by Holly Miller
“Things like accidents, if I can get there in time.” He swallows. “Stuff like cancer’s harder. Or impossible.”
I take his hand, feel the weight of his burden as if it were my own.
* * *
• • •
Much later, once we’re back at the house, Joel says, out of nowhere, “I’ll look after Murph, if you like. When you start at Waterfen.”
My mind about-turns. I’d been reluctantly investigating doggie day care. “You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
I look down at Murphy gazing up at me. “Because that’s too big an ask.”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering. I’m around during the day. I’ll watch him, take him out with the other dogs. He’ll love it.”
I’m hugely touched. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes.”
“I . . . that would be . . .”
“It’s no problem, really.”
An image of Joel-the-vet alights in my mind. I already know he would have been steady-handed and temperate, reassuring and kind. “I can just picture you as a vet,” I say.
He looks down at our hallway carpet, stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I wouldn’t,” he says gruffly. “I wasn’t very good at it.”
“How do you mean?”
“That day at the coffee shop, when I fell asleep—that’s who I’d become at work. The only difference was, I left before they asked me to.”
“How long is it since you quit?”
“Three years.” He clears his throat. “Plowed every spare penny I had into savings before that. Dull as hell, but I guess I thought I might need them one day.”
“There’s nothing dull about buying yourself freedom.”
He smiles as though that’s just about the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to him. And all at once, I’m leaning forward to kiss him. Everything inside me ignites as I lose myself in him, against him, his mouth moving to my neck, my collarbone, back to my neck. I push his T-shirt up, feel the firmness of his stomach, his bare skin hot beneath my fingers. Our kissing becomes fiercer, and we move back against the wall, bodies hot-wired and mouths wild, every movement a tiny frenzy as we let each other know just how much we want this.
It takes a superhuman effort to part, minutes later.
Breathing in shivers, I push back my hair. “I should . . .”
Joel’s chest is heaving too. He reaches out to touch my wrist. “See you tomorrow?”
The most thrilling of promises. “Yes. See you tomorrow. Yes.”
32.
Joel
I take a minute or two to come round when I wake. No dreams.
Relieved, I roll onto my back and stare skyward. Toward where my bedroom ends and Callie’s begins.
“I think the universe might want us to give this a go,” I whisper to the patch of scruffy ceiling where I imagine her bed to be.
I already know I can’t wait to see her. Knock on her door, suggest coffee or brunch. Experience the effervescent rush of kissing her again.
All the reasons I shouldn’t are still there: falling for her, fearing what I might see if I do, and everything that brings with it.
But all the reasons I should are slowly beginning to outweigh them.
She knows about my dreams. I bared my soul to the first person I’ve truly cared about since Kate. To Callie, who’s breathed hope into my heart. Yet still she stopped me for that full-on kiss in the hallway last night. Something’s drawing us together, powerful as gravity. And now, after all these weeks, perhaps I’m finally ready to let gravity win.
I’ve watched possibility drift by over the years, connections I’ve held myself back from pursuing. Like Kieran’s cousin Ruby, who played footsie under the table with me five minutes after we met. The whip-smart veterinary nurse I got chatting to in a gin bar, that time Doug persuaded me out. The girl behind the counter in the post office, whose filthy joke about package sizes still causes me to smile and swerve the place in equal measure.
But Callie eclipses them all.
I turn my face into my pillow, permit myself a smile. And as I do, the reluctant clunk of Callie’s water pipes stirs into life. The sound of her running shower is like a standing ovation against my ceiling. And now, here it comes: the first tuneless verse of this morning’s song.
“I Want to Know What Love Is.”
Couldn’t have put it better myself.
* * *
• • •
I resist knocking on her door for almost twenty-three minutes.
“Morning,” she says shyly, when eventually I give in. She’s wearing jeans and a pair of slippers, an oversized knitted jumper the color of morning mist.
Oh, my word, she looks beautiful. What was I going to say, again?
I smile at her. “How’s your appetite? Scale of one to ten.”
She bites her bottom lip, tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear. “A solid nine.”
“Can I tempt you to breakfast?”
“Always.”
“What do you fancy?”
She blushes a little. “Um, I’m a sucker for pancakes.”
“Handy. I know just the spot.”
* * *
• • •
The pancake joint’s tiny. It’s fairly new to town, but already has a cult following with queues out of the door, even on Sundays in late November. But today we get lucky with the last two stools in the window. Callie’s excited, says she’s been wanting to try this place since it opened.
The waitress who seats us is curt as cold air, but I assure Callie the pancakes will be worth it.
“Poor woman. I might be crabby too, if I had this many covers first thing on a Sunday,” Callie confesses. I’ve noticed that about her, that she always gives people the benefit of the doubt. She inclines her head to mine. “Have to say, I’m in a bit of a frenzy about these pancakes now.”
My stomach flips with hunger and something else.
