Chapter Twenty-One
Bo had never really been a decisive human being.
She’d always been a kind of drifter, happy to be pulled along by others or pushed into making some kind of plan.
She’d blindly followed the will of her mother before settling into a nomad-like existence, where everything was temporary and the future simply something to worry about another day.
That she had no education, no solid plans, no money and no home of her own bothered her, but not enough for her to make any real changes to her life.
For a woman who got attached as easily as she did, there were surprisingly few shackles in her existence.
So, it was incredibly ironic that when she’d finally made an adult, grown-up decision all on her own, life decided to derail her plans.
AKA, when she finally decided to acknowledge her feelings for Max, finally decided to tell him how she felt and face the consequences like the newly emerging adult she was finally becoming, there was one small issue, a fly in her grown-up ointment.
Max wasn’t fucking home.
She used her key to get into the house, calling out his name with a trepidation that was entirely down to her tightly wound nerves.
The place was silent however, the only sound her own footsteps echoing back to her as she trekked up and down stairs and in and out of rooms searching for Max.
There was, of course, the possibility that he was still asleep, and so Bo pushed on the door of the room she knew to be his quietly.
She wanted to tell Max she loved him, not wake him suddenly from his slumber or give him a small stroke.
The room was empty though, his bed unmade, clothes strewn across the floor.
He really is an untidy sloth, Bo thought fondly. She didn’t even care that he was messy. Didn’t care that he lacked any sort of house pride. She loved him still anyway. For Max, she would tolerate mess and disorder. For Max, she would overlook clothes on the floor and crumpled linen.
With interest, she gazed around Max’s bedroom.
She’d never been in this room before — well, not since it became Max’s room, anyway.
For a man who made such a mess, he owned surprisingly little.
There were clothes, and next to his bed a pile of books, each well-thumbed with cracked spines.
Shoes were piled in a corner, and a selection of empty coffee cups stacked on a dresser, but that was about it.
The space was impersonal and empty, and very much looked like a place where a man would sleep and dress and not much else.
It reminds me of a hotel room, Bo suddenly realized. The temporary quarters of a man in his temporary house while he works his temporary job. And, her mind added unhelpfully, while he fucks a temporary girlfriend.
Her stomach sank a little as she closed the door.
What did she think was going to happen here?
She would tell Max that she loved him and then what?
Regardless of what she said or did, he was always going to go back to Berlin.
That had been his plan from the beginning, and he’d never altered from it.
With a worried sigh, Bo glanced at the walls around her, still bedecked with Geoffrey’s art and photographs.
With a sinking feeling, she realized that this might be Max’s house now, but he’d never made it into his home.
It really was just somewhere he was waiting out time, and by default, she was just someone he was entertaining himself with while waiting for that time to pass.
She was as temporary and fleeting to him as he’d grown important and necessary to her.
Bo sank to the floor, despondently clutching her knees.
She couldn’t tell Max she loved him. Not now.
Not when the proof of his intention to leave was staring her so obviously in the face.
Rubbing her face tiredly, Bo wondered what the hell she’d been thinking?
Max didn’t want her love. He just wanted a warm body in his bed so he could release his post-work tension (and honestly, had he even tried Yoga or Sudoku or something?).
He didn’t want that warm body to suddenly demand affection from him, and nor did he want affection from it either. He just wanted to get laid.
If she’d told him she loved him, what would happen?
You know what would happen, her mind argued. He’d get awkward. He’d be uncomfortable. He’d stop having sex with you and we’d never recover from it and everything would change.
Maybe telling Max she loved him was the right thing to do.
Maybe it would put her out of her misery, just as Ida had said.
But then, maybe continuing to pretend was the better option.
If she carried on pretending, and Max carried on pretending, they’d get through to the end of summer.
At this point, she was going to get hurt anyway.
So, what did it matter if she let herself enjoy it while it lasted?
For a few more weeks at least, she could have him.
Have those stolen mornings and half-sleeping smiles.
Have those moments where his hand brushed hers without thinking.
She’d have those extra few precious weeks with him, and he .
. . well, he’d get everything he wanted until he returned to Berlin.
He’d look back on her fondly, and maybe that was all Bo could ask for.
Maybe that was all she should expect; should ever have expected.
Standing on shaky legs, Bo made her way downstairs. It was obvious even to her by now that Max wasn’t home, and she was glad he wasn’t. If he’d been home, she might’ve made a terrible error. Might have confessed everything and had to live with the consequences.
