Chapter 16
Story
“This is a stupid idea, Story.”
“I know, Story, but I’m not sure what else to do.”
“Screams desperation if you ask me, Story.”
“Shut up, Story. I didn’t ask you.”
“It’s just going to be the same situation as before.”
“No, it’s not.”
“We’ll see.”
As conversations I’ve had with myself go, it’s not the best. I’ve also never done it while carrying a basket of apples. But here we are. I just really wish Glenda hadn’t witnessed it.
“Are you coming in, dear?”
I wave at her from across the high street, wishing she weren’t quite so loud and there weren’t quite so many people between us. “In a minute, Glenda.”
“Hendricks isn’t here if that’s what you’re worried about.”
For fuck’s sake, does everyone here already know my business? I bet it was that bloody nurse on Thursday night who told everyone.
I don’t want to count how many pairs of eyes just looked at me, likely nudged each other, and debated on whether I was a pathetic loser. Jury’s still out on that one for me. I mean, what’s that saying? “If he wanted to, he would.”
And Hendricks might have given off all the vibes of wanting to kiss me, but whether he did is another matter. He didn’t. And while I’d like to say it’s the first time that’s happened, it isn’t.
I thought he might call, seeing as “he knows my number by heart,” but he didn’t do that either, and it’s been two days.
I know being interrupted by a goat technically isn’t his fault, and Churchill needed more painkillers, blah, blah, blah, but he never tried to kiss me again.
Not once Churchill was asleep, and not at all during the journey home when he dropped me at my door.
And when he snapped, “I know where you live, Story,” after I mistakenly attempted to give him directions, I put the near kiss down to the heightened emotions brought on by an early evening goat rescue.
“Doesn’t explain what he said to you, though, does it, Story?”
“No, Story, it doesn’t. Which is why you’re standing outside the vets, Glenda waving you in, and with half of Valentine Nook staring at you as she does.”
“Then get a move on.”
“Urgh. Fine.”
Pulling up my big girl knickers, I dodge a couple of shoppers and run up the steps to the vet before anyone else can see me.
“Hello, dear. How’re you doing?”
I heave the basket onto the countertop and put on my best cheery face, like it’s perfectly normal for me to visit the vets on a Saturday. “Not bad, thank you, Glenda. How are you?”
“Smashing. Absolutely smashing, and so lovely to have you back. Bet your mum and dad are pleased. How is your dad?”
I think back to this morning and my dad yelling, “Where’s my bloody crutch?”
My mum walked out because she’d had enough, muttering, “You better hope you don’t find it because I’m going to knock you around the head.”
“Oh, he’s on the mend. Been down at the yard a lot—”
“Yer mum left me a couple of pints of milk yesterday. Will you thank her for me?”
“I will do.”
“Now, how can I help you? Heard you had a dramatic evening on Thursday?”
I nod, smile, and chuckle, just as Glenda is doing. “Just a little. These are for the patient if he’s still here,” I add, patting the apples. I don’t actually know he’s here, because while I want to see him, they’re a pretense to come for who I really want to see.
I am so lame.
“He is. It was best we keep him here to stop him from tearing his stitches by running around the village. You know, Eunice can’t keep him in his stable because he always escapes.”
“Can I go see him?”
“I’m sure he’ll be delighted.” She grins. “Go through the back theater to the recovery room, and he’s there. Maybe don’t give him the whole basket, though, dear.”
“Don’t worry. Just a couple.” I wink. “And . . . er, there’s no one else here?”
She shakes her head. “Nope.”
“Cool. Won’t be long then.”
Churchill looks about as pleased to see me as a goat can possibly look wearing a pair of striped pajamas.
I forgot we put him in them, but after he woke up, Hendricks said it would keep him calm if he woke again.
“Hi, darling.” I grab a couple of apples from the basket and leave the rest on the side, then walk over to the little enclosure we made for him.
I thought he might still be a bit dopey, but after he jumps up from his—very comfortable, I might add—bed and tries to butt me, I decide he isn’t. And seeing as it’s a more playful butt than anything aggressive, I also decide he knows exactly who I am—namely, his savior.
“You’re welcome, Churchy. And I brought you something to cheer you up.” I hold out the apple, which he immediately snatches and gobbles down. “Think we need to work on our manners.”
They’re no better the second time around. I hold out a third. “Gentle, this time.” But then the door swings open, startling him enough that he snatches it and nearly takes my fingers off in the process. “Ouch. Fuck. Sorry, Glenda, just teaching Churchill some manners.”
It’s not Glenda.
Hendricks smirks, a barely there lip quiver that makes my heart stumble. “You’re trying to teach a goat manners?”
Passing the last apple to Churchill, I push up off my knees and stand in front of Hendricks. Me short, him tall. “Manners are important.”
“They are.” He steps back and leans against the smooth metal countertop running around the room. Now we’re separated by a table.
“What’s that?” I point at the trainer in his hand.
The trainer identical to the one I lost in the mud on Thursday. The trainer that wasn’t there on Friday, or this morning when I went to look for it.
“I found it on the way home—”
“It’s clean—”
“I had it washed.”
He places it on the table between us, and I pick it up to smell it. I know, weird. But it’s clean, and Hendricks washed it. Or he instructed one of the Burlington staff, but same dif.
And then I remember all the clothes Hendricks lent me, which are still at my place. Including his jumper, the one I haven’t been sleeping in because it doesn’t smell like him. Definitely not.
“Shit, I should have brought your things back too—”
“You can bring them another time.”
“Okay.” I nod, and I wait.
Wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t do anything except stand there looking like cashmere was invented for him, all blue eyes and full lips, thick curls and dark stubble. It’s ridiculous.
