by K. A. Hobbs
“I woke you up,” I mumble apologetically after God knows how much time has passed in an attempt to cover up the furious groaning of my deprived stomach.
“Doesn’t matter,” he replies without any trace of dishonesty in his voice.
“But—”
“I gave you my number so you could phone me if you needed somebody. Tonight, you definitely needed somebody. I’d be upset if you hadn’t called.”
“What about work?”
“What about it?” His hand leaves mine to brush my messy hair over my shoulder out of his way so his lips can move closer to my ear. “You’re more important.”
“You don’t even know me,” I whisper, belying my words by twisting in his arms and snuggling closer to him.
“I know your favourite cookies. Everything else is just gravy.”
I giggle, which is unexpected under the circumstances, and his arms tighten around me as he looks down at me and smiles softly.
“Stop talking about food,” I grumble, my poor stomach cramping painfully at the teasing.
His smile drops rapidly into a frown and his eyes harden as he slowly takes in my unkempt appearance.
“How long have you been struggling?” he asks, and I shrink under his scrutiny.
“A bit…” I shuffle in place until his arms turn to iron bands around me.
“A bit meaning?”
“Maybe a week?” I mumble like a naughty child, feeling the weight of his stare as I squirm.
“And you only just called me because…?”
Huffing, I detach myself from his chest and meet his gaze with mine, refusing to be cowed by his disapproval. “Because I’m a grown-ass adult and ought to be able to look after myself.”
His chest rumbles with a sigh before his arms loosen around me and he moves to stand. Pulling me up after him, he dashes my cheek with his fingertips and gives me an assessing look. “Everybody needs somebody sometimes, Molly. It doesn’t matter how old we get. Some burdens are too heavy to carry alone.”
Before I know it, I’ve been packed off to the shower while he goes off to do the hunter gatherer thing. I’m not too sure how successful he’ll be, given that it’s, apparently, quarter past three in the morning, but when I protested, he simply tapped his nose and said he knows things.
I have to admit, as much as I huffed when he directed me towards the shower with that steely look in his eyes, the hot water feels so good as it sluices over my body. I stare up at the spray as it cascades down, washing away this horrible day and warming me to my bones when I didn’t even realise I was cold.
When I finally shuffle out, already mourning the loss of the heat, I stand in front of my wardrobe, torn. It’s the middle of the night and my body is craving comfy pyjamas and fluffy slippers. But, the part of me that’s still remotely conscious of these things can’t help thinking about the beautiful, superbly put together man I’ll be eating with. It’s not like he hasn’t seen me in my jimmers with my hair all over the place before, but it might be nice, one day, for him to see me looking like I haven’t stumbled out of Bedlam.
Opting for somewhere in the middle, I drag on my least ratty pair of leggings and a blue oversized sweater that swallows me up like a warm hug. It’s hardly glamourous or sexy, but it’s got to be better than pyjamas that used to have cats on.
By the time I shuffle back downstairs, I can hear busy sounds coming from the kitchen. Rounding the corner into the doorway, I jolt with surprise to see him standing over my seriously underused cooker, stirring a pan with one hand and sipping wine from a glass in the other.
My lip disappears behind my teeth and I take him in as he works with his usual confidence. I’ve never met somebody like him before—someone who seems to exude reassurance with every breath. As much as I try to deny it, everything about him draws me in. My fingers twitch at my sides when his curls drop into his face, covering his eyes. He tosses his head carelessly, sending the strands out of the way for a moment before they drift right back to where they fell.
Don’t do it, Molly.
My silent chastisement of myself is pointless as it turns out, as I find myself drifting forward without conscious thought and lifting my hand to brush it away for him.
Freezing with my hand still hanging in the air, I survey his face as he looks at me and a moment of shock flashes in his eyes. Oxygen freezes in my lungs, burning with the need to be expelled, but I can’t. Not until his lips slowly but surely tip up into a smile that removes all the bones from my legs.
There’s a soft tap as he places his wine on the counter and turns to me, his hand moving to mine where it’s still hanging gormlessly in the air and encasing it in his warmth.
“You’re cooking,” I croak stupidly.
Way to state the obvious, Molly.
His face splits into the most beautiful grin I’ve ever seen as he pulls our hands down but doesn’t release mine. “I’m trying to impress you.”
“Oh.”
“Is it working?”
I peer into the pan that’s bubbling away with what looks like pasta then back at him, quirking my lips at one corner. “Jury’s out.”
He chuckles, the sound a deep rumble in his chest as he goes back to stirring, his fingers still firmly wrapped around mine. “Tough customer, eh? I can live with that. I like a challenge.”
We stand in a companionable silence for a time as he works and I watch on, fascinated. There was a time when this kitchen was the hub of the house, when I would spend hours concocting new delicious dishes for Ben to try. Since the accident, though, I’ve lost all interest in creating new meals. There’s no fun in cooking up a storm just for yourself. Super Noodles have become my staple dish, so the thought of a decent, home-cooked meal has my stomach growling with impatience.
I hear a soft huff emit from his lips after a particularly loud grumble, and I can almost hear him battling with himself over whether or not to ask the question that eventually follows. “When was the last time you ate, Molly?”
He doesn’t look at me, his eyes fixed on the sauce he’s started to heat, his angular chin firm and clenched.
“Well… I found a random bag of Frazzles stashed in my handbag yesterday. I’m not completely sure they were from this century but they tasted okay.”
“Christ, you need a minder,” he grumbles, releasing my hand to move to the fridge in search of something. Whatever it is, he’s going to be seriously disappointed.
Another huff and the door slams shut, frustrated green eyes boring into mine.
“Umm…” I shuffle in place, reaching for the bottle of wine on the counter and hunting for a glass. “It’s been a while since I did a shop.”
“I’ll say. Tomorrow, we’re going to Tesco. No arguments.”
We? Did he say we?
“T-tomorrow?”
“Yes.” He nods decisively, rummaging through my cupboards as though he has every right. He does seem faintly mollified when he finds a decent supply of seasonings in the cupboard over the cooker. “Starving to death isn’t going to fix what’s hurting you. You need to eat. Trust me. I’m a doctor.”
He grins as I groan and accept several glass bottles of herbs and spices as he hands them to me.
“Does that line ever actually work?”
“Surprisingly often.” He winks—winks—and piles more spices into my already overstuffed arms.
“Such a gentleman.” My eyes roll as he frowns into the now empty cupboard before turning and scanning his eyes over the bottles he’s already thrust at me.
I’d offer to help, but it’s so much more fun watching that little line dip into his forehead and his tongue slide out of his mouth in concentration.
“I’m cooking you dinner at almost four o’clock in the morning. Don’t deny me my gentleman card, woman.”
His playful tone is so different to the calm, controlled voice he used to soothe me earlier, but in its own way, it makes me feel just as safe—just as warm inside.
He makes me feel l
ike me again.
“Actually, what you’re currently doing is burning me dinner at four o’clock in the morning. But semantics, right?” I smirk, pointing at the pan of sauce that has started to congeal around the edges of the pan during his hunt for God only knows which spice.
He stares at the pan aghast for a moment, his hand moving to cup his neck as his jaw drops and his lips turn down into a pout. “Umm… it’s chargrilled?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” I question with a giggle, wiggling my wine glass at him. “Liquid dinner?”
“On an empty stomach? No.” He swipes the glass right out of my hand before I have chance to protest then smirks at me, hiding it behind him. “You need food first.”
“Well, I’m not eating that, chargrilled or not.”
He scratches his head with a thoughtful look, taking the pan off the heat with the other hand and dumping it into the sink, complete with the ruined sauce. “Dry pasta and cookies?” he questions hopefully.
My ears perk up at the magic word while my eyes dance to the twenty-four hour Tesco bags on the kitchen island. “You had cookies all this time and you never said. You’ve been holding out on me. And here, I thought I liked you.”
Moving over to the bags, he looks up at me with the most devastatingly hopeful look on his face, his green eyes wide and momentarily vulnerable as he considers me carefully.
“You did?”
I blink in surprise, slipping onto one of the rickety old kitchen stools and laying my hands flat along the cool marble counter. “No, Seb. Astian. I routinely call people I don’t like in the middle of my usual personal crises.”
He doesn’t say anything, but the small smile he tries to hide by shoving his face inside a bag to rummage through it is radiant enough to light up the entire town, never mind my small kitchen.
Eventually, I find myself curled up on my couch wrapped in a blanket, my feet tangling with his, nibbling on Fox’s biscuits and watching the sunrise over the beach through the window. He’s quiet—we both are—pbut it doesn’t feel awkward. I like that about him, that I can sit in a room with him and never say more than a few words yet come away feeling like I’ve had the best conversation. He’s fun and playful but also thoughtful, and that brings with it a peace that I haven’t felt in a long time.
“You have an amazing view here,” he says quietly, his gentle tone not breaking the strange sanctity of the moment.
I nod in agreement, reaching for another cookie, my fingers brushing against his at the packet. “It’s why we bought the house. The stairs creak, the boiler was old in Biblical times and the roof was about ready to cave in, but Ben absolutely had to have that view.” I look down at the cookie in my hands, breaking it into pieces with shaking fingers. “He was a writer.”
“I’m sorry,” he says simply, his voice full of sincerity as his foot shifts and moves gently against mine.
“Thank you.” I nod. “For trying to save him. For being here to save me tonight. Just thank you.”
I wake up early and grab my sweatshirt, pushing my feet into my big, fluffy boots before heading out to the gardens.
When I first came here, I discovered a new surprise every day. Like how everything seems so normal. The people I share the house with wear normal clothes, they eat normal food, they listen to music and read books. They act just like everyone else, except some of them are thousands of years old. Some of them can tell stories of a different world entirely—a world, no matter how hard I try, I cannot picture living in.
On one of my little excursions, I found the library. I walked inside and stopped moving—stopped breathing. The vastness didn’t surprise me, not really, but the contents did.
There were shelves packed full of books so old I doubt anyone living knew of their existence. But further in were shelves of modern books, latest bestsellers and even a section of books by authors who were less well-known.
Every kind of book you can imagine, in every language possible, resides in our library, and we’re encouraged to read often and for long periods of time. Leo often tells everyone that words enrich our souls. They enable us to live a thousand different lives and teach us in ways we wouldn’t have thought, which in our line of work is something we should all welcome.
Another time, I stumbled across an Olympic sized swimming pool hidden behind two big, ornate glass doors. I knew from the familiar chlorine smell what was housed behind them before I pushed the doors open, and when I stepped through them, every hair on my body stood on end.
Even completely alone, being so close to such a vast amount of water made me panicky. I clutched onto the handrail leading down to the steps that disappeared into the shallow water and tried to calm my breathing.
When it didn’t work, I tapped the ring George gave me, the ring that makes it possible for me to contact him wherever I am, and he appeared at my side seconds later, guiding me out into the hallway to the safety of solid floors and away from liquid death.
Tonight as I walk, I go in search of one thing—the one thing I always find such comfort in—such peace.
I walk quickly along the pebbled path that winds its way around the house and into the manicured gardens. I turn left at the fountain of bathing angels and travel further into the green maze. I’ve spent hours in here, walking, dancing, sometimes even running. I discovered that the structure of the hedges offers me a safety blanket from my troubles, and if I bring my music outside with me, I can forget almost entirely that this is my life.
When I reach the path I know leads to the secret garden, I break out into a jog. The little wooden door appears in front of me and I push myself forwards. The door opens at the slightest touch and I’m where I need to be.
The perfectly round space is calming, and as I walk towards the swing in the centre, I feel myself relax.
I take a seat, pushing my legs back and forth like a child to make the giant swing move in that familiar, delightfully rhythmic way. I lean backwards and look up.
The stars are bright tonight, brighter than I’ve seen them in a long time.
When I was alive, living the life everyone thinks is their only one, I remember thinking the stars were Heaven. I would hear people who had lost loved ones turning their faces to the sky and picking the brightest one, telling whoever they were with that that was their loved one. I remember feeling a sense of hopefulness that when the awful day came that I lost someone I loved, I’d be able to turn my head to the sky and see them twinkling down on me.
I’m not sure exactly how I can still see them now I’m here, thousands of miles above the earth, but I can. And that, if nothing else, gives me some comfort because right now, Olivia could be gazing up at the exact same stars I am, and if she is, she doesn’t seem so far away even if she is as far as she can possibly be.
George finds me sometime later, curled on the swing and fast asleep.
When I open my eyes and realise I’ve had at least a small measure of dreamless sleep, I vow to spend more time alone here, cocooned in the safety of the secret garden I treasure so much.
“I thought perhaps we could go out for a little while today? I wanted to share something with you.”
“What is it?” I ask, rubbing my face and trying to wake myself up.
“I thought you might want to see where I lived before… this.”
“Before? Does it still exist?”
“Not how I knew it to be, but yes. The house I lived in is still there, although it looks very different to how it did when I occupied it.”
I sit up and look at him, and for a few seconds I can picture George in his other life, always in his best clothes, his shirt always pressed, his jacket always perfect and a dapper hat on his head. He’d be immaculately put together, respected by everyone and the sort of person everyone wanted to be friends with.
I can’t picture it any other way because he’s exactly like that now. He’s always welcoming and compassionate, never giving the impression of impatience or annoyance no matter how much
of his time you take up. He always wants to help and he will do anything in his power to do so.
“I’d love to see it,” I tell him.
“Shall we have breakfast and go? Or would you prefer to have something away from here for a change?”
“I’m not hungry. I’ll grab a shower and we can get going.”
He kneels down in front of me and runs his thumb under my eyes. His touch inflames me and I grow warm under his gaze. “You’re looking pale. Please will you eat something? Can I get you a smoothie at the very least?”
“A small one.” I nod, attempting a small smile.
“Come, I’ll walk back with you and meet you in your room in half an hour. That gives you plenty of time to get ready.”
I stand and look at him. “Half an hour is plenty of time? Oh, George, you have so much to learn about women.”
My senses are assaulted from the minute we step out into the street.
People rush around us, speaking in many different languages and at such a speed my mind buzzes. George reaches for my hand and entwines our fingers before leaning closer and kissing the top of my head. “Are you okay?” he asks softly.
“Yes. It’s just a little much. I’m so used to Molly’s quiet village or the house. I don’t think I’ve been around this many people in… well, a long time.”
“It’s easy to forget there are so many people in the world when you’re in the house for too long. I’ve fallen into that trap before, too.”
I look around at my surroundings and sigh. “And I can’t help but remember all the times I’ve walked down this exact street before with friends and with Olivia. I haven’t been back since. I should probably have told you that. It’s so strange to be here now.”
“I did wonder if you’d been back. I guessed that you hadn’t. I think this will help. The longer we don’t visit, the more of an issue it becomes. Leo brought me here much earlier than I was ready for, but it helps. To walk the streets we were once a part of reminds us that although we aren’t the same person, we can still find a place there.”