Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
The train shudders as it comes to a stop, and I step onto the platform, the air thick with that cloying mix of diesel fumes and damp concrete. It’s strange how even the smell feels like a judgment. Welcome home, Lara Yates, where you’re always too much or not enough.
I adjust the strap of my laptop bag on my shoulder, its weight pulling me slightly off balance. The station looks the same as it did when I left for university fourteen years ago, right down to the “OUT OF ORDER” sign sellotaped to the vending machine. Nostalgia doesn’t hit—it creeps, slow and insidious, curling around me like ivy through cracks in old stone.
The cab ride from the station to my parents’ house is uneventful, which is to say, suffocatingly familiar. Rows of identical brick houses blur outside the window, each one indistinguishable from the next, save for the occasional brazen display of individualism in the form of cement render. By the time I pull up next to the house, my chest feels tight, like I’ve been holding my breath since stepping off the train.
The front door swings open before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt, and there she is—Mum. Still peering out at the world with that particular mix of concern and mild disapproval she’s always worn like armour, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her hair is shorter than I remember, dyed a shade too dark to look natural. She doesn’t wave, just stands there, framed in the doorway like she’s bracing herself for whatever version of me has shown up this time.
“Well, you made it,” she says as I lug my suitcase up the steps. No hello, no hug. Just those four words, delivered in that tone that somehow manages to sound both relieved and disappointed.
“Yep.” I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Still capable of navigating public transport.”
“Just about,” she replies, eyeing my shoes as if they offend her. They’re sensible flats, but apparently not sensible enough .
Inside, the house smells like lemon polish and something faintly burnt—a combination as persistent as it is uninviting.
Dad appears in the doorway of the living room, his reading glasses perched at the end of his nose. He glances up from his crossword long enough to muster a half-hearted, “Hi, love,” before retreating into the safety of his armchair fortress.
“Hi, Dad,” I reply, though he’s already disappeared behind the rustle of newspaper pages. Classic.
“Did you eat on the train?” Mum asks, her eyes darting toward my laptop bag. Not because she cares if I ate, of course, but because she’s dying to ask if I was working the whole journey.
“Yes,” I lie, because explaining that I spent two hours reading about a fictional duke ravishing a countess would only lead to questions I’m not prepared to answer.
“Good,” she says, the word clipped and efficient. “You look tired.”
“Thanks,” I beam. “Exactly what every woman wants to hear.”
She doesn’t laugh, just purses her lips in a way that makes me feel about ten years old.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” she says briskly, already turning toward the kitchen. “Dinner’s in an hour, and your cousin Emma’s coming over.”
Of course she is. Because nothing says “welcome home” like being reminded of all the ways you’re falling short compared to someone else.
* * *
“…and then we’re thinking of a spring wedding,” Emma chirps, her voice as bright and sugary as the lemonade Mum insists on serving to house guests. “You know, cherry blossoms, soft pastel aesthetic, maybe an outdoor ceremony—if the weather cooperates, of course.”
“Of course,” I echo absently, swirling my fork through the mushed broccoli on my plate. It’s been steamed to death, which feels fitting, given my current emotional state.
Emma doesn’t seem to notice—or care—that my enthusiasm is about as genuine as Mum’s compliments. She barrels ahead, waving one manicured hand in the air like she’s already tossing a bouquet. “We just didn’t want anything too fussy, you know? Tim and I are all about simplicity .”
“Mm,” I say noncommittally, glancing at my parents across the table. Dad is focused on his roast chicken like it holds the answers to life’s great mysteries, while Mum nods along to Emma’s monologue, her expression somewhere between polite interest and smug satisfaction.
“That sounds… nice,” I add, because someone has to say something, and apparently that someone is me.
“Doesn’t it?” Emma beams, radiant in a way only people with flawless skin and boundless self-confidence can be. “I mean, I know it’s not for everyone”—her eyes flick toward me, just briefly enough to sting—“but Tim and I just feel so ready, you know? Like, why wait?”
“Why, indeed,” I mutter under my breath. Emma doesn’t hear me, but Mum does. Her pointed inhale is almost theatrical.
“Emma, darling,” Mum says, steering the conversation like a pro. “Have you decided on bridesmaids yet?”
“Not officially,” Emma giggles, though it’s obvious she knows exactly who will—and won’t—be standing beside her on her big day. Spoiler alert: It’s not me.
