Chapter 16 Cynthie
We arrive back at Alveston Hall just after midnight. Last orders were called and consumed before we were kicked out: rowdy, cheerful and in excellent spirits. I am happily buzzed, relaxed for the first time in weeks.
Well, almost. There was that small incident with Jack earlier.
But as we’ve both been carefully ignoring each other since the moment he stared at me like he wanted to rip all my clothes off and fuck me on a stage in front of all our friends and coworkers and I stared back like I’d be totally okay with that, I’m sure it’s all fine.
Totally fine.
Rather than call it a night, someone has lit the big fire pit in the back garden, and we cluster around it on a variety of blankets and cushions that we’ve gathered from the house.
Thankfully, Rufus and the obnoxious group of crew members (all older men) he’d been knocking back pints with have peeled off elsewhere to drink themselves into a stupor.
The evening is mild, one of those perfect early-autumn nights where you can still feel the edge of summer in the air. Scott passes a joint around, and I inhale a few drags, appreciating the slow, warm feeling that gradually softens my limbs.
This is a bit like how I imagined going to university would feel—being part of a big, happy group, staying up late talking and drinking and laughing together. It was something that I worried I’d missed out on, and it’s just another part of this whole adventure that feels like a gift.
Someone has a guitar, and usually I’d roll my eyes over that kumbaya-summer-camp-round-the-bonfire nonsense, but the tequila and the weed have left me feeling generous. Maybe it’s actually kind of lovely hearing someone strum a guitar under a velvet night sky full of stars.
“I don’t think that joint was very strong,” Hannah murmurs from beside me where she is sprawled over the little nest of cushions we built together. “I don’t feel anything.”
“Just give it a minute,” I reply, watching the flames in the fire pit dance and twine together in a curiously erotic display. I frown. Am I getting turned on by… fire?
“You know what I’d love right now?” Hannah pipes up thoughtfully. “A bag of… like…”—she casts about as if searching for the right word—“overskirts.”
“Overskirts?”
“Yeah.” She nods seriously. “M I thought she left so she could go and chase her dream of stardom, but all she did was move to Norwich and have a bunch of other kids.
Ones that she actually wanted, I guess.” I shrug.
“I don’t think they even know about me and my dad. It’s like we never existed at all.”
“Shit,” Jack exhales. “That’s… I’m sorry, Cynthie. That’s… really wrong.”
I turn to get a good look at him, and I’d forgotten that he was so close, close enough for me to see the concern softening those sharp blue eyes, the way his mouth pulls down, the small crease between his brows as if he was sad and angry.
It’s dangerous being this close to his face.
It makes me want to run my fingers along his jaw.
I can already imagine exactly how his skin would feel under my fingertips.
I bet he’d taste even better than a bag of M he leans back, bracing himself on his elbows and looking into the bonfire.
“I don’t know how to answer that,” he says in the end.
“It’s all I’ve ever known. But… yeah… yeah, I think it’s probably pretty strange.
It feels like a lot of pressure, a lot of the time.
” He laughs, but it’s a sad sound. “All the time, actually.”
I frown. “That doesn’t sound very fun.”
“Fun?”
“Yeah.” I gesture expansively at the scene around us. “This is just… so much fun, right? Making this film. Being here with these people. Getting to perform and play and make something beautiful. It’s the most fun I’ve had in ages. Maybe ever.”
He falls back into silence, but I don’t mind.
I think I could sit here like this forever, somewhere between the cool ground and the wheeling stars overhead, with Jack beside me.
It’s strange to feel peaceful around him; it’s never been like that with us before.
Normally, I feel like there’s some sort of caged animal inside me, throwing itself against the bars.
“I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t working toward this,” Jack says, breaking the quiet between us.
“Me neither,” I reply, and we’re talking more softly now, sharing secrets. “I decided I wanted to be an actor when I was a kid, but it was like… like telling people I wanted to be an astronaut. They just rolled their eyes. No one believed I could do it. Only me. And Hannah.”
“I don’t remember deciding at all,” Jack murmurs. “It just always was.”
“What about your sister? Is she an actor?”
“Lee?” Jack’s brow furrows. “No. She hates all that stuff.”
“Then you must have chosen it,” I point out. “Or at least, she chose not to.”
