26
The day before I leave for England, I make a final stop in my favourite place in the city. It’s a Thursday, mid-morning, so the shop is pretty empty: a few elderly people and students mill around, browsing the bookshelves. As I enter, I’m hit with the memory of the last time I was here. Jack’s first event, where I was so furious with him that I was worried I was going to throw a drink over him. I smile sadly at the memory of it. That day seems so far away now.
I am browsing the new fiction shelves when I spot it, sitting front and centre, face out. Homecoming by Jack Carlson. My breath catches in my throat. My plan today had been to buy a book, any book, and spend the day reading it in my favourite armchair, upstairs in the fantasy section. If I’m being honest with myself, part of me is doing this to feel close to Jack, one last time. So it’s no surprise, really, that the first book that caught my eye was his. I’m reaching for it before I can think twice, and I pay and quickly ascend the stairs, moving fast so I don’t have time to have second thoughts.
I have a copy, somewhere in my apartment: a beat-up early print of it, left to me by my predecessor when I started my job. One I read weeks ago, driven by rage and necessity and an abject determination to do a good job, whatever the cost. This feels like a new book by comparison. Written by someone else. A boy I kissed in a park in Dublin, for no other reason than I wanted to. The boy who was driven to help me, no matter the hurt. The good parts of him that I shut myself away from, because it was too painful to face the fact that I liked him, I trusted him, and he hurt me anyway. I needed him to be the villain, so I didn’t have to feel that pain. But now I’ve finally moved through it, it’s fallen away, and I’m left with everything else. The way he looked at me, right before he pushed that hair away from my face. His hands, caressing my skin. His deep sense of righteousness, his desire to put things right between us. And a deep sense of what could have been, had I only been willing to take a second look.
The soft afternoon light wanes into dusk as I read, delving into the pages for the second time, languishing in them now. It’s everything I want in a novel, just as it was before: beautiful and poignant. The scenes set in Ireland are vivid, transporting. I could be there again, on the streets of Dublin with him, the wind whipping through my hair. But this time, I notice something I hadn’t seen the first time. Something I only know now I understand Jack better, and which makes me catch my breath: its pages are suffused with a sadness I’m familiar with; the kind of melancholy you only know when you’ve lost a parent. In his case, one who’s still alive. It’s a rare feeling: being deeply understood, like his hand is reaching out and taking mine. I grasp it, grateful for the connection even as it fills me with grief.
As the pace picks up in the second half, I read voraciously, taking in every word, imagining his hands typing them out carefully on his laptop, flexing as he tried to find the right words, the right turn of phrase. I wonder about the emotional journey he went on while writing this book, and whether it’s comparable to how I’m feeling now. And as the sky slowly turns a dusky grey, signalling that the shop must be near closing time, I reach the last chapter. My breath catches in my throat as I tear through it, desperate to get to the end before the shop closes. The feeling of turning the final page is like emerging from being underwater, taking a first breath – the world feels new again. Tears roll down my face as I close the book, pooling in my collarbone. For the little boy who used to sit in this chair, alone. For the Jack who only ever wanted to apologise, to make things right.
I sit there for a few more minutes, so absorbed in my thoughts that I don’t hear footsteps until he’s standing next to me.
‘Caught red-handed,’ he says, smiling sadly, gesturing to the book in my hand. I wipe my eyes carefully, but this time, unlike that night in this same bookshop which now feels so many moons ago, I don’t feel the urge to push him away.
‘It’s so beautiful, Jack.’ I want to say more than I did in the park – that it’s grabbed hold of me in a way that no book has for a very long time, that I found so much of myself in its pages it was startling. But, somehow, I don’t think I need to say those things.
He sits down on the window ledge next to me, his legs dangling. ‘I heard you quit,’ he says, simply. There’s no judgement in his tone, nor surprise; he sounds idly curious. As with most of my interactions with him in the last few weeks, I feel no expectations from him, no pressure to explain myself.
‘Jack, I—’ I start, and he puts his hand up to stop me, a mirror of the gesture I used a month ago in this exact spot.
‘Let’s not pretend this is anything other than it is, Andie,’ he says, a smile creeping across his face. He’s enjoying the symmetry with that night, enjoying being the one in control this time. ‘Two people who clearly have feelings for each other.’
‘How do you know I have feelings for you?’ I say, before I can stop myself.
‘Your handover notes,’ he says, his smile growing broader. What is he talking about? For a second I’m immeasurably confused, then it comes back to me: I was in such a rush on my last day that when I typed ‘j’ in the search bar to send my handover notes for my replacement on to Jessica, I must’ve clicked on Jack’s email rather than hers. Meaning he read everything I wrote about him, and the trip. Oh, God.