“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to figure that out,” Mum assures her, before turning her attention to me. And here it comes—the pivot. “Speaking of time, Lara, how is work? Still keeping you busy, I imagine.”
“Always,” I reply, forcing a tight smile. “You know how it is.”
“Do I?” she counters, tilting her head in that way that makes me want to scream into a pillow. “I mean, you’re always working, aren’t you? Even on weekends?”
“Publishing isn’t exactly like teaching, Mum,” I say, keeping my tone light despite the tension building in my chest. “We don’t have a bell that rings and we can all go home. Deadlines don’t take days off.”
“Mm,” she says, her lips pursing ever so slightly. “But surely you could find time to?—”
“To what, Mum?” I cut in. “To plan a wedding? Because unless you’ve got a groom stashed in the pantry, I think I’m good.”
The words hang there, awkward and heavy, until Emma clears her throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I think weddings are, um, overrated for some people,” she offers, her voice faltering just enough to make me regret snapping.
“Sorry,” I say, dropping my gaze to my plate. The broccoli florets glare back at me, unhelpfully.
“All I meant,” Mum continues, ignoring the tension like a true professional, “is that it wouldn’t hurt to take a break now and then. You work so hard, Lara—too hard, really. You shouldn’t be on your own. Not at your age.”
“Thanks, Mum, exactly what I needed to hear.”
“Well, I’m only saying it because I care,” she says, her tone just shy of defensive. “And because, honestly, I worry about you sometimes. You put so much energy into your career, but…”
“But what?” I prompt, my voice quieter now. Smaller.
“Nothing,” she says quickly, brushing imaginary crumbs from the tablecloth. “Forget I said anything.”
“Done,” I reply, though the annoyance is beginning to boil.
Emma shifts in her seat, clearly desperate to change the subject. “So, uh, anyway, about the cake…”
Her words fade into background noise as I focus on cutting my chicken into precise, even pieces, pretending the table isn’t closing in around me. My mother’s words echo in my head, louder with each repetition: You work too hard. You look tired. I worry about you.
Translation: You’re not enough. You’ve never been enough .
“Excuse me,” I say abruptly, pushing my chair back from the table. “I need the loo.”
No one stops me as I slip upstairs to my childhood bedroom. I lean against the back of the closed door, staring at the faint Blu Tack marks still mapping out where my posters once took pride of place, willing myself to breathe. To let it go.
But the knot remains, tangled and stubborn, refusing to loosen.
The muffled sounds of conversation downstairs—Emma’s laugh, my mum’s voice, piercing even when she’s trying to be kind—fade slightly, but not enough. Never enough.
The room is smaller than I remember. Or maybe I’ve just grown too big for it, like an old cardigan I keep in the back of the closet out of misguided sentimentality.
The shelves are stuffed with books, their spines lined up in uneven rows, some leaning precariously as if they’re exhausted from holding themselves upright all these years. Titles I devoured in hours, worlds I escaped into when this house felt too stifling. It’s overwhelming and comforting all at once, like being wrapped in a blanket that smells faintly of dust and sorrow.
I kneel by the bed, pulling up the floral quilt that has remained since my mum bought it on sale at Marks & Spencer when I was twelve. My fingers fumble blindly until they hit cardboard. The box is heavier than I expect, or maybe I’m just out of practice lifting the weight of my teenage self.
I drag it out and sit cross-legged on the floor. The lid resists for a moment before giving way, revealing its chaotic contents: notebooks, loose papers, and a few crumpled envelopes. A time capsule of angst and ambition.
The first journal I pick up has a glittery purple cover. Of course it does. I flip it open and am immediately greeted by my own handwriting—big, loopy letters scrawled across the page with the urgency of someone who thought every word mattered.
My first and only attempt at keeping a diary. I began the first entry on January 1 st and only made it to February 5 th . Oh God. No. I slam it shut, face burning like someone might walk in and see. As if anyone cares what my fourteen-year-old self thought about… I glance again at the page. “…whether Ben noticed my new haircut today.” Jesus Christ.
“Moving on,” I say under my breath, digging deeper into the box. Another notebook catches my eye, this one black and spiral-bound, edges frayed from being shoved into too many backpacks. When I open it, the pages are filled with half-written stories, fragments of dialogue, ideas jotted down in frantic shorthand.
One catches my attention—a scene between two characters whose names I don’t recognise anymore, arguing over something dramatic and life-altering. The dialogue is clearly influenced by Bronte and Hugo, who I was reading at the time, dripping with melodrama, but there’s something raw about it. Honest. I can almost feel the version of myself who wrote this, curled up on this very floor, pouring everything I had into these words because I didn’t know where else to put it.
