Chapter Twenty-Nine
The platform was depressingly cheerful, all bright sunshine and families with ice creams, completely at odds with Sasha's internal weather system which was firmly set to 'apocalyptic drizzle.'
"You could stay longer," Ambrose said, though they both knew she couldn't. "There's always room. Mother adores you. Father keeps asking about your opinion on orchids. Even Grandmother's stopped sneezing now that Sophie's relocated the feline army."
"Your family's lovely, but I think I've overstayed my welcome." Sasha adjusted her bag strap for the third time. "Besides, you've got Lukas. You don't need me hanging around being pathetic."
"You're not pathetic." Ambrose pulled her into a hug that smelled of expensive cologne and greenhouse soil. "You're heartbroken, which is completely different. Pathetic would be if you were pining over someone terrible. Victoria's brilliant, so your misery is actually quite reasonable."
"That's weirdly comforting."
"I try." He stepped back, studying her face. "You know you could just tell her how you feel. Revolutionary concept, I realize, but communication does occasionally work."
"She's got a new job. A fresh start. Everything she wanted." Sasha forced brightness into her voice. "I'm not going to be the complication that drags her down."
"Right, because nothing says 'I care about you' like disappearing without a trace like some sort of romantic ninja." Ambrose's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "Very mature. Extremely helpful."
Sasha grunted, not wanting to discuss this any further.
The train announcement crackled overhead, mercifully cutting off Sasha's need to defend herself. She grabbed her suitcase, suddenly desperate to be anywhere else.
"Look after yourself," Ambrose said, squeezing her shoulder. "And Sash? Maybe consider that running away isn't always the same thing as being selfless."
She thought about that as the train pulled away, watching Ambrose wave from the platform until he disappeared into the distance.
Running away. Was that what she was doing?
She thought she was being noble, setting Victoria free to live her perfect London life without the complication of a directionless waitress with muddy boots and no prospects.
But sitting there watching the countryside blur past, Sasha had to admit it felt less like nobility and more like she'd simply bottled it.
What she was absolutely sure about though was that forcing Victoria to change would have been the worst possible thing that she could do.
The train was one of those older models with uncomfortable seats and questionable air conditioning.
Sasha found herself wedged between a businessman who kept jabbing her with his laptop bag and a woman with a baby who had apparently decided that Sunday afternoon was the perfect time to test the full range of human vocal capabilities.
She should have brought headphones. Or alcohol. Possibly both.
Instead, she had seven hours to sit with her thoughts, which was roughly six hours and fifty-nine minutes too many.
The problem was that everywhere she looked, she saw Victoria.
In the elegant woman across the aisle checking her phone with focused intensity.
In the way sunlight slanted through the windows, reminding her of morning light across white sheets.
In the couple three rows up who kept stealing kisses, all casual affection and easy intimacy.
The worst part was the morning light. Or rather, the memory of morning light. Waking up tangled in expensive sheets with Victoria's breathing soft and steady beside her, feeling like she'd somehow stumbled into someone else's life.
She'd gotten used to that. To reaching out and finding warmth, to the small sounds Victoria made when she was dreaming, to the way her face relaxed in sleep until she looked less like a perfectly composed banker and more like someone who occasionally allowed herself to be human.
God, she missed it already. Missed her. Missed the weight of her hand on her waist and the press of lips against her shoulder and the way Victoria would mumble something incomprehensible when Sasha tried to get up too early.
The businessman's laptop bag jabbed her ribs again. She shifted, trying to find a position that didn't make her spine scream, and caught sight of her reflection in the window.
She looked exactly how she felt. Rumpled, slightly lost, like someone who'd just been ejected from paradise and wasn't quite sure how to process re-entry.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Cathy: Archie finally got his head out of his arse and asked me to dinner. Thought you should know your meddling worked eventually. Thanks for that. Also, you're an idiot for leaving.
Sasha hurriedly typed back: Congratulations! He's lucky to have you. And I'm not an idiot, I'm being practical.
The response came almost immediately: Same thing in this case.
She pocketed her phone and tried to focus on the scenery flashing past, but it all blurred together. Fields and villages and the occasional glimpse of someone else's life through a window, all of it moving too fast to really see properly.
Rather like the past two weeks, she supposed.
Everything had happened so quickly that she hadn't had time to think about what any of it meant.
One minute she was getting fired from another waitressing job, the next she was fake-dating her best friend while falling catastrophically in love with his sister.
When exactly had it shifted from attraction to something deeper?
Maybe it was in the greenhouse when Victoria had run away in the rain, clearly terrified of what they were feeling.
Or in the library when she'd finally confessed about losing her job, letting Sasha see past the perfect facade.
Or possibly it had been earlier, that first morning when she'd opened her eyes to find Victoria already awake and watching her with an expression so soft it had made Sasha's chest ache.
The baby across the aisle had finally exhausted itself and fallen asleep.
Sasha closed her eyes, but that made things worse.
With her eyes closed, she could almost feel Victoria's hands on her skin, could almost hear her laugh, could almost convince herself that this was all some elaborate nightmare.
But when she opened her eyes again, she was still on the train. Still heading toward Manchester and reality and everything that came after the fairy tale ended.
THE FLAT WAS exactly as depressing as she'd anticipated.
Hours of increasingly maudlin train thoughts had prepared her for empty rooms and the faint smell of Ambrose's protein shakes, but somehow the reality was worse.
The silence pressed against her ears, thick and suffocating after two weeks of Sullivan family chaos.
Everything felt too quiet, too still. No Ambrose singing off-key in the shower, no smell of burnt toast from his attempts at breakfast, no constant background noise of someone else living their life parallel to hers.
She dropped her suitcase in the hallway, and that's when she saw them. Flowers on the kitchen counter, a massive bouquet of roses and something purple she couldn't identify, arranged with the sort of casual elegance that screamed expensive florist.
Her heart started to beat properly again.
Victoria had sent flowers. Victoria, who was supposed to be in London starting her new perfect job, had sent flowers, which meant… what exactly? That she felt guilty? That she wanted to let Sasha down gently with expensive vegetation?
Sasha's hands shook slightly as she reached for the small envelope tucked among the blooms.
Dearest Sash,
Thank you for giving me the best summer of my life.
Thank you for lying to my family with such commitment and creativity (though perhaps less fencing-scar improvisation next time).
Thank you for making me realize that being the golden child is significantly overrated and that honesty really is less exhausting than maintaining elaborate deceptions.
More importantly, thank you for showing me that I needed to stop living my life for other people's expectations.
That I could choose what I wanted instead of what I thought I should want.
That loving someone means letting them be exactly who they are, not trying to fit them into some predetermined mold.
Which brings me to my point, because I do have one, even if I'm burying it under excessive sentiment and purple prose.
Stop making decisions based on what you think other people need. Stop being so bloody noble and self-sacrificing and convinced that you're not good enough. Stop deciding that you know what's best for everyone else without actually asking them what they want.
Make choices for yourself, