by Alam, Donna
I grasp her elbow before she manages to disappear behind my back. ‘Continue, then. Go see your man.’
‘Did you know anything about this?’ She’s the proverbial bunny caught in a pair of powerful full beams, but through her painted-on-grimace-come-smile, I detect curiosity, which gives me all the feels as I know what’s about to happen. I still have a hard time believing Rory not only forgave me but also included me in his secret project.
Tears of happiness blur my vision as I place my hand at the small of her back, giving her a small push.
She takes one trepidatious step after another, and how can she not? She’s walking towards her man. A man who looks at her like she’s his world. Rory holds out his hand, pulling her off balance and into a hug. Those standing around make murmurs of appreciation as the tears making my vision glassy drip and run down my cheeks. I wonder what he’s whispering in her ear—wonder exactly. Will he confess his eternal devotion, or will he just ask her to simply spend the rest of her life with him?
He cuts such a handsome figure as he steps back, a million miles and almost a broken heart away from when he first appeared in the salon those months ago. Jeans and chequered shirt soaked to his skin, hair plastered to his head, and his trademark cheeky grin undampened by the awful weather as he looked at Fin.
In front, Fin slaps both hands quite suddenly over mouth, and my tears turn into a small, hitching sob. Nat wraps her arm around my shoulder, pulling me into the side of her body as though she doubts I can hold myself up or together.
Rory smirks, clearly aware of what their audience is imagining, especially as they begin to applaud when he lowers himself to one knee. Through my tears and sniffling, I also can’t help but giggle. History and social custom might suggest Rory’s about to propose, and while that’s not necessarily untrue, it’s not quite the proposal people are imagining.
His right hand feeds into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
‘Fin,’ he says, that smirk unrestrained and reining free.
‘Oh, Rory.’ She gasps out her admonishment. ‘You’re not—’
‘I’m afraid I am,’ he replies, his eyes sparkling. ‘I’m honoured to be yours,’ he states, more than loud enough for those nearby to hear. ‘And I know you value your independence. I want you to know that I’ll never take that away from you, but darlin’, I’m tired of traipsing between Waterloo and my place. Put me out of my misery, Fin.’ He begins to pull his hand from his pocket. I know what’s in there. Both things. Through tears and smiles, my heart pitter-patters so fast, anyone would think he was about to ask me. ‘I was daft enough to let you go the first time. I’m not risking it again.’
Asking . . . though not what you might think, yet exactly that because, there, balanced on his index finger is a keychain; silver in colour and sparkling. ‘I’m going to ask you again,’ he utters, one brow cocked. ‘And if you say no, that’s fine. I’ll just ask you another time. And another, until you give me the answer I want to hear. Fin, will you move in with me?’
As a mixture of sniggers and more heartfelt awws break out around us, Fin reaches out with one shaking hand to take the keychain from Rory’s finger. She folds it into her palms, hugging both tight to her chest.
‘I could murder you right now.’ Her voice has a water quality, even as she tries to cover it with a scowl. As Rory opens his mouth to speak, Fin gets there first. ‘Yes, Rory. Yes, I will.’
‘You will?’ He stands abruptly, his hands pressing down on her shoulders as though the weight of them could prevent a change of mind. And the look on his face? It’s profound surprise—ecstatic delight. ‘You make me the happiest—’ He may be looking at her, but she’s no longer looking at him, a small crease between her brows as she pulls the keyring from her chest.
There are no flies on my girl. I knew he wouldn’t be able to sneak that past her.
‘What’s this hanging from it?’ Fin lies the keyring flat against her palm, her expression morphing through a range of expressions; confusion to consternation, consternation to . . . is that tentative joy?
I helped him choose that bauble, and let me tell you, you could buy a car for what he paid for those carats. That bling is enough to make any girl smile.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he replies, laughing softly. ‘All at your own pace.’
This is his oft-quoted mantra since the pair got back together, allowing Fin to take things slowly after their whirlwind of a beginning. It’s all at her pace, and he’ll follow her lead, at least, up until now. But he told me he didn’t care if she wore the token of his devotion on a ring of keys, only that she was happy. And that she was his.
But happy doesn’t cover the expression on my friend’s face. I’m not sure enough joyous adjectives exist to describe her massive smile. I love that she looks so bloody happy—love that not every whirlwind of a relationship is doomed to fail. Adore that the pair has fought their way to a well-deserved second chance.
I push the back of my hand under my eyes, wiping away tears again, but I don’t care. My friend is in love, and I’m filled to the brim with happiness on her behalf. I giggle, for no other reason than the sight of these two in front. Nat’s arm falls from my shoulder, and I notice her own eyes are also brimming with happy tears.
‘Aw, are you crying?’ I softly taunt.
‘No,’ she responds through a soggy sounding laugh. ‘The glue from my false lashes must’ve leaked.’
False lashes, my bum . . . not that she isn’t wearing them in some shape or form. Extensions, I think; massively curled and long. To be honest, I’m surprised she can keep her lids open under the weight. The nearby clink of glasses makes me realise my throat is parched. I turn slightly, my gaze searching out one of the wait staff.
‘I think this calls for a wee toast, and maybe a mouthful of champagne because . . .’
The end of my sentence trails off as the canapes ingested earlier threaten a return. Maybe I don’t need wine; maybe what I need is a lie-down. My mind begins reeling through a slew of explanations as to why I’m seeing things—of why my knees are weak, and my body’s currently shaking. And then it comes to me: I’m a horrible person. What kind of friend am I? Why can’t I just be happy for Fin and Rory without feeling bad for myself? Why must I conjure the phantom of my own failing?
‘A mouthful,’ Nat counters with a snort. ‘What, with a mouth the size of yours? Get a glass like everyone else.’ She chuckles at her own joke. ‘But if you see a waitress, get me a glass, yeah?’ I sense rather than see Natasha’s gaze following the path of mine. ‘Looks like June managed to get away. Ted must’ve managed to persuade her she wasn’t needed this afternoon.’
I shake my head, though not in answer; it’s more an attempt to get my vision to reset. Why can’t I just be happy for my friends? Why must I have to torture myself?
It must be a guilty conscience.
Unless I’m going mad?
Because I’m currently seeing a Dylan doppelganger, though one with a furry face.
My so-called phantom tilts his head, listening to something June has to say, one finger reaching out to scratch the scruff against his cheek. June looks tiny next to his much larger frame. I can see the similarities in build and colouring, but Dylan would never grow a beard. He said they itched. Yet not a moment later, my phantom smiles and my heart pinches in its calcified cage.
No. Definitely not phantom. But could it really be—
My pinched heart grinds to halt, kick-starting itself with one loud thud. All it takes is one tiny action; the familiarity in the tilt of his head, of his smile. Because I remember how he used to look when he was happy, back before our marriage became a thing of hate.
He slides his hand from the pocket of his black jeans, rising slightly as though to acknowledge my gaze, though perhaps deciding not to, if the almost imperceptible waver in the motion is any judge. The nuances are there, but the action isn’t right as he pushes that hand self-consciously through his hair.
It isn�
��t him. It can’t be because he’s never been self-conscious or bashful or sheepish or anything but cocksure a day in his life.
And that smile?
The one he’s now sending across the room? It tugs at something primal deep in my belly, like nature, or fuck, I don’t know—like it’s the devil himself standing next to June, beckoning me to dance to his tune.
His teeth graze his full bottom lip, and I swallow, the motion the beginning of a ripple of need that terminates between my legs. But this turns out to be a vowel, not a tease. A vowel followed by a couple of consonants, his mouth silently wrapping around the delivery of my name.
The devil. It is the fucking devil, and Dylan is his name.
Before I know it, my body is in motion, faces moving past my vision as though I were on a train. Well, those who aren’t standing in my FUCKING WAY!
‘Excuse me—excuse me. Would you just ever move!’
I make a beeline for the side entrance, almost knocking the black-and-white clad teenage waitress from the wood as I slip out into the late summer sunshine, but what now? Where do I go now that I’ve realised I’m not imagining things?
