Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
CERYS
I hadn’t expected the box to feel so heavy. It wasn’t large — just an old cardboard thing with frayed edges and a faded label that had once noted it held ‘Fine Welsh Biscuits.’ But as I carried it into the living room, it seemed to weigh more with each step.
I set it down on the coffee table. The old table was scratched and stained, a reminder of all the times we’d sat around it, laughing and talking like we had all the time in the world.
Nick hovered in the doorway, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looked as uneasy as I felt, his gaze dancing around the room as if searching for an escape route.
“Have you decided to become a coat rack?” I settled on the sofa, fighting the urge to flee myself. “Because if you’re planning to loiter there all afternoon, I’ll charge rent.”
Even scrubbing mould off the ageing racks sounds better than cracking open painful memories. Unfortunately, Meins would never let me hear the end of it if I skipped out.
He cleared his throat and stepped forward. “No. Sorry.”
He took a measured step into the room and perched stiffly on the opposite end of the sofa. The distance hurt. I told myself I didn’t know why, even though I did.
Before Gareth asked me out in school, I spent an embarrassing amount of time daydreaming that Nick would. I even believed it on the day he approached me, heart pounding, only to find out he was delivering Gareth’s message.
Nick’s gaze had skimmed over my face, and my heart flared with a wild hope. I thought he’d worked up courage to ask me on a date, perhaps to that silly jazz night at the local pub I’d teased him about. When he uttered Gareth’s name instead, something inside me shrivelled. I forced it to the far recesses of my mind, reasoning that at least Gareth wanted me, and he had the courage to ask, even if it was through someone else.
I told myself I’d misread everything. I trained my heart to stop jolting whenever Nick came near. Over time, I convinced myself I’d never wanted him like that.
I prised open the box. A stale paper smell drifted out, carrying hints of old cologne. I inhaled sharply. Gareth’s scent. My eyes stung, and my throat tightened.
I snuck a glance at Nick. Nick’s gaze drifted towards me, brow furrowing. I clenched my jaw, reluctant to admit we shared this pain. A pang of sympathy consumed me. With all the years of avoidance, sometimes it was hard to remember that he’d lost Gareth too.
But he’d run off to chase his dreams while I was left to pick up the pieces. The sympathy evaporated, replaced by the familiar bitterness.
I reached inside the box. My fingers closed around a worn ball, the leather scuffed and faded. Eyes already burning with emotion, I turned it over in my hands. “Is this supposed to be a rugby ball, or did Gareth try making cheese behind my back?”
Seriously, the thing was scarred and battered. Some of the air had leaked out over the years, too.
Nick tried for a smile, but it flickered out. “I guess that’s what happens when you leave a ball in a barn loft for eight years.” His voice had a careful quality, like he was approaching a skittish animal that might bite.
He might not be wrong there. Something dark and ugly had gripped me since he walked in. It wrapped its fingers around my windpipe and squeezed until the emotions I’d spent eight years trying to bury bubbled to the surface with a splutter of anger.
I focused on the ball, flipping it over in my hands while I wrestled with the incessant need to lash out at him.
“He swore he’d play for Wales one day,” I said instead.
We’d laughed when he’d announced that — me calling him delusional, Nick claiming he’d skip every match because he hated exercise. But Gareth’s belief in himself had been unshakable.
Now, the cheeky boy I’d once loved was gone, and all we had left were the memories and this box.
“Yeah.” Nick pressed his lips into a thin line, his eyes shadowed by an ache he didn’t bother to hide. “He dragged me out to the field every weekend, rain or shine.”
“Mostly rain.” I tried not to smile, but one corner of my mouth betrayed me. “You hated it.”
“I hated the mud.” He grimaced. “And the bruises. He had a hell of a tackle.”
“He never needed much of an excuse to smash you into the ground.” I chuckled, the memory easing the grief choking me, along with some of the tension between us. “He was relentless.”
Nick scoffed. “He was a rugby fanatic with terrible aim.” That fake smile of his finally gave way to something real, and the haunted look on his face loosened its grip. “He tried to teach me proper form once, and I ended up face-first in a cowpat. You nearly choked laughing.”
A genuine laugh slipped out before I could clamp down on it. The sound felt strange, too bright for this dim room. He had always managed to coax laughter from me, even when I wanted to wrap him in nettles. I hated him for having that power. But a flicker of warmth sparked inside me. My chest tightened. I refused to soften. This moment meant nothing.
I set the ball aside. My hand drifted into the box again, and I extracted a stack of ticket stubs bound with a rotting rubber band. Concert mementoes. “Our big collection.” I held it out to him.
He slid nearer, arm draping along the sofa’s top. The movement brought him into my space. I caught a whiff of soap mingling with wool. A shiver of awareness rippled through me, unbidden and unwelcome.
Oh, fabulous, choose now to acknowledge that he smells good. Could my body not appreciate something more practical, like a wedge of Caerphilly?