She surveys the room. “Look how packed it is. If I were any sort of businesswoman, I’d be jealous.”
“It’s just an illusion. This place is microscopic.”
She nudges me with her elbow. “I had a nice time, you know. Yesterday.”
Hope hoists a flag in my stomach as she holds my gaze. Still, I have to ask. “Nice in comparison to . . . dental work? Doing your taxes?”
She laughs and winces at the same time. “Sorry. Nice is a terrible word.”
“In the context of everything I told you, believe me, nice is the best word ever.”
Our pancakes arrive a few minutes later, huge stacks of syrup-soaked buttermilk pillows. Sticky and caramelly, they’re daubed with whipped butter.
Callie studies them earnestly. “Okay, now I get the queues.”
We start to eat. I try to gauge her frame of mind, read the light and shade of her body language like a sundial. Is she as happy and relaxed as she appears? Unfazed, even, by my revelations yesterday? I can hardly believe she could be.
Eventually, chest drum-tight, I ask if she’s had a chance to think about what I told her.
She wipes her mouth. Turns to face me. “Yes. And I don’t want to let it stop what we’re doing. This, us.”
Relief rushes through me, and yet . . . “I know it might be hard to believe what I’ve told you, Callie.”
She takes my hand. “No, I—”
“I’ve been trying to think . . . of a way I can prove it to you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“But I want to.”
She sips her coffee, waits.
“Tomorrow night, there’s going to be a burst water main on Market Street. Middle of rush hour, gridlock. My sister’s going to get caught up in it, miss her yoga class.”
I see Callie’s mind turning this
over. Consequences aside, she’s thinking, there’s no way he could bring about a burst water main, even if he were that nuts.
“Joel, you really don’t need to do this—”
“I do,” I insist. “Just so you know I’m not crazy.”
* * *
• • •
As we’re finishing our coffee, Callie asks about Vicky. All at once I’m grateful to be facing the window, rather than struggling to meet her eyes across a table.
“We broke up eight years ago.”
“How long were you together?”
“Three years.”
“Were you happy?”
I stare out at the frosty street. “At first.”
“Who ended it?”
“She did. I think she just wanted someone normal by then.”
Callie wraps her hands around her mug. Waits for me to elaborate.
“I wasn’t a very good boyfriend,” I admit. “I was . . . pretty self-absorbed. A bit messed-up. Bad company, probably.”
“You’re very honest.” She seems impressed.
“None of that bothers you?”
She turns to look at me, face open as a leaf to rain. “You don’t have to be flawless to be lovable.”
“No,” I agree. “But ideally you should have more pros than cons.”
I don’t tell her I kept the list Vicky gave me, at the end. I can still recite it, word for word.
“Did you ever dream about Vicky?”
“You mean, did I love her?”
Callie’s features seem suddenly to contract with shyness. “Yes.”
“No. I never dreamed about her.”
“So have you ever . . . been in love?”
Behind us, a group of students are called to their table. They rush past, an eddy of energy and optimism that evokes a strange kind of nostalgia in me. For what, I’m not exactly sure.
“Once. A long time ago.” I glance at her, clear my throat. Offer up the briefest details of my relationship with Kate. “Feel free to flee at any time,” I say, when I’m done.
“You keep saying that.”
“Hardly selling myself here.” Not that I ever thought I’d want to.
She sneaks a palm over my hand. Though her skin is warm, it makes me shiver. “Yes, you are.”
I meet her eyes. And, somewhere inside me, an anchor lifts.
33.
Callie
I’m online, eyes wide, reading a news update on the website of Eversford’s local paper.
A burst water main is causing major delays in the town center this evening. Traffic is at a standstill on Market Street and adjoining roads, with drivers reporting delays of up to an hour . . .
I exhale. It’s not as if I didn’t believe Joel before, but this has made it real and indisputable. It makes me want to draw him to me, hold him tight and never let go.
* * *
• • •
I’m not exactly sure why, but I wanted to see the thing for myself—it felt almost miraculous—so I knocked on Joel’s door, asked if he fancied a fast-food hit. We’ve installed ourselves in the window of a burger joint on Market Street, with front-row seats overlooking the chaos.
“Am I a bad person?”
Joel swirls a chip in ketchup. “Why? Because you wanted to run down here and rubberneck?”
I grimace. “Just to be clear, I wouldn’t have if it were an accident, or—”
“Hey, it’s fine,” he says, rocking into me gently with his elbow. “I do it myself sometimes.”
“Just to check you’re not dreaming?”
He laughs, and after that we eat in silence for a little while.
“Well,” he says eventually, “if nothing else, you can’t say I don’t know how to show a girl a good time. Fast food and gridlock at rush hour—what more could you want?”
“You’re off the hook—this was totally my suggestion.” I think again about why we’re here. “It’s mad, though, isn’t it? You knew this was going to happen.”
His smile fades a little. “Believe me, the novelty wears off pretty quickly.”