What are the chances this is a massive coincidence, and I’ve just made a complete arse of myself? Christ, does it matter? He’s here, and I need not to be, or else . . . or else . . .
The door handle at my back begins to turn, and I shoot off along the side of the building, catching the knuckles of my hand against the rough-hewn brick. I don’t remember the last time I moved so fast—I’d give Usain Bolt a run for his money. Maybe if he were six months pregnant. And my height. And wearing strappy Roman sandals and a dress.
‘Ivy! Ivy, wait!’
‘Not fucking likely,’ I wheeze out as I turn the corner of the building, moving past the wall of glass. People are inside. My people. People who might not have noticed the explosive nature of my departure. Maybe God will be good and they won’t notice me passing by the massive window either. But you can bet your arse they’ll notice the man following me.
Don’t look in the window, Ivy. Don’t!
So I don’t, though I have no idea where to go next. I can’t see beyond this web of lies I’ve woven, and the sudden panic is lacing its way through my chest.
Another corner: Turn right or left? Right is the carpark, left is where?
The cottages? Outbuildings, too, I think.
Or maybe a better escape; the carpark! Maybe I make it to my car before he reaches me; get inside and turn the—
Ah, shit!’
The key. It’s upstairs in my room. I’m thankful for the first time for puffy toes. Because they’re the reason I’m wearing flats today. To think I wanted to cry over my clothing choices this morning.
‘Ivy, stop—goddammit!’
‘Go away, Dylan.’ The words leave my throat in a sob, a sob he won’t hear as I turn left instead. My feet scuff across the gravelled walkway, some spraying up and into my shoe in my haste. ‘Ow!’ I don’t have time to stop—I can’t—as I turn right by some bushes and right again, expecting somewhere to hide but instead finding sky.
Sky and sand dunes and ocean, as far as the eye can see.
‘Shitballs!’ I bring my hands to my face and exhale a pained, strangled sob. Despair, anger, and fear. Regret—fucking regret—all pile on my chest until it becomes hard to breathe.
Before I know it, I sense him standing behind me. He whispers my name, or is it the sea?
Chapter 33
Dylan
‘Ivy.’
Dark wisps of hair escape from her thick braid and dance in the wind. I hold my hand out ready to sweep them away like I’ve done a hundred times, my heart and arm sinking as slowly as the notion dawns: I’m not that man for her anymore.
Christ Almighty. I swallow thickly. Why doesn’t this get any easier? The longer we’re apart, the less it’s supposed to hurt. It’s hard, dammit, and I’m hard. Hard-headed and arrogant for being in this position in the first place, but I might also be hard in another sense. Slightly. Yeah, that kind of hard. Blame the length of her hem or those dainty painted toes at the ends of those gorgeous bare legs. Or maybe just blame the fact that I’m some kind of fucking closet masochist when it comes to this woman.
You’re here to bring her bad news and an apology—several apologies—not to get emotionally involved.
Involved. More like entangled in a web of my own making; a web of desire and misplaced possession. A web sticky with my own vulnerability. Where once I wanted recompense and revenge, I now just want to make it okay. I want to prove I’m not the monster she made me out to be. The monster I made myself.
In the car on the ride over when the auld granny talked of Ivy—of how braw she’s doing—I listened. Even as she began recounting the instances of Ivy’s kindness, the regard she has for her neighbours and friends, I didn’t once interrupt. I could have. A few weeks ago, I would have. I’d have told her Ivy’s niceness isn’t even skin deep. That it’s a veneer. That it’s fake. But I didn’t. And it wasn’t only because I was raised not to interrupt my elders, or that I was a captive audience with no escape. No, I sat and listened like a sap, smiling and soaking it all in. Because the closer I get to my wife, the bigger my problem is.
Problem. Addiction. Compulsion. Call it what you will.
In the close confines of the rental, I was an alcoholic listening to a description of fine whisky, just to get drunk on the words. And now that I’ve seen her, I want more than mere words. I want to write sonnets against her silken skin with my mouth.
