back with its siblings and mother. And he’s gentle—so gentle. My chest lightens, and I feel mesmerized.

  “Okay.” He walks to the side of the room, where there’s a wardrobe. “Sorry about that,” he says as he opens the drawer at the bottom. “That’s Nicky, that one. He always wakes up and wants attention the moment I’m in here. Anyway, this is what I want to show you.”

  He pulls out a book. A photo album. Another one?

  I stare at him. My head spins. He had two copies of the album of his parents? He didn’t need me to bring this one over?

  He hands it to me, and I take it.

  “Open it.”

  I frown a little, then sit at the end of the bed. The mother cat watches me with a little curiosity and a little suspicion.

  I open the album. The first page—it’s us. Me and Oscar. A photo from some party. I peer at it closer, can’t even remember it. But we went to a lot of parties.

  I glance up at him, then back at the album as I turn the page.

  The next one is just of me. I’m at the library, studying. He took the picture, and I never knew about it.

  Next to the library photo, is an old bus ticket. It’s crumpled, but it’s been smoothed out.

  “It’s from the first time I met your parents,” Oscar says. “Remember? I had to get the bus over, and you were waiting for me at the stop.”

  I nod, a strange feeling in my chest, and then I’m turning the pages. There aren’t many more photos—especially not of the two of us—but the pages are packed full of tickets and doodles that I did in our seminars when I was bored and imagining being with him later. There’s a cinema ticket and a leaflet from some tourist attraction in Paris, one we went to on our first holiday together.

  “I’m sure it’s this way,” Oscar says, pointing to the right.

  I peer at the map, squinting at it. “No, it’s got to be that way. Look.” I point at the street sign behind us and try to pronounce the name.

  Oscar laughs at my attempt, and then I’m laughing too.

  People step around us, and the crowds herd us closer together. I touch his arm, and he’s grinning, and I’m smiling, nuzzling in close to him, the directions and the map forgotten.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, makes me jump.

  I pull it out, see that Jenna’s face has filled the screen.

  “Woah,” Oscar says. “That is one scary caller ID.”

  My lips turn up at the corners. The photo was one I snapped of Jenna at our Halloween party last year. She was dressed as Frankenstein’s monster, and I was Dr. Frankenstein.

  My phone vibrates with more rings.

  I decline the call and look back at the album. I run my finger over the embossed surface of a Christmas card. The first Christmas card I got him.

  “You kept all these?” I stare at him, and he sits next to me. So close. Again. I look at his hands, resting on his legs. Stare at his knuckles, remember how I used to run my fingers over them.

  One of the kittens starts mewing plaintively, and Oscar glances at the cats, but then settles his gaze on me.

  “Of course,” he says. �
�I didn’t want to forget you. Not ever—and I’ve never stopped thinking about you.”

  A warm feeling floods me, spreading from my core outward. And he’s so close.

  “I’m so, so sorry, Emma. If I could go back and stop myself breaking up with you, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Because I love you. I always have, and I always will.”

  My breath catches in my throat. Those words—the ones I wanted to hear eight years ago. And now he’s saying them.

  He loves me.

  Oscar loves me. Still?

  He pulls me to him, the deepest of hugs, a hug my body has craved for, for so long. I cling to him, and we’re shaking, and his breaths are ragged against the side of my face.

  When we pull apart, his eyes are damp.

  He smiles, but it is a smile tinted by the past.

  The black kitten with the white patch mews loudly as he climbs onto my lap. Needle-sharp claws. I wince, and then Oscar’s lifting the kitten up.

  “Can I stroke him?” I ask.

  Oscar nods, and I reach out to pet the kitten. The cutest kitten I’ve ever seen. Huge eyes stare at me. The kitten mews and then starts to squirm and Oscar deposits him back with his mother and siblings.

  “Can we start again?” he asks. “Can you forgive me?”

  I reach for his hand. Can we start again? Can I forgive him? My body’s telling me yes, but what about my head? What about all this time? He broke me before.

  I try to calm myself, ignore the heat flooding me, because he’s still right next to me.

  And we can do this, can’t we?

  I stare at his face, inches from mine. Those lips—will they still taste how I remember?

  My chest tightens, and I want this. I want him. I never stopped wanting him.

  I nod. “Yes.” My word is barely a whisper, but, the moment I’ve said it, he relaxes, and then I’m leaning in toward him.

  His lips are soft against mine, barely brushing my mouth at first. His arms go around me, circling me protectively in the way he knows I like.