He studied the tickets. “Stereophonics. Iron Maiden. That tiny Welsh indie band you adored. We spent more time at gigs than revising for A-levels.” He tapped one stub thoughtfully. “Remember when you got into that mosh pit and emerged with a shiner worthy of a boxing ring?”
I glared at him, though it lacked any real heat. Truth was, I was tired. So very tired. Of the animosity, of tiptoeing around Meins and avoiding my last living best friend. He was supposed to be my shoulder to cry on, the one person I could rely on to pick me up and dust me off once the tear stains had dried.
Stop with the sad thoughts. It only depresses you.
I shook off the melancholy and forced some bite into my voice. “Only because you shoved me into it. Don’t rewrite history.”
He canted his head, feigning shock. “I saved you from a beer-sloshing maniac who leered at you like you were a cream cake.”
I snorted. “Rubbish. You pushed me in so you could impress some girl by acting heroic when rescuing me.”
“Credit me with a shred of taste, Evans. Even at eighteen, I knew better than to impress girls by turning my best mate into a punching bag.”
I eyed him, sceptical. The laughter tasted bittersweet. I refused to lower my guard. I pointed to another stub.
“That Cardiff gig… Isn’t that the one where Gareth tried crowd-surfing and accidentally nearly rearranged your face?”
Okay, so maybe I had ulterior motives bringing that situation up. I needed to keep him talking. Winding him up kept my voice from trembling. If we stuck to funny memories, he wouldn’t see my hands shaking or spot the tears in my eyes. Distraction was my shield, a way to keep him from poking at fresh wounds.
Nick snorted, the sound unexpectedly warm. “If by ‘accident’ you mean he was possessed by some ancient Welsh god of chaos, then yes, absolutely an accident. Thought I’d have to blame the black eye on his sheep to stop Mam’s worrying.” He glanced at me, eyes warm. “You howled with laughter. Might have been the moment I realised you were more terrifying than the mosh pit.”
That earned him a small, involuntary smile from me.
“You deserved worse for pushing me into the mosh pit.”
He shifted closer, just enough that if I turned my head, I’d see the stubble along his jaw. The lamplight caught in his dark hair, making it gleam.
“You call it pushing, I call it protecting you from that beer-soaked bloke who kept ogling your ass.”
“You can repeat it in as many different ways as you like, I’m never going to believe you.” The words came out softer than I wanted.
I needed to keep my guard up. I was supposed to hate him. Nothing had changed. We’d finish going through the box, he’d leave, and I’d never see him again.
Why did the idea of it make my heart plummet to the floor?
To distract myself, I pulled out another item — a slim notebook with the cover half torn off. I sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of Gareth’s looping handwriting. He’d scribbled band names, random poetry, and nonsense.
“His lyrics,” I said quietly, my fingers tracing the ink.
Nick straightened. “I forgot about that.”
“He was always scribbling.” I flipped through the pages.
“Hey, some of those were gold.” Nick chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. “‘Sheep in the Road’ was one of my favourites, I’ll have you know.”
I snorted. “A true masterpiece of rural Welsh life.”
“Could’ve been a hit.”
“Maybe with the right marketing.” I closed the notebook gently.
Nick chuckled. “He performed it once for us in the barn, remember?”
I laughed, then clamped my mouth shut. Laughter felt almost… treacherous. Like I was betraying Gareth somehow. My life these past years had been about survival — turning milk into cheese, heartbreak into hardness. Laughter didn’t fit into that equation.
Our eyes met, and for a moment, the years between us seemed to fade. I could almost believe we were back in school, plotting our escape to the city.
I pretended not to notice the slight tilt of his head, the way he inhaled when I laughed. I pretended my heartbeat wasn’t doing a fandango.
Ridiculous body.
I cleared my throat and reached for another item — crumpled pile of photographs folded at the edges. I slipped them out gently. One image fell onto the table: Gareth with his arms slung around both of us at some music festival. My hair was shorter then, dyed a shade of red I’d thought made me look rebellious. Nick’s arm snaked behind me but not quite touching, as if he didn’t dare. Gareth bared his teeth in triumph, as if he’d known how bright that moment would burn in our memories.
“This was a good day,” I whispered, staring at it.
It was the summer before our final year of school, at the Steelhouse Festival. We’d scraped together enough money for tickets, piling into Gareth’s beat-up car for the journey. The entire weekend had been a blur of music, mud, and laughter.
That particular day, we’d managed to sneak our way to the front of the crowd for our favourite band. Gareth had lifted me onto his shoulders and I sang along to every word.
For those few hours, the world had shrunk to just the three of us and the music. It was one of those perfect moments where everything felt possible.
We were young, invincible, and the future stretched out before us like an open road. None of us could have imagined how drastically things would change in just a few short months.
“One of the best.” Nick took the photo from me, his fingers brushing mine ever so slightly. The touch sent a jolt through me, sharp and fleeting. I forced myself not to flinch.
“He sweet-talked the security guard into letting us backstage. I still don’t understand how.” His voice softened. “You yelled every lyric until you went hoarse.
