Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BAD AUGUST
SHOT THROUGH THE HEART
Irisked taking the Northern Line a little way before I became too worried and got off. It was a long and unpleasant walk from Camden, past Primrose Hill, back to St. John’s Wood. Too long with too much time to think.
I’ve rehearsed this breakup about a hundred times and different ways now. I just have to go in, tell him I’m leaving, it was nice knowing him, really nice, maybe the loveliest thing ever, then walk out. Leave him better off than when I met him—that’s the goal.
I’m an hour early. I hope he’s home.
I know my assassin must have seen us together, must know I might come here. But with any luck, he got off on the wrong platform, or he’s still looking for me on that train.
I’m careful to scope out the area on approach. I check for him behind leafy trees, up and down every street, beneath all the cars. Looks like we’re good, but I’d best make this quick.
I jog to August’s door, maybe bang on it harder than I really need to, then slink back beneath the stairs. It’s only a few seconds until I hear the lock click, then I bound back out, acting perfectly casual and not at all like I just escaped a crazed gunman.
The door swings open.
August’s beautiful.
His big brown eyes grow a little larger. The flush is fast to heat his cheeks. The smile is immediate but drops to anxious in a second. He looks down at his clothes, as though there could ever be anything disappointing about finding him back in his hoodie and grey track pants. “You’re early.”
“I’m sorry. Can I come in?” I’m already pushing past him with a final check of the street outside to confirm I haven’t been followed.
He closes the door behind me, and a dark warmth descends all around.
His orange mushroom lamp is lighting the corner and the wallpaper, throwing a cosy glow over everything.
He’s got Poison playing on the turntable, but it’s just at the start of ‘Every Rose Has Its Thorn,’ and it sounds fantastic.
A few candles are flickering their gentle light, including a scented one.
‘Petrichor,’ it says on the label. It looks posh and new, and my stomach twists a little.
He didn’t buy that just for tonight, did he?
But then I scan the kitchen—the benches clean and bedecked with cooking ingredients. Garlic, yoghurt, pine nuts, fresh lemons, and an enormous pile of… “Zucchini?”
“Yeah.” Hands pushing deep into his pockets, he’s so fucking sweet. “I thought I’d make that thing. Like Mum used to make.”
Just hearing the word ‘mum’ from him makes me want to cry. We don’t say it, either of us. And seeing that pile of half-sliced food, just like I’d see in her kitchen when I was little, and knowing someone is doing this for me… it hits like a tonne of bricks.
I don’t remember the last time someone took care of me. At all. In even the most fleeting way. And certainly not someone who knows the things I didn’t even realise I was craving.
I’d never realised until just now, and it’s like fifty layers of hard plastic crack open all at once, leaving me vulnerable, on display. I don’t want to cry, so I hold myself still, and hope I can swallow this pain in my chest so I can speak again.
My reaction must have thrown him because he rushes out, “No pressure. It’s just dinner. I wasn’t… expecting anything from you.”
“No. August, it’s not that.”
“I’m…” He’s blushing deeper now, and I’m sure he’s thinking about last night too. The sound of his broken gasps falls over me, and I cannot believe I’m standing here in the presence of this man whom I’ve come to adore. And he’s doing all this for me. “It’s just casual. It’s just…”
Then he grabs my hand gently, leans in, and drops the smallest, most fatal kiss on my cheek.
I wish I could brand it on my skin.
I’m a wreck for him. I want him more than breath itself. I cannot walk away. I can’t do this. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.” He laughs lightly, places his pretty hand on his lovely chest. “I was going to get changed. I haven’t had a chance.”
“Please don’t.” Again, and always with August, my words come too fast. I can’t hide a thing from him.
Before I know it, my hand’s sunk into the soft and thick cotton at the groove of his hip, squeezing for the feel of him, for the comfort of him.
He yields to me like he’s as desperate for this as I am, sweet lips upturned in open expectation, a movement that’s as natural for him as it is for me.
I take his lips and press a long and lingering kiss, wishing it would be enough, wishing I could take that sensation with me for the rest of my life.
That I could bottle this, bathe in it, wear it like perfume, that it would always surround me everywhere I go.
Like I could ever get enough of August.
But I have to. I’m leaving him. Tonight. Forever.
I break the kiss as suddenly as I started it, the thought turning my face away from him. “Can I help?”
There’s a hesitation, and his hand drops from my shirt, the little creases he made with his curling fingers precious in every rise and fall. I usually leave everything behind when I leap worlds, but I’ll keep this shirt. How long will it keep his scent?
“You can. Um… You can… Want to lay them out for the grill?”
“Okay.”
I’m treating him horribly already. I know I am. Sending him mixed signals and barely able to string two words together. This wasn’t the plan. But he’s pulled the rug out from under me with this.
I set about laying the thin slices of zucchini side by side on the baking paper.
When I pick up the brush from the little bowl of olive oil, I can see it’s the same type Mum used to have.
A harsh and sharp memory of doing this with her comes back to me.
The way she’d let me paint the slices yellow.
How pretty it was, how tactile, the feel of the oil between my fingers, the colourful drops on the countertop.
The mess I’d never realised I was making for her, while she let me be near her, taught me these things that I’ve almost forgotten in all the years I’ve spent without a kitchen.
Not August. It’s here in his mind and his kitchen, alive in him. It’s home, in every brush and stroke and chop and movement. He’s quiet next to me, Poison still turning around on the record player, soft and wonderful, and never a song I thought would become so instantly dear to me.