The first time Hendricks and I nearly kissed, he pulled back and left me so abruptly. I didn’t hear from him again for a week and when I did, it wasn’t the same. The summer I was hoping might happen fell flat on its arse. We never talked about what happened.
The only times we visited the waterfall that summer were with groups of friends, where I’d watch him go off with every girl who wasn’t me.
I should have called him out then, but I didn’t.
Not this time. I’m older—debatably—more mature, and I’ve already lost everything I was once terrified of losing.
“So. Are we going to talk about Thursday night?”
He pushes his hands deep into his pockets. “Sure. What do you want to talk about?”
I know he knows me better than to think I’m going to back down from this conversation, but jeez, not even meeting me halfway. Okay then.
I start with a lighthearted, “We nearly kissed . . .”
For a split second, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “Yup.”
“And then we were interrupted.”
He nods. “We were.”
“Are we going to pick up where we left off?”
Every cell in my body tenses. My breath is stuck somewhere between my lungs and my mouth.
Eventually, his head shakes softly. My stomach drops, and it feels like every organ falls into the empty space it left behind.
“I told you so.”
“Shut the fuck up, Story.”
“I’m sorry.” He almost whispers to himself. “I can’t.”
“Can’t? What does that mean? Can’t or don’t want to?” It comes out way snarlier than I mean it.
His eyes bounce between mine, confused almost, but whatever emotion it is vanishes the next time I blink. “It’s not a good idea. Too complicated. I have too much going on in my life right now.”
My jaw clenches. “Complicated? Seems pretty simple to me. What about everything you said?”
“Stor . . .” His tone is so anguished, I almost feel sorry for him. “I shouldn’t have done it. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
“Almost.”
“Yes, almost. I’m sorry.”
The disappointment is tangible. So is my frustration, even as I try to take breaths to stay calm, but it all comes rushing back—the humiliation, the embarrassment, the desolation of unrequited love.
“I cannot believe you’re doing this again.”
The anguish vanishes. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means this isn’t the first time,” I snap, but we may as well get to the bottom of everything while I’m here. “Was it too ‘complicated’ then?”
“Then? When?”
“The first time you almost kissed me. On the hill, when you took off and barely said goodbye, and practically ignored me for the rest of the summer. I want to know what happened.”
His brows become a dark slash on his face. “Stor, stop it—”
“No, I want to know.” I’m this close to stamping my foot. “I deserve to know why you—”
“Clemmie told me she saw you making out with Sam Pelling—”
I balk, because what the actual fuck? “What?”
“That dickhead. Sam Pelling.”
“I know who you’re talking about. And he’s not a dickhead. And I never snog . . .” I pause as an eleven-year-old memory barrels into me. Well, shit.
Hendricks’s eyes narrow, his behavior justified. “Yes?”
I’d completely forgotten about that night.
Sam and I used to fool around in sixth form, nothing serious, but I’d totally blanked that anything had happened before then.
And by that point, after a summer of watching Hendricks with other girls, I’d resigned myself to the fact that we would never happen.
Now I learn we’re nothing but a product of bad communication and insecurity, and that perhaps I’m fifty percent responsible for this situation.
My shoulders drop, and the frustration is replaced by contrition.
“Okay, there’s a small chance I might have snogged him that summer.” I squash my fingers together. That’s how small the chance is. Although it’s accurate, so not that small. “There was a bunch of us drinking after our final exams. We played spin the bottle . . .”
Hendricks’s jaw is so tight I can make out the divots from him clenching. I can almost hear his heart pounding as he weighs up the decisions he made eleven years ago. He stares at me. Stares and stares and stares, until, “Fuck!”
I don’t move, watching as he paces back and forth across a room not built for pacing, given it only takes him five steps before he has to turn around again.
“Um . . . just for clarity, are you mad I snogged Sam Pelling? Or mad that we didn’t . . .” I gesture back and forth between us.
“Both. Fuck. Fuck. Story, this is fucked up. We are fucked up—”
I scoff. “I mean, that’s a bit extreme—”
“No, it’s not.” He shakes his head, slumping back. Dejected.
“Hen, two days ago you told me you loved me.”
“I did love you, Story. I do. That’s the problem.” His fists ball against his forehead, and when he looks at me, all I see is enough sorrow that my heart cracks. “I meant what I said the other night. When you left, it was like you died. I can’t do that again, and I’m not willing to.”
Oh my God. How am I back here? How is it fourteen years ago, eleven, six? His eyes find a point somewhere on the wall, looking at anything but me, standing here in disbelief.
I glance down at a wet sensation and find Churchill licking my hand. It’s so gentle it overwhelms me. I’m tired, I’m emotional, I’m humiliated and before I can stop it, I’m choked by a sob.
Immediately, I’m engulfed in cashmere and the delicious masculine scent of the countryside and everything I associate with Hendricks.
I let him hold me as I cry, his chin on my head like it always used to be when we hugged, and the most ridiculous thought pops into my head.
I will never know what Hendricks’s lips feel like against mine.
I cry harder.
“I’m sorry, Stor. I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his breath hot against my head.
“But my son takes priority over everything. I have to concentrate on being the best dad I can be, and I can’t think straight when you’re around.
I’m not bringing someone into his life who’s going to leave again.
It doesn’t matter how much I want you, how much I love you.
Have always loved you, Stor. I’m not the same person you left here, and I need to get used to you being here for now .
. . until you leave again. Friends is all I can offer you. ”
His lips press against my temple. The hope I had this morning that perhaps, finally, our time has come is dashed.
And the worst part is, he’s not wrong.