I sighed. “He always could charm his way into anything.”
“Except passing maths.” Nick chuckled. “You lost your mind a bit that day.”
“I did not.”
A slow, cocky grin spread across his face, one I wanted to slap right off. “You absolutely did. Especially when he decided to climb the speaker tower and nearly gave the crew a heart attack.”
I laughed, surprising us both. “I forgot about that. God, he was such an idiot sometimes.”
“Yeah.” Nick smiled. “But he was our idiot.”
Silence settled between us again, but this time it seemed less oppressive. More like a shared melancholy.
I hated that feeling — the way nostalgia could creep in and soften the edges of my anger. I didn’t want to forgive him. Didn’t want to let go of the hurt he’d caused.
But surrounded by the remnants of our past, it was hard to hold on to the bitterness.
I pulled out another item — a guitar pick on a frayed cord. Gareth’s lucky charm.
“He never went anywhere without this.” I held it up so it caught the light.
Nick inhaled sharply. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“How could you forget?”
Gareth had been convinced the ratty thing had mystical powers. Though I couldn’t really remember when he’d gotten it. It just appeared around his neck the day he found the courage to ask me out.
Nick shrugged. I turned the pick over and traced the faded signature on the back. I squinted at it, my brow wrinkling.
“I can’t remember him getting anything signed.”
“Actually... it’s mine.”
I frowned, glancing between him and the pick. He rubbed the back of his neck, giving away his nervousness.
“He borrowed it from me. Said I’d get it back when I needed it more than he did.”
I arched an eyebrow. “He never mentioned that.” I turned it over again, a bizarre pang hitting me in the chest. Did Gareth borrow it to ask me out? And if so, why did he still have Nick do the asking?
“He probably forgot.” Nick’s throat bobbed. “Or maybe he thought it was safer with him.”
I studied the pick for a moment before holding it out to him. “You should have it back.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s more a part of his story now. You keep it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Positive.”
I hesitated, swallowing. The idea of wearing something that linked us all together? Dangerous. Too personal. Yet, I still slipped the cord over my head. The pick settled just below my collarbone. My stupid heart fluttered as if I’d swallowed a butterfly whole.
“Thank you.”
He nodded, a ghost of a smile dancing on his lips.
“It’s just a trinket,” I muttered, more to myself than him. “Don’t read too much into it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, voice low and his lips curling into that maddening half-smile that made it far too easy to forget everything I hated about him.
I ignored the flutter in my chest and focused instead on the box. My fingers drifted back inside, brushing against something cool and solid. I pulled it out — a set of drumsticks. They were chipped and worn, the paint fading at the edges.
Nick’s expression changed instantly. He reached out, expression taut, fingers lingering over old dents and scuffs.
“He gave them to you.” Why were they in the box?
Nick nodded, his thumb brushing over one of the scuffed tips. “Yeah. My first pair. He bought them secondhand from that music shop in town when I couldn’t afford my own.”
I remembered that day. Gareth had been so proud of himself for finding a gift that would mean something to Nick. He’d saved up for weeks, skipping lunch at school and helping his dad with extra chores to afford them.
Nick swallowed hard. “He said they’d help me get where I wanted to go.”
“Did that and more, didn’t they?” A bitter edge crept back into my tone. “Must feel good.”
Nick’s head snapped up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” I shoved the sticks into the box, voice sharp. “You know what? Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”
His jaw clenched, the muscle twitching. “No, I think I want to hear the new accusation you’re laying on me.”
“It’s not an accusation.” I sprang to my feet, my hands shaking as the simmering heat of my anger threatened to spill over. “It’s just… funny, that’s all. Funny how everything worked out perfectly for you. Gareth’s gifts, his belief in you — it all paid off, didn’t it? And you left it all behind like it was nothing.”
“I didn’t leave it behind.”
“Stop with the bullshit.” My voice rose, sharper now. “You can’t rewrite history. You left.”
He left me.
He stared at me, his mouth opening like he wanted to fire back, but nothing came. For a second, I thought I’d won, that he’d just sit there and let the weight of what he’d done sink in.
“I miss him too, Cerys. Every day.”
It hit me like a slap, his words cutting through the fog of my anger and plunging straight into the ache I’d buried deep inside. Grief rose, hard and fast, turning my stomach and making my eyes burn.
“You miss him?” The words were bitter, my voice low and trembling with fury. “You don’t get to miss him.” My voice cracked at the end, betraying the thin thread of control I had left. Nick opened his mouth, then closed it, looking stricken. Good. Let him scramble for excuses. My fingers trembled. The ache in my chest threatened to buckle my knees. If I stayed here another second, I’d break into sobs.
I couldn’t let this spiral, couldn’t let him see how close I was to breaking. How easily he could break me. The tears were already stinging my eyes, and I refused to let him see them.
He reached out. “Cerys?—”
“No.” I dodged his outstretched hand. My vision blurred, but I just kept moving.
I couldn’t let him see me crumble, couldn’t let him think he had the power to pull me under like this.