I flip through more pages, faster now. There are beginnings of stories—so many beginnings—but none of them are finished. Every single one cut off mid-sentence, mid-thought, like they were abandoned the second they demanded more than I was willing to give.
“Classic,” I whisper, leaning back against the bed frame. The familiar knot tightens in my chest, the same one I’ve been carrying since dinner. Since forever.
Because here it is, laid bare in front of me: proof that I’ve always been good at starting things and terrible at finishing them. Proof that even then—even before deadlines and editorial meetings and the constant pressure to fix other people’s work—I doubted whether I was good enough to create anything worth keeping.
I let the notebook fall closed in my lap, staring at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark star stickers are still up there, faded and peeling. I used to lie here at night, imagining they were real, wondering what it would feel like to reach for something so far away and actually hold on.
“Pathetic,” I say aloud, though my voice cracks on the word. I swipe at my cheek before I realise the tears are even there.
I shove the notebook back into the box and slide it under the bed with my foot, like that’ll somehow bury the mess of emotions clawing their way up my throat. Out of sight, out of mind—or at least, that’s what I tell myself. Except the weight doesn’t go away. It just sits there, heavy and unwelcome, pressing against my chest like one of those weighted blankets people swear are supposed to calm you down. Spoiler: it’s not working.
“Fixing,” I say aloud. My voice bounces off the walls, startling me. I scrub a hand over my face and try again, softer this time. “I’m good at fixing things.”
That much is true. Give me a manuscript riddled with plot holes and flat characters, and I’ll whip it into shape. Tighten the prose, rearrange the scenes, supercharge the stakes—it’s practically second nature now. I’ve spent years honing that skill, carving out a little corner of the publishing world where I’m the fixer. The surgeon. The person who makes other people’s stories better.
But creating something from scratch? That’s… different. It’s terrifying.
The last time I tried—really tried—was eight years ago, when I had just joined Scott & Drake as an editorial assistant, typing furiously every evening like my life depended on it. And maybe it did, in some small, melodramatic way. I wanted so badly to be good at it. To write something that wasn’t just decent but great. Something that mattered.
And when I couldn’t? When the words on the page didn’t match the ones in my head? I quit. Just like I always do.
“God.” I drag a pillow over my face like that’ll muffle the thoughts spiralling out of control. “What am I even doing?”
It’s not just about writing. It’s about everything. My job, my life, my endless string of carefully curated routines that make it look like I have my shit together when, really, I feel like I’m running on autopilot most of the time. Editing is safe. Comfortable. I know what’s expected of me, and I meet those expectations with ruthless efficiency, because that’s what I do. That’s who I am.
Isn’t it?
Beneath the pillow, I exhale, slow and shaky. The truth—the ugly, inconvenient truth—is that I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what I’m working toward or why. I don’t know if I want to climb higher in the publishing world or if I’ve already hit the ceiling. I don’t even know if editing is enough. Not when the idea of writing still lingers in the back of my mind, persistent and painful, like an old wound that never quite healed.
My phone is in my hand before I realise I’ve reached for it. It’s instinctive now, this endless cycle of distraction. Instagram, email, something, anything to keep my brain from spiralling too far inward. Except the Wi-Fi here is as bad as it was on the train, and the signal barely exists. Still, I swipe aimlessly, watching the little loading wheel spin like it might eventually unlock the secrets of the universe—or at least give me a meme that’s funny enough to make tonight feel like it was worth the trip.
The screen glitches, freezes, then kicks me back to my home screen. Perfect. I let out a breath that sounds more like a growl and drop the phone on my stomach. It bounces once before settling there, mocking me with its blank, unhelpful face.
I close my eyes, but that only makes things worse. With nothing else to occupy the space between my ears, my mind wanders. And where does it go? Straight to Rory Keane, like it always does when I’m not paying attention.
It’s stupid, really. He’s just this… guy. A ridiculously charming, infuriatingly talented guy who somehow made me agree to whatever this is. Friends. Lovers. Friends who sometimes sleep together, but definitely don’t talk about feelings, because that would ruin the whole casual vibe. Yeah, that’s us. Casual. Totally normal.
And yet, here we are. Or rather, here I am, lying on a single bed in my childhood bedroom, staring at glow-in-the-dark stars that have long since lost their glow, wondering if Rory’s even thought about me today.
