Chapter Twenty #2
‘You were the one bothered by Taylor Swift. Five, mood swings, feeling unexpected emotions or confusion, memory problems.’
‘Any of that?’
I laughed. ‘Confusion and unexpected emotions? Since I walked up the hill this afternoon. They haven’t got worse since I fell over.’
‘And memory problems?’ Ethan trailed his fingertips along my collarbone, his skin cold from holding the ice, and I licked my lips. There was a lot happening in my body and mind that I was struggling to make sense of, but none of it was to do with whacking into the table.
‘My memory is surprisingly strong right now,’ I told him.
‘Yeah.’ I heard him swallow. ‘For me, too.’
He stopped talking and the silence hung between us, but I no longer felt on the verge of a nap, because I was a bundle of charged nerves, waiting for what came next.
‘You know,’ he murmured, ‘it’s a good thing that I was here, that I could get the ice for you.’
‘Why’s that?’ I asked, but my throat tightened because I knew what was coming.
‘Because something tells me you wouldn’t do a very good job by yourself.’
I was transported back to the girls’ bathroom in sixth form, Ethan pressing damp tissue paper into my grazed knee, a gaggle of students walking in on us. ‘Maybe I wasn’t that bothered because I didn’t need to be,’ I said.
‘Right. Because smashing your shoulder open on a glass table is nothing.’
‘Ethan,’ I said with a laugh, ‘one, I didn’t smash it open : it’s bruised, not cut. Two, it was a bump, not a smash, and that’s a whole different thing.’
‘What’s three?’ he asked, and I realized I was doing my lists out loud again. Mum was always telling me I didn’t need to number my points before I said them, and I thought I’d got out of the habit, but … I froze, caught in a set of imaginary headlights.
‘What do you mean, what’s three ?’ I whispered.
‘You know. Numbering all the reasons my assessment of your accident is inaccurate. What number will you get up to?’
‘Why would I get up to any particular number?’
‘Georgie.’ It was Ethan’s turn to laugh. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
I turned around, so I was kneeling on the sofa cushion between his legs, looking down at him. ‘You know I put things into lists like that?’
‘Of course.’ He frowned. ‘You’ve done it ever since I’ve known you.
One , we can’t go to the beach because it’s been raining all day and the sand will be sludge, Two , we can’t go to mine because Mum is home, Three , we can’t go to yours because your whole family will be there and they’ll probably be arguing, Four , the abandoned house is full of dust and rats. It’s a Georgie thing, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose.’ My voice was a scratch because I was all too aware of where else I’d used those numbered lists. I sank onto my haunches and trailed my finger up the front of Ethan’s shirt. ‘You know when you were redoing the fireplace in here?’ I said it in as casual a voice as I could manage.
‘Yeah?’ But suddenly he couldn’t look at me, his gaze set firmly on the storm beyond the window, and I knew what he’d found, and I knew that he’d read them.
‘Fuuuuuuuuck.’ I slumped forward, my head landing in the crook between his shoulder and his neck. His arms came around me immediately.
‘I wish you’d actually sent them,’ he said, sounding choked.
At that moment, everything I thought I knew about where we both stood in our tentative, topsy-turvy reunion in this sumptuous prison dissolved into dust.
Dear Connor,
Why am I still calling you Connor? There’s no chance you’re going to find my letters now.
You’re not here to go snooping while I’m in the bathroom and find them under a cuddly turtle.
It’s how I started writing to you, and it’s an important part of the ritual now, as if, by referring to us as Connor and Amelie, we’ll have the same sort of epic romance they had.
But it didn’t work out for them, either.
If I was writing books, they would always have happy endings, however bitter I felt about my own life. You owe it to the readers, don’t you, if you’re a romance author? S. E. Artemis should have thought about that when she was finishing The Whispers of the Sands.
I’ve followed you on Instagram, but you won’t recognize me from my username or photos – I’m not much more human on there than a bot.
You would laugh, roll your eyes at how long it took me, my finger hovering over the ‘follow’ button like I was about to launch a nuclear attack instead of connect with my ex.
There are lots of photos of you with beautiful women, and short, bland captions.
You are the classically filtered version of yourself, but your hair is still my favourite disaster zone of all time.
But where are the life updates? I don’t know if you’re qualified and following your dreams of being an architect.
I almost tracked down Orwell, deciding that a few minutes in his company would be worth it to get some intel, but he’s left Alperwick.
Kira doesn’t know where he’s gone, but she’s going to ask Freddy.
I’m still freelance, but the North Cornwall Star are putting me on retainer, so I’ll have a steady income at least. I’ve started writing short stories again, and I’ve even finished a couple.
They’re not good enough to share with anyone, though I would have let you read them, because I always loved you reading my stuff.
Mum’s not doing so well, and it’s hard, sometimes, trying to keep her spirits up.
I’m trying to get her outside as much as possible, to go for walks on the beach or to the local café.
Things would be so much easier if I had you to talk to, but is that just an excuse? Maybe I need to finally let you go.
I hope you’re well, Ethan, that you’re thriving and happy.
I love you and I miss you
Yours always, Georgie xx