She was walking down the garden to her summer house when her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen. It was a message from Max.
Her heart thumped a little faster as she unlocked her phone, and scrolled to her messages. She could recall swapping details with Max weeks ago — just in case, he’d told her — but he’d never used her number until today.
Max Fitzroy: Just so you know, I headed to Berlin a few days early. I’m sure I don’t need to extrapolate on why. It was perfectly obvious this morning.
Two thoughts occurred to Bo rapidly. The first was that Max was messaging her from a Nokia 3310, and how many buttons had he needed to press to write the word “extrapolate”? The second, and more pressing concern, was Max’s use of the phrase “It was perfectly obvious this morning”.
Bo felt sick. So, Max had figured out her feelings for him that morning.
Of course he had. He wasn’t an idiot, the very opposite, in fact.
Her love for him had been written so clearly on her face, had been so obvious in the possessive kisses she’d given him and gentle touches she’d placed on his skin, and it had terrified him.
No wonder he took off to Berlin at a moment’s notice.
Bo thought he would run for the hills, but instead he’d run for the airport and then crossed three countries to get away from her.
If that wasn’t a confidence killer, what was?
For a moment, Bo stood in the garden, holding her phone with a grip so tight it was a wonder the screen hadn’t shattered in her hand.
She felt empty and ill and shaky, and suddenly, with blinding clarity, she understood the meaning of the word ‘heartsore’.
That’s what she was: heartsore. It was exactly what she was feeling.
Max had taken her heart and shattered it, and she’d let him do it too.
She thought she’d loved Oliver, once upon a time, but no.
No, that hadn’t been love. That had been attraction and jealousy masquerading as love.
What she felt for Max was so much more, and so different to the childish infatuation she’d felt for Oliver and his admittedly rock-hard abs.
Oliver hadn’t broken her heart, he’d broken her pride, running off with Phoebe the way he had.
But Max? Max had broken her heart, well and truly.
The first man she’d ever really loved, the first man she’d ever really trusted, and he didn’t want her.
Had never wanted her, in fact, as anything other than as a fleeting affair.
Tears pricked at her eyes and blindly she grappled with her phone.
It wasn’t to message Max back — God no, not that, never that.
He didn’t want her, and she understood that, loud and clear.
Messaging him back would look desperate in the extreme, and she still had some degree of pride left.
Still had just enough common sense left to realize that Max didn’t want her, and that no amount of sending messages to his fucking Nokia would change his mind.
Instead, she opened Willa’s contact details and tapped out a reply to the last unread WhatsApp she’d sent.
She knew Willa wasn’t reading her messages, had told herself again and again to move on, but it was Willa.
She couldn’t move on, and Willa was the only person she wanted to talk to. The only person who would understand.
Bo: Just in case you’re reading these messages, you should probably know that I’ve fallen in love with Mr Two out of Ten. More fool me, right? He found out and left, so there’s that too.
And then, just because she wanted to.
Bo: I miss you. Please call me back.
She waited a moment for the tick to appear indicating that the messages had sent, and then another moment for the second tick to say they’d been delivered.
Chewing on her lip, she hoped and prayed the ticks would turn blue.
Wished that Willa, wherever she was, would read her messages and call her back.
Both ticks stayed resolutely grey however, and Bo wiped at her eyes, recognizing this as the moment of rejection that it was.
Sadly, she unlocked the door to her little home, before curling up on her bed clutching Max’s purple shirt — that lurid, retina-damaging shirt he’d gifted her all those weeks ago — in her hands.
It still kind of smelled like him. Bringing it to her face, she could still sense him in the fabric, could still see him in her doorway wearing it.
It was still awful; it was still ugly in the extreme. But it was still his too.
It was then that her phone began to ring. Without even thinking, Bo accepted the call, miserably whispering ‘hello’ as she took in another lungful of Max’s purple shirt.
“Bo?”
Bo sat bolt upright in her bed, her heart thumping wildly.
“Bo?” Willa asked again. “Are you all right?”
“No,” Bo replied honestly. Suddenly, she was on the verge of a flood of tears, and her best friend’s familiar voice the only thing holding them back. “No, I’m really not.”
“Okay then.” Bo heard Willa take a deep breath. “Hold tight. I’m on my way.”