Chapter 30
Darius
“Why so glum, sugarplum?” Florence asks, bumping my shoulder with hers, which makes me spill the milk I was pouring. “Shit, sorry.” She grabs a cloth and wipes up the mess on the counter, then dabs it over the fabric of my splint.
“It’s fine.” I take the cloth from her and finish drying the milk off my hand. “I’m not glum. I’m fine.”
“Such a bad liar,” she muses, throwing a spoonful of marshmallows into my drink.
My shift is over and I’m stalling, planning to sit and read in the corner rather than go home and lock myself in my room.
“You’re as glum as a storm cloud.” She pulls on the cord of my hoodie.
“Since when do you wear black and sweats to work?”
Since I stopped caring about anything but counting down the days until I can end my farce of a marriage.
“Are you going to see your dad this evening?” It’s Friday, and in the past, that is what I would be doing.
But not anymore. I went once, two weeks ago, the Friday after I saw Oliver at Bar La Vella, and decided I can’t do it again.
I cannot look at my father without feeling betrayed.
More so when it became clear my stepmum knows nothing about what’s going on.
I don’t know how she’d feel about it all, given their marriage was born out of a desire to elevate both her father’s and my father’s status.
Maybe ignorance is bliss, and she’s happily ignorant.
Or maybe she knows more than she’s letting on. Either way, family dinners are over.
I will save my father’s ass and his company, but our relationship will never be the same.
“No.” I take a sip of hot chocolate, loving the burst of sweetness on my tongue.
“Want me to come over tonight and we’ll stare daggers at that husband of yours before watching some true crime?”
I laugh, and it feels good. Florence still doesn’t know the full story.
She knows my marriage is part of an arrangement, but she’s never pressed me for more details, for which I am grateful.
Unlike Caiden, who handles me with kid gloves, and Darcey, who is a ball of fire and rage aimed at Floyd whenever she sees me, Florence keeps things the way they’ve always been.
Giving me the sense of normalcy I’ve otherwise lost.
“That does sound fun, but don’t think I forgot about your date tonight.” Her cheeks flush, and she dips her head. “I take it that’s going well?”
“Yeah, it really is.” She nods, adding another helping of marshmallows to the now half full mug of hot chocolate that I’d put back on the counter. I’m overcome with the need to hug her, so I do just that. She makes a gasp of surprise before wrapping her arms around me in return. “What’s that for?”
I step out of her hold. “For being awesome.” She smiles at my response, but then her attention is called away by a customer.
I take my mug and my bag and sit at a table in the corner next to the window.
Outside, the sun is fighting to peek through the clouds.
It’s late March, so still cool out, but there are signs of spring, which should make me happy, because I love the spring.
The crisp mornings, the fresh bursts of colour, the scent of blossoms in the air, but right now nothing is bright – a dull haze has settled over my entire life.
I open my bag, place my phone and book on the table, and then sip at my lukewarm drink. I’m staring out of the window, watching a pigeon battle with the remainder of someone’s lunch on the pavement when my phone beeps. Picking it up, I unlock it to read the message from Darcey.
Dars: Beach House. This weekend. You and me. Don’t say no.
Darcey’s family owns a small converted fisherman’s cottage in the small town of Whitstable. It’s a stone’s throw away from the pebbled beach and a short walk from the harbour. We’ve spent some amazing weekends there together, but I haven’t been in at least a year.
Me: When are you heading down?
I like the idea of getting away for the weekend, of a reprieve from the discomfort of sharing a space with Floyd.
Dars: Tonight. See you there.
I smile at the screen and at how she’s not asking me to be there, but telling me. She knows how much I need this.
I chuck my book into my bag and stand, waving to Florence, who is serving a customer. She waves back, and I pull the hood up on my hoodie as I open the door, wishing I’d remembered my coat.
Me: I’m in. See you later. Taking the train. Not driving with this splint on.
She sends me an angry face emoji, which I know is directed at Floyd – even if I told her the same bicycle story I told his family and Florence, Darcey doesn’t believe it.
I take a cab back to the flat. Floyd’s office door is shut when I walk in, so I creep as quietly as I can into my room, locking the door behind me before throwing clothes and toiletries into a bag, careful not to make too much noise.