‘ Jack is one of the most special authors I’ve ever worked with ,’ he says, now reading from his phone. ‘ He’s kind and generous with his time, a brilliant public speaker, and he gives off such an openness and charisma that people can’t help but be drawn to him. Whoever gets to work on his next campaign is very fortunate; you will hardly have to do anything other than watch people fall in love with him, and his books (which, by the way, are wonderful). Need I continue?’ he says. I shrink into my chair. I could not be more embarrassed than if he had found the pictures of me at five years old, naked in my family paddling pool.
‘Delete that, now,’ I say, standing up and reaching to grab his phone. He catches my hand in mid-air and holds it, circling my palm with his thumb. I want to pull away, but something stops me.
‘I was so horrible to you,’ I say instead. ‘I don’t understand why you don’t hate me.’
At this he lets go of my hand – my stomach drops in disappointment, and I have to fight the urge to reinstate physical contact. ‘Andie, I don’t think you understand that I could never, ever hate you.’
‘But—’ I start, but he cuts me off.
‘You acted like an arsehole at points, sure. But you were in pain. And you’re human. And I did fuck things up, back then.’ He looks down at his legs, swinging them from the ledge. ‘I knew what I was getting into with this tour, Andie. And I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.’
‘Why?’ I ask, not allowing myself to consider the possibility of his answer aligning with my deepest hopes. But then he looks at me, and I know.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ he says. He gets down from the ledge and moves over to my chair. My breath catches in my throat. He reaches for my hands and gently pulls me to my feet, his gaze burning into mine. ‘The only time you hurt me, truly hurt me, was when you left me on that bench in the car park. That hurt like hell, Andie,’ he says, brushing my hair away from my face. His fingertips set off a thousand nerve endings on the surface of my skin. I can hardly think straight. Half-formed thoughts like I’m leaving for England tomorrow and this is a terrible idea flash through my mind but his hand is running down my arm now, and I find myself drawn towards him, pressing myself against him.
He looks down at me, as if waiting for permission, his hand resting softly on the side of my face, barely brushing my skin. My breath catches in my throat, and I hesitate for a moment, a thrill moving up my spine, then run my hand down his back, feeling it arch under my touch.
For a moment, as his gaze burns into me, worry moves through me – that I’ve misread this somehow, that he’s going to pull away. That this is all a dream.
Then he cups my face and kisses me, and my thoughts stop altogether.
I sink into him, soaking up as much of this moment as I can. I dig my fingertips into his back and he moans softly and kisses me harder, pushing me against the bookshelf behind me. I hear some books fall to the ground, and I should care, but I don’t – all I care about is getting as much of Jack as I possibly can, my whole body alive with wanting him. I’ve never felt this way before, about anyone I’ve ever slept with. It’s even more potent than it was in Edinburgh, in Dublin. When we eventually come up for air, breathless, a few moments later I feel lightheaded, like I don’t quite know where I am. He leans against the bookshelf next to us and presses his forehead to mine.
‘I’m leaving for England tomorrow,’ I say. Though I desperately don’t want to ruin the moment, I can’t let this go further without telling him. I’m done with deceiving people.
‘For how long?’ he says, his voice soft. His left hand is still on my hip, and his grip tightens slightly, as if he’s worried I’ll leave right now.
‘Indefinitely,’ I say, hoping against hope that this won’t break the spell, that he’ll stay in the moment with me for as long as possible. He lets out a breath, but doesn’t move. When he speaks, it sends shivers down my whole body.
‘So we still have tonight,’ he says, his voice low and urgent. I nod, hardly daring to make a sound. He leans in and kisses me again, soft and slow, pulling away before I’m ready for him to stop. His eyes still on me, anchoring me to the bookshelf behind me, he takes his phone out of his pocket and calls his driver, then practically carries me down the stairs of the shop into the waiting car.
This time, there’s nothing rushed about it. When we get back to his flat he undresses me slowly, his eyes running over my body as if he’s memorising every inch of it. As my shirt drops to the ground he leans in and pushes my hair away from the back of my neck. I know what he’s looking for before he finds it: the freckle, the cause of all this strife. He pauses for a moment, then traces it gently with his finger, like he did so many years ago. I arch my back as he does, pressing into him, feeling how much he wants me.
He turns me towards him, then reaches behind me and unhooks my bra, his lips tracing a path across my shoulder as he does so. I am on fire with want, with need, but I want to savour this. I might not get another chance. I run my fingertips down the back of his neck and he moans softly into my shoulder, then kisses me deeply. I can feel the edge of need in the way he kisses me: he’s savouring this, too, holding himself back so we don’t lose ourselves just yet. He cups the back of my neck gently and deepens the kiss, leading me towards the bed as he does so. Where before I was so caught up in the moment I was barely aware of time passing, now I feel every second – every glance, every touch. His eyes locked on mine, pinning me in place. It’s as if time has slowed down for this, for us. He runs his hand down my side, setting me on fire again.