“I got out at Camden and thought I’d just walk over. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I didn’t realise you were doing all this.”
“It’s not much,” he says, as though he didn’t just hand me the world on a plate. “I thought… you’re always in that room, working. And I wonder how often you get to cook something.”
“Never.”
“So, I guess you get sick of eating out. And going places. And I just thought it might be nice.”
Tears, vicious in my eyes, that I try to hide from him by lowering my head, concentrating on this simple task. “It’s really nice.”
“I thought we could just do that. And maybe… maybe you want to see the proper Desperately Seeking Susan? We could put it on, and… Unless you wanted to go out? Or do something else. Or anything. I don’t mind.”
“It’s perfect.” But this time I can’t keep the shake out of my voice. It breaks, and he’s looking at me, searching my features, and in half a second he’s slipped his arm beneath mine, pulled me around, and I’m in his arms. In his arms and home.
He doesn’t say a word, and it pours out of me—all the sadness, all the anger, all the frustration at that one point in time when my whole world turned to shit.
One second of bad timing from a bad driver that took both my parents and my whole life from me.
That sent me down the dark path that destroyed me.
That destroyed worlds. That brought me here, into the arms of this man, who’s the gentler, kinder version of me.
Who I might have been. And I can’t hurt him.
I can’t do it. I can’t and won’t let him down because he is me, but he’s a better me.
And he deserves to be loved and protected in a way I never was.
The way he’s protecting me now. And it’s breaking my heart.
It’s an effort to loosen my fingers when I realise how hard I’m gripping him. I wipe my tears onto my sleeve, and the mortification drops my eyes closed so I don’t have to see his reaction.
His hand lands on my cheek, soft, then drops away, and the gentle chop, chop of his knife on the board sets me free. So I grab the salt and start seasoning the zucchini.
How can he make everything so easy? He’s like walking magic. He doesn’t even ask, just goes to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of white wine, pours out two glasses, and puts one near my hand.
“You shouldn’t spend your money on me,” I tell him.
“It’s nothing fancy.”
“It’s…” My hand lands on the base of the glass, twisting it, the golden drink sparkling in the soft light just for a moment.
Then I grab his hand instead, force myself to look into his eyes and speak the words I’ve been wanting to say to him all day.
“You’re perfect. You’re the best man I’ve ever met.
I’m falling for you in a way that I didn’t know was possible.
And it’s breaking my heart that this is temporary. I don’t want to leave you.”
“Then don’t leave.” His words and his eyes are clear and open and vulnerable. Gutting.
“I don’t have a choice. It’s not up to me. But I wanted you to know that. There aren’t other men like you. There isn’t anyone like you.”
The words hit him hard, the overwhelming emotion written in the colour of his cheeks, his eyes skittering away as if he’s looking for a way to deny what I’ve just said. He tries with a joke. “You’re a little bit like me.”
“I’m not, though.” And the statement is both true and sad. “I wish I were like you. I wish I were half as clever and kind. And I’m certainly not as good-looking.”
He laughs. “Stop it. Look at your glasses. You look so hot. And I’d kill for skin as nice as yours.”
“Are you actually insane?”
“I think I might be. I am sort of… I’m not going to say dating, I guess…” There’s a touch of melancholy in his tone, but not a hint of bitterness. “I’m seeing myself. I’m liking myself. I think I have a pretty fierce crush on myself. So maybe that would be considered insane. By some.”
“I’m not you.” Not even a billionth as lovely as you.
“But you still are. And I like you back. And if you’re telling me not to get feelings because you’re leaving soon…” He sneaks a slight look over at me. “Then it’s too late. But that’s okay. I’m just thankful for the time we have. Even if there isn’t much of it.”
Feelings for me. For me. “I don’t want to let you down. I will disappoint you, August.”
I’m about to go on, to try to get it out, but he cuts in before I can.
“I don’t expect anything from you. Just so you know.
I’m not asking you to be my partner or move in, or to do anything with me.
I like spending time with you. It’s really that simple.
You make me happy. And I don’t want you to think you’re responsible for my feelings or my choices.
I know you have to go. I know you have work to do.
” He laughs again, like he’s trying to break the tension that I know is all me.
“So do me a favour and don’t break up with me because you’re worried about my feelings, okay?
If you’re happy, then can we just be happy? For a few days or a few weeks?”
You’re going to die.
You’re going to be dead in two weeks.
You’re going to be dead, and my heart is falling to pieces.
“Is that ridiculous?” His question reminds me my thoughts are all internal turmoil. For him, this is as sweet as it should be for me. Making him happy. No strings attached.
“If that’s what you want, then that’s what we’ll do,” I tell him. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t. I’ve been through it with shit men, believe me. But I’m never letting that happen again.” He turns away, breaking a clove of garlic off the bulb. “For tonight, I’m liking the boyfriend experience.”
A light laugh slips out of me. “Is that what this is?” I drop a kiss on his cheek, warmth spreading through every inch of me at the thought of it.
Him. My boyfriend. The impossible.
He turns his head towards me, leaning into the sensation. “Maybe. It’s easy with you. You make me happy.” He twists to catch my lips, a small peck.
And that’s all it takes.
The music moves on to the next track, the more upbeat if vastly inferior ‘Your Mama Don’t Dance.’ August’s cooking and singing, making small talk, and he’s right.
This is easy.
This is wonderful.
This makes me happy.
If I can only avoid thinking about what’s coming for both of us.