Beyond the window, car doors open. An altercation between two pent-up drivers unfolds.
As they square up to each other with their chests and fists, Joel grabs his drink. “Fancy making a move? Not sure I want to watch this bit.”
“It’s not your fault, you know,” I tell him, as we exit the restaurant and walk swiftly away, drinks in hand. “It’s a burst pipe. You couldn’t have stopped it.”
“I could have done something. Called the water company—they’d have checked it out.”
“No one’s been hurt,” I remind him softly.
“No,” he agrees. “And showing this to you tonight felt more important.”
34.
Joel
We head back to Callie’s place. I’m relieved to have been able to prove myself to her, even though she didn’t ask me to. But the whole episode has left me slightly unsettled. So when we get in I change the subject, ask about her day.
She tells me she gave Ben her notice at the café this lunchtime.
“How’d he take it?”
“Better than I thought. He’s going to promote Dot, I think, then find someone to replace her.” A sigh. “He was really nice about it, actually. So supportive. Which kind of made me feel worse—like I’m turning my back on him. Maybe even Grace too.”
We’re sharing the sofa, though only our gazes are touching. Beyond the window, a scallop of moon is suspended in the darkness. The sky is wired with stars.
“He was supportive because it’s a great move for you,” I assure her. “The start of a whole new chapter.”
Callie’s braided her hair, draped it over one shoulder. It exposes her slender neck, the drop earrings she’s wearing set with real pressed flowers. “I guess it’s been a long time coming. I had this weird fear, just after Grace’s funeral. I kept waking up in the middle of the night, wondering what people would say about me if I died. Fixating on it, almost. Esther thought I was trying to avoid dwelling on Grace. You know—blanking out the sadness by stressing about my own failings.”
I think back to my mum. How intently I started obsessing over my dreams after she died. That’s when I began hardcore note-taking, recording every damn thing I saw.
“I was worried my eulogy would read like a CV,” Callie says. “You know—Extremely reliable. Recipient of a long-service award at Eversford Metal Packaging. Punctual, hardworking . . . That was what gave me the final push, I guess. To quit my office job and take on the café. I went a bit mad, I think, for a couple of months.”
“Mad how?”
She shrugs. “Doing loads of ill-advised stuff. Like deciding what I needed was a really bizarre haircut with a fringe, which I absolutely hated, obviously. Then I thought I’d paint my entire flat dark gray, but it looked awful and I had a meltdown halfway through about my damage deposit, so I had to paint it all back again.” She lets out a self-reproachful breath. “What else? Signed up to online dating—disastrous. Got drunk and . . .” She trails off.
“Oh, no.” I laugh. “You can’t stop there. Got drunk and . . . eloped? Got arrested? Racked up a five-figure bar bill?”
Her voice drops to a whisper. “I got a tattoo.”
I grin. “Excellent.”
A pause.
“So what is it?”
“What is what?”
“The tattoo.”
She bites her lip. “Never mind.”
“How, what, and where?”
“It’s a very long story.”
I check an invisible watch. “Oh, I have time.”
“Okay. Well, I got drunk, then . . . I got a tattoo.” She exhales, folds her hands demurely in her lap.
I’m not letting her off that easy. “You already told
me that. I’m going to need details, I’m afraid.”
She chews her lip again. Tucks a wayward strand of hair back into her plait. “Well, I had it in my head that I wanted a bird . . . but I was drunk, and I couldn’t quite get across what I meant. I wanted a swallow—it was supposed to be elegant, and beautiful. Delicate, you know? I tried to draw it for them, but I’m a terrible artist and . . .”
“Where is it?”
“On my hip.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Can I see it?”
“Okay, but you can’t laugh.”
“I promise.”
She lowers the waistband of her jeans just enough.
I look down at it. Then up at her. “It’s a . . . Wow.”
“I know.”
It is a swallow. I think. But if it is, it’s on steroids. Bright red and blue, and unexpectedly sizable. Hearty and plump, with cartoon curves. There’s a blank scroll in its beak, and an intensity to its expression I can only presume to be accidental.
Or maybe her tattooist was high at the time.
“It’s quite . . . I mean, it’s . . .”
Her eyes go wide. “You don’t need to be nice about it, honestly. I cried when I saw it sober. I started desperately Googling laser tattoo removal, vowed never to do anything daring again.”
“What was supposed to”—I clear my throat—“go in the scroll?”
“Oh, they thought I wanted that for someone’s name. I’m surprised they didn’t just make something up, stick it in there without asking.”
“Christ. The mind boggles.”
She doffs me with a cushion. “You promised you wouldn’t laugh.”
“I’m not. I think it’s charming.”
“It’s not charming. It’s graffiti that won’t wash off. I’m building up to going back, having it lasered.”
I reach out, take her hand. “I think you should be proud of it. Sod lasering the thing. It’s part of your story.”
She starts laughing, lips pink and full from the press of her teeth. “Are you serious?”