He hums thoughtfully. “I guess so. My parents certainly put a lot of money and energy into getting me here.” He says this neutrally, although there’s something off about it.
“My dad doesn’t get it at all,” I say. “I mean, we never talk about it, but his silence feels pretty heavy. I always thought he resented it because it was my mum’s thing… singing, performing.”
“You and your dad aren’t close?” Jack asks.
I snort. “No.” When it seems like he’s waiting for more, I carry on, but it’s like pushing open a rusty door.
“He isn’t really a natural at the whole parenting thing.
And then when my mum left, he was sort of…
stuck with me, I guess.” I try to shrug like it doesn’t matter, but maybe the drugs are leaving my system because I can’t quite pull it off.
“Our relationship is a bit like… if your mum asked your next-door neighbor to keep an eye on you, and then she disappeared for twelve years.”
“That sounds… not ideal,” Jack says softly.
“Well, I have Hannah.” I smile. “And her parents. They live a few houses down from us, and she and I have been best friends ever since we were in nursery.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty obvious you guys are close.” Jack chuckles drily. “She’s been giving me some good death stares these last few weeks.”
I laugh. “It’s nice to have someone who’s always on your side.”
“Mmm,” Jack makes a sound of agreement, but his face is sad, and I find that I don’t like that. I reach out, and wrap my fingers around his wrist. It’s a sudden gesture, unexpected, and both of us jolt.
I look down at my fingertips, resting on either side of his pulse.
Even though I want to touch him, my subconscious must have instinctively stopped me from grabbing his hand.
Holding hands would feel like something…
tender. This, this is something else. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, baring his forearms, and I watch a trail of goose bumps break out across his flesh.
Neither of us speaks, and I squeeze a little tighter, my nails leaving tiny pink crescent moons against his golden skin.
It feels obscene, seeing those marks on him, knowing that I put them there, and my heart hammers relentlessly in my chest. It’s barely anything.
I’m touching his wrist, for god’s sake… It’s hardly a particularly erotic body part, and yet something—that something that is always just frustratingly there between us—flickers.
I look up and find his head bowed, his whole body tense, like a spring coiled tight. When he lifts his gaze to meet mine, his eyes have changed again. There’s nothing cool about them now. Now, they’re full of storms.
I tilt my face, bringing it closer to his, close enough that for a moment we share the same air, his exhalation coasting across my lips.
I’m about to close the final painful millimeters of distance between us, when he yanks back, the movement so violent that I almost fall over. My hands spring away from him, and I feel my eyes widen.
“No,” he snaps, already getting to his feet. “I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry. It’s not appropriate to…”
It’s a jumble of half-sentences, but their meaning is painfully clear. So is the angry edge to his voice. He’s rejecting me, and the swift stab of pain in my chest that accompanies this leaves me gasping for air.
He stands over me, and my brain is still too slow, still trying to catch up, so I can do nothing but gape at him as he glares down at me.
“I would never …” he begins, but again he stops himself.
He would never ? The words slash my defenses to ribbons. What was I thinking? Jack Turner-Jones has made it clear over and over and over again that he doesn’t consider me up to his weight.
Not good enough , my brain sings. And you never will be .
Had I really been about to kiss him? Him ? The man who has been tormenting me for weeks?
“It’s fine,” I say stiffly. “I guess the truce is officially over.” But I’m talking to thin air, because Jack’s already striding back toward the house.
I sit for a moment, watching as the fire dies down.
All the heat is gone, the cold night air beginning to leach into my bones.
I feel so small, so stupid. With a sinking heart, I realize how vulnerable I just made myself to a man who has made no secret of the fact he dislikes me.
I can’t believe I said all those things to him, told him so many personal, private details that I never share with anyone .
Eventually, Hannah appears again. She’s clutching an entire block of cheese and is gnawing on it like some sort of wide-eyed woodland creature.
“Fucking hell, Cyn,” she says, collapsing unceremoniously next to me on the ground. “You’ve got to try this cheese. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I think it’s, like, made by unicorns.”
She holds out the cheese to me. The label says medium cheddar.
“I’m good, thanks.” I shake my head.
She looks at me, narrows her eyes. “Hey… are you okay?”
I tuck my hand through her arm, lean against her. “Yeah.” I force a smile. “I’m fine.”
I sound so convincing, even I almost believe it.