It’s not lost on me how fucked up it is that I’m too afraid to move freely in my own home, but the last thing I need is a confrontation with my husband.
I feed Norman, set his automatic feeder, then tell him I’ll be back soon, before slipping out of my room.
It can’t lock from the outside, but I have no reason to believe Floyd would bother going in there, anyway.
I’m nearly at the front door when I hear him behind me, his feet shuffling on the hardwood floor.
“Going somewhere, sweet boy?” It’s the ‘sweet boy’ that tells me he’s pissed off.
I turn, taking a breath and hoping my words come out clearly, without hinting at the anxious twisting in my gut.
I’d like to believe he wouldn’t try to stop me from going, but I don’t know him, nor do I understand how his mind works.
“Yes.” Thank fuck. My voice doesn’t wobble. “I’m going away with Darcey. To her beach house.”
Floyd doesn’t move, just stands there, arms folded over his chest, lips pursed. “See you on Sunday,” he finally says, retreating into his office. I sigh in relief and head downstairs to where my ride is waiting to take me to the train station.
It’s dark by the time my train pulls into Whitstable Station and the temperature has dropped significantly. I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck as I make my way on foot to the cottage. When I’m five minutes away, I call Darcey.
“Hey Dars, I’m nearly there. Just walking past the Tesco. Do we need anything?”
There’s the sound of a door shutting in the background before she speaks. “Sorry, I’m running a little late. Use the code on the lockbox and let yourself in.”
“Okay, no problem. Text me the code. I’m going to grab us some drinks.”
I say goodbye, hanging up the phone and putting it in my coat pocket.
In the store, I buy a bottle of vodka, a few cans of cola, cranberry juice and a bar of chocolate, then finish my journey to the beachfront property.
The front door faces the beach, which is deserted now that the sun has set, and when I step towards the small weathered building, a light comes on, making it easier for me to retrieve the key from the lockbox.
A cold wind whips off the sea, making me shiver as I push open the wooden door and step into the entrance hall.
The cottage is cool, but the radiator next to the door is emitting heat, likely on a timer.
I strip off my coat and scarf and hang them up, then turn left into the main part of the cottage.
The room I’m in is fitted with a long sofa, a low wooden table and a TV mounted on the wall. The air smells like sea salt and dry wood. There’s a working log burner built into the wall under the TV and a pile of dried logs stacked next to it.
My favourite part of this house has always been the large front window, which looks out over the beach. With no buildings to obscure the view, it’s like looking at a postcard.
The moon is full tonight, casting a glow which makes the water appear a deep purple, rippled with white where the waves are breaking at the shore.
There’s something so mesmerising about the sea that makes me feel at ease.
Even with everything going on, standing here now, I feel the tension bleed from my shoulders.
Despite the low temperature of the season, I crack the window open, allowing the briny scent and the echo of crashing waves to filter in.
The atmosphere in the room changes – but not from the open window – this is more an overwhelming sense that I’m no longer alone, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to rise.
Turning around, my heart leaps into my throat.
There is someone else here, and he’s looking at me with a half grin on his beautiful face.
“Stalker,” I breathe out with a chuckle. Oliver’s grin turns into a full on smile. He’s leaning against the doorframe, the corridor that leads to the bedrooms behind him. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here for you.” He lifts his hand, holding out two fingers that he folds towards himself. “Come here.”
He’s dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a black shirt, the top button open to reveal a sliver of his chest. His hair is windswept, his newly bleached curls a mess atop his head. I drink him in for a moment before I can’t resist the pull any longer.
“Darcey set me up,” I muse, my pulse kicking up the closer I get to him. I’m not mad at my best friend, even if she’s sticking her nose into my business. How can I be, when Oliver is standing right there, looking at me like he never stopped loving me?
“She did. She also told me everything.”
His confession makes me pause, dread filtering in and pushing away the excitement I felt at seeing him.
“She had no right to do that.” Now I am angry at her. As if things were not already hard for me, this won’t make things easier. He’ll want answers and actions, and I don’t know that I can give those to him. I waver in my next step, unsure of what to do.