“God,” I groan, shoving the pillow over my face. “You’re pathetic.”
But it doesn’t stop the questions. Has he thought about me? Does he care that I’m here, marooned in suburbia, slowly losing my mind? Or is he perfectly fine, living his perfectly fine life, completely unaware of the fact that I’m over-analysing every detail of our previous conversations?
Casual . Like saying it enough times in my head will make it true. Because that’s what we agreed on. No attachments. No complications. Just two people who happen to enjoy each other’s company—and occasionally each other’s beds.
Except it’s not that simple, is it? It never is.
Without thinking, I grab my phone again. My thumb hovers over the screen, and before I can stop myself, I’m scrolling through my contacts. Past coworkers, old friends, numbers I should’ve deleted years ago. And then there he is.
Rory.
His name sits there, glowing faintly in the dim light of the room, as if it’s daring me to press it. To call. To text. To do something .
But what would I even say? Hi, just checking in to see if you’re still unbearably attractive and emotionally unavailable. Cool, great, talk soon .
Yeah, no thanks. I lock the screen and toss the phone beside me, face down, as though hiding it will also hide the mess inside my head. But the weight of it lingers, heavy and insistent, pulling my thoughts back to him, no matter how hard I try to steer them elsewhere.
We’re fine, I tell myself. We’re exactly what we said we’d be. Nothing more, nothing less.
I lie back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling like it holds some kind of answer. It’s just beige paint and a faint crack that looks vaguely like Italy if you squint hard enough. The same ceiling I used to stare at when I was sixteen, dreaming about things like college or leaving this town or, God help me, marrying Jake Gyllenhaal. And yet here I am, thirty-two years old, lying in the exact same spot, no closer to figuring out what I want than I was back then.
Except now, instead of daydreaming about Jake in his US Marines uniform, I’m thinking about Rory Keane and his stupidly perfect jawline. Not exactly progress.
The truth, the one I’ve been tap-dancing around for weeks, sneaks past the cracks I’ve tried so carefully to plaster over. I like him. Not in the casual, “you’re fun to hang out with” way. In the dangerous, heart-thudding, why-hasn’t-he-texted-me-back way. The kind of way that wants more. More time. More nights. More… everything.
But admitting that out loud? Even just to myself? Feels like stepping onto thin ice and hearing it creak beneath me.
Because what happens if I say it—if I acknowledge that I’ve already broken the only rule we set, and he hasn’t? What if this whole thing really is as simple for him as we promised it would be? What if he is just fine keeping things light, while I’m over here mentally rewriting our meet-cute into something Nicholas Sparks-level tragic?
I sit up abruptly, tossing the pillow aside. My phone is still there, face down on the mattress, practically humming with accusation. Calling me a coward without even lighting up.
Okay, I think. Let’s say I text him. Let’s say I tell him I’m feeling things I shouldn’t be feeling. What’s the worst that could happen?
He’d hesitate. He wouldn’t reject me outright—not Rory—but there’d be a pause, a beat too long before he answered. And in that silence, I’d hear everything I already know but have been too stupid to accept. Oh, Lara, he would begin, not wanting to let me down, probably holding my hand earnestly . And then he’d remind me—gently, always gently—that this isn’t what we agreed to. This was to help him write the best book possible. Nothing more, nothing less.
And he’d be right.
I flop back onto the bed, exhaling hard. You’re being ridiculous, I tell myself, but the words don’t land the way they should.
Because the truth is, Rory hasn’t done anything to make me think he feels the same way. If anything, he’s been consistent. Affectionate, yes. Attentive. But never more than what we set out to be. Never anything that suggests this —whatever this is—could exist outside of our temporary editor/author relationship, beyond the pages of his manuscript.
And the real kicker? I knew what I was signing up for. I agreed to this. I knew what the dangers were. So why am I lying here, dissecting every look, every touch, every lingering pause, as if any of it actually means something?
It doesn’t.
The book is what matters. That’s the priority. That’s why I’m doing this. And if I have even an ounce of self-respect left, I’ll get it together and focus.
I close my eyes, forcing the tension from my body. There’s no point entertaining this anymore, no point indulging in foolish fantasies. I have a job to do. I won’t be the editor who gets too close, who complicates things for no reason. I won’t be the reason this book doesn’t get finished.
So, whatever I think I’m feeling? It doesn’t matter.
I take a deep breath, then another. I’ll bury it. Lock it away.
The book comes first. It has to.