‘Jack,’ I say, desperation entering my voice, trying to communicate just how much I want him. ‘Please,’ I say. He closes his eyes, as if this overwhelms him, then leans down and kisses my neck, slowly pushing me onto the bed.
If last time was a flash of lightning, the culmination of the growing tension between us, this is a slow, delicious burn. As he touches me, I feel seen in ways I’ve never allowed myself to be seen before – as if he has stripped back not only my clothes but everything I use to keep myself hidden. My defensive humour, my insults, my sarcasm. My focus on being a success in my career. It’s all gone. The Andie he is seeing now is just that: Andie, without any accomplishments to her name, melting into the moment, into him. And in return, as he starts to lose control, I see the real him: not author Jack, but raw and broken Jack. The Jack who kicked the ramparts of the castle, who told me he never wanted me to be a one night stand. The Jack who cared enough to help me, when no one else in the swim team would’ve even considered it. He tangles his hands in my hair, and it occurs to me that some part of me has seen him in this way all along. It’s just been buried under everything else: my hatred, my anger, my pain. My grief. Now, in this moment, falling away, allowing me to see him more clearly than I ever have. The pleasure builds to a peak, overwhelming me momentarily then melting slowly into a beautiful melancholy that spreads through me as I kiss him.
We stay up most of the night, sinking into each other as much as we can, slowly at first, the urgency between us growing as the morning creeps closer. There’s so much to say, but also so little – we communicate with our bodies, unwilling to speak, to face the reality of the situation, determined to savour every second of one another. But then the morning light starts to filter through the windows as I come apart for the last time, the sun moving across my eyelids as they close, my hands twisting in the sheets. When I come back to the surface I can see in his eyes that he knows it, too. It’s time.
‘Don’t go,’ he says, reading my thoughts. He traces his hand gently down the side of my face, his eyes deep with longing.
‘I have to,’ I say, my heart breaking as I do. ‘I can’t trust myself to be close to you right now.’
‘What if I said I trust you?’
I stroke his face gently, trying not to dwell on how sad he looks, how sad I feel, too. ‘I’d say you’re misguided,’ I say.
‘But—’
‘I’m in love with you,’ I blurt, cutting across him.
This shuts him up. He looks at me, suddenly serious. ‘I’m in love with you,’ I continue, ‘and because of that, I can’t be with you right now. I’m still working through so much, still untangling so much pain. It wouldn’t be fair, to throw you into the middle of all that.’ My chest constricts – I am at my most vulnerable right now, my most exposed, but I have to say it. I have to be honest with him. He deserves that much, at least.
There’s a moment of silence, while he processes my declaration. ‘Well, that sucks,’ he says, eventually. I laugh.
‘Not exactly the response I was expecting,’ I say.
‘You know what I mean,’ he says. ‘You love me, so you don’t want to be with me. That’s pretty fucked up logic, Andie. And don’t I get a choice in all this? What if I told you I want to be in the middle of it?’
I shake my head, slowly, sadly.
‘I can’t let you,’ I say, and a silence falls between us. I’m in the midst of trying to figure out what to say next when I catch sight of the clock on his bedside table. If I don’t leave right now, I’m going to miss my plane. He sees where I’m glancing and his expression darkens slightly.
‘You need to go, right?’ he says, and I nod. I lean in and kiss him once more, memorising the feel of his lips on mine, then take a breath and force myself to focus on the task at hand. I get out of bed, dressing in a frenzy. With every second that takes me closer to leaving, I feel worse, but I know it’s the right thing. It has to be. I can’t hurt him again, not now I’ve finally been able to see how wonderful he is. How deeply I care about him. Maybe one day will be the right time for us – but it’s not right now.
When I’m ready to go, I turn to him. ‘It’s not goodbye,’ I say, fighting against every instinct I have to stay. ‘Just – see you when I see you.’
‘I’ve always hated that saying,’ he says, as I walk towards the door and open it. ‘Hey,’ he calls, just as I’m about to leave. I turn and catch his eye. ‘You know I love you too, right?’ he says, his voice low. Yearning spills through every part of me as he says it.
‘I know,’ I say, staring into his eyes one last time, trying to memorise their exact colour, the flecks of green in the deep, clear blue. Then, before I can lose my nerve and run back to him, I turn away, walk through the door and shut it behind me.