The Runaway Ex

by Shani Struthers

  “Joseph…” she tried again. What was wrong with her? This was no time for the power of speech to up and leave. Tara had said it was important to forgive—not just others but yourself. But if she let him go, she’d never forgive herself that.

  All too quickly, the band wrapped up the final notes of the song. How she wanted them to play on and on. It was too quiet now—expectant. Still she tried to force words from her mouth. What she had to say wasn’t a secret; let everyone hear what was in her heart. But the silence continued, growing heavier. She could damn herself well enough with words, it seemed, but save herself? That was proving harder.

  Get a grip, Layla. Get a grip. She would save this relationship. She would not let him walk away. And if he did, she’d follow him.

  But if he doesn’t love you…

  Could love die that quickly? Of course not. Why was she still doubting, still so flawed? And if he couldn’t forgive her, was he flawed too or justified? The trouble was, she couldn’t decide.

  Tears of frustration started to fall, and she was powerless to stop them. Quickly, she removed her hands from his waist and covered her face. He would hate that she was making such an exhibition of herself and, by proxy, him. She had tried so hard to fight, but she had failed. All she had succeeded in doing was embarrassing them both.

  Fervently, she hoped Penny or Hannah would come to her rescue, but the seconds dragged on, each one an intolerable length. Where were they when she needed them? Couldn’t they see the state she was in? What were they doing?

  And then she was in someone’s arms, but they were not soft and feminine. They were hard and strong. Whose arms was she in? Had Jim rushed over? Richard?

  She looked up. No, it was not Jim or Richard. It was Joseph who had his arms around her, tears in his eyes too. One had even escaped, leaving a trail down his cheek. She was momentarily stunned. She had never seen him cry before.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his words not a whisper but loud and clear, discernible to all.

  Still incredulous, she looked at him. He was sorry. And it was right that he was. She couldn’t shoulder the guilt alone anymore. It was too much. She needed him to share the load. Before she could echo him, however, whisper her own apology, his lips were on hers, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other holding her lower half so hard against him, she didn’t know where she ended and he began. Countless times he had kissed her in the past, but not like this, not so deeply.

  As Layla came back to the world and all who were in it, fireworks started exploding around them. Everyone’s attention was drawn from them to the skies above—everyone’s except Tara’s. Her eyes sought Layla’s and caused her again to gasp in wonder. What shone in them no firework could match.

  After waving a beaming Tara and Aiden off in her father’s car—they were going to spend their wedding night at The Trecastle Hotel, where the bridal suite was all ready for them—Joseph and Layla found themselves the only two people left on the beach. Since the kiss, she hadn’t stopped clinging to him, nor had he to her.

  Penny and Hannah had swiftly disappeared, not even saying good-bye, just leaving them to it, she supposed. There was still a lot of making-up to do.

  Joseph grabbed a picnic rug and a cushion, took her by the arm, and said, “Come this way.”

  Like a child being led, she followed him farther down the cove. The tide had gone out again and would stay that way for some time.

  Joseph laid out the rug and threw down the cushion. Still holding on to her hand, he pulled her down. He then took his jacket and wrapped it round her, leaning over to kiss her briefly on the lips as he did so.

  “So,” he mused, breaking away. “Jim. Do you think he’s got some sort of sixth sense? That song of his, who’d have thought it’d be about us?”

  “Well, you know what they say about Cornish people,” Layla replied. “They’re fey.”

  Joseph laughed, a sound she’d never be able to get enough of.

  “Joseph, I—” she began. Surely she had to say something, explain?

  “Don’t. There’s no need to go over and over it.”

  “But I have to say it. I haven’t yet. I’m sorry.”

  His reply was equally somber. “It’s a sorry situation, and we both made a hash of it. But we can learn. We can move forward, look ahead, not behind us.”

  He was right. They could learn. They would learn. And the here and now, their future, was all that mattered. Because at least they were lucky enough to have one. No longer would she let the past influence her. It was over; it was done with. Finally.