‘Ivy, turn around.’ I dig my hands deeper into my pockets and the toe of one boot into the loamy soil. Would our marriage have lasted if I’d stuck to lugging plants? Would she have wanted me better then? ‘Please, cutz.’
‘Go away, Dylan. Just leave me alone.’ The sea breeze does nothing to hide the warble in her words or her tension; the way she holds her shoulders high.
‘I can’t.’ I don’t want to. ‘I need . . . I need to talk to you.’ I need to be inside you.
She shakes her head, a bitter laugh accompanying it. ‘You were here last week. I saw you on TV. It was—it was a treat.’ The end of her sentence comes out in a rush, and suddenly, I don’t think she’s shaking from laughter anymore.
‘Ivy.’ I close my eyes, that one word strangled with emotion—with regret. My molars threaten to crack under the pressure as I struggle, waiting for some sign from the universe. Someplace to begin this impossible conversation. Because now that I’m here, I have all the wrong words in my head and no place to begin. ‘Baby, please.’
Her throat catches, shoulders shaking, and wracked by sobs. Before I know it, I’m pressed up against her, one arm banded across her shoulders. To prevent an escape—a collapse? I smooth the dark strands from her cheeks as I whisper nonsense in the form of comfort I’ve no place to give. Falsehoods and faery tales.
I pull the last strand of errant hair from her cheek, curling it around the pink shell of her ear. It’s only natural—at least, it feels so—and something I’ve done a thousand times. A million moments when I’ve placed my lips against the length of silk she calls a neck.
It’s as easy as wrapping her in my arms.
It’s as easy as whispering her name.
It’s as easy as falling into the abyss.
Her whole body trembles against me, and my dick is painfully hard—as hard as the steel rod I should consider beating myself with. But she feels so good; soft and inviting, and she smells like heaven. Like something lost and found—our halcyon moments all over again.
‘My God.’ I breathe the sound of my need against her neck. ‘You’re so beautiful.’ And I’ve missed you so goddamned much.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her indoors, forcing myself to stay on the other side of the room. Petite and so dainty, her legs bare beneath a dress that ought to be reclassified because it’s barely a shirt.
The curve of her exposed shoulders, the jut of her bare collarbones, and an unadorned neck. I’d loo
ked at the floor, rooting my feet to the polished stone, because I’d wanted to take great fucking strides across the room. I wanted to grab her and carry her to a place where the past never happened. I’d lift the hem on that swingy white dress and leave her bare but for the unravelled braid. Chocolate hair and milky skin. Nipples as rosy as the stain on her lips.
Some images never change. Needs either, it seems.
‘Baby.’ Rueful—that’s how this one word sounds. Rueful and full of regret. I swallow hard again, forcing away the image of her trembling beneath me, mouth open in a gasp of absolute pleasure. Of obscene coupling. I barely even realise I’m trailing the backs of my fingers across her bare shoulder . . .
. . . across the front of her dress . . . back and forth . . .
. . . from shoulder to breastbone . . .
. . . just a fraction above where the fabric is a tight fit.
Back, and then forth, the movement as hypnotic as the tremble in each of her breaths.
‘What I wouldn’t give.’ My whisper is hoarse as my fingertips graze her nipples, creating a soft sigh of her reply.
‘For what?’
I hold her breasts full in my hands now, pulling her to me, half groaning my unconsidered response into her neck.
‘What I wouldn’t give to fuck you again.’
The hitch in her breath is fucking exquisite. I’m groaning deeper as Ivy pushes herself fully into my hands. Only I’m not paying attention, my brain unheeding and my cock running the show.
Shoulders separating from chest.
Lips that come away from her skin with a soft pop.
Hands falling from breasts.
It takes the brush of air between our bodies before I come to fully realise.
‘I can’t.’ The back of her head shakes, the strands snaking in the ocean breeze again. ‘I can’t do this. We can’t do this.’
I shake my own head vigorously. Or maybe I’m nodding. Who the fuck knows. She’s not looking at me, so what the fuck does it matter, right? Jaw clenched tight, my tenuous grip on reality causes a sourness in my mouth as in the periphery of my vision she turns. Her heart-shaped face and eyes as painful as broken glass.