  “What about Florence?” she couldn’t resist asking. “Are you still going back tomorrow?”

  “No,” he replied.

  “No?”

  “Mine was the last seat; you won’t be able to get on the plane.”

  “I could follow a day or so later,” she suggested.

  Joseph shook his head. “We’ll go when we can go together.”

  For a few minutes, they sat in silence, content to listen only to the ebb and flow of the distant tide. Eventually, Joseph spoke again. “Layla, how would you feel if we didn’t go back—permanently, I mean?”

  “To Florence? Are you serious? Where would we go instead?”

  “That’s just it. We’d stay right here, in Trecastle, where home really is. Where our friends are, where we might be needed.”

  “But Stefania, Paolo…”

  “We’ll have to work out our notice for sure, but Paolo, he has plenty of carpenters and restorers champing at the bit to help him in the workshop, eager to learn from him. And I know you like working with Stefania, but, Layla, you should be concentrating on writing. That’s what you love doing, what you’re good at.”

  “But it doesn’t rake in the money, does it? Not yet, anyway. How would we manage?”

  He didn’t look fazed at all. “We’ve still got the rent coming in for my cottage. There’s a bit left over each month. We can use that to rent too—a flat in the village, or on the outskirts, at least. I’ll open up another workshop. I made it work last time; I’ll make it work again.”

  “Stay here?” Layla double-checked, a grin spreading across her face.

  “Yes. You and me, where we kick-started.”

  She’d love it; she knew she would. Florence might be stunning, but it was this part of the world that truly inspired her, that she felt she belonged to as she belonged to him. Had perhaps always belonged to, her entire lifetime.

  “Layla…” he prompted. “What do you think?” There was anxiousness in his voice.

  “I’ll start looking for accommodation straight away.”

  He smiled at her, that slow-burn smile of his, before grabbing at the cushion and laying it behind her. Pushing her down onto it, he started murmuring in her ear.

  “And that reunion scene…”

  “What reunion scene?”

  “The one in your book.”

  She pulled away slightly. “I told you, there is no reunion scene…” And then she stopped. “Oh, the reunion scene,” she said instead. “What about it?”

  “I’ve thought of a way to improve it.”

  “Improve it?” she questioned.

  “To make it mind-blowing, in fact.”

  She shrugged. “Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s put it into action.”

  As he leaned in to kiss her again, she closed her eyes, but not before noting how bright the stars were up above. It wasn’t her imagination. In a Cornish sky, they were so much more dazzling, shining not just for her but for all of them—always.

  The End

  Acknowledgments

  Once again, thank you to my trusty band of beta readers for all the feedback, all the suggested changes, and for all your unstinting support and encouragement. Thank you also to the fabulous Omnific Publishing, working with you is always such a pleasure. And thank you too to the readers, I hope you enjoy another rollercoaster ride.

  About the Author

  One of those rare
creatures—a true Brightonian—Shani was born and bred in the sunny seaside town of Brighton on the UK’s south-coast. One of the first literary conundrums she had to deal with was her own name: Shani can be pronounced in a variety of ways, but in this instance, it’s Shay-nee not Shar-ney or Shan-ni, although she does indeed know a Shanni—just to confuse matters further! Hobbies include reading, writing, eating, and drinking—all four of which keep her busy enough. After graduating from Sussex University with a degree in English and American Literature, Shani landed a job at a well-known holiday company. Although employed as a Brochure Production Executive, she promptly reinvented herself as a copywriter, a new position they were happy (if a tad bewildered) to concede to. At twenty-four, Shani became a freelance copywriter and has been one ever since, in between writing novels, that is. Her first book, The Runaway Year, is set between Brighton and North Cornwall, the latter a home-from-home for Shani, her husband, and three lovely kids. She also has a penchant for Glastonbury, another magical place, and don’t even get her started on Scotland—we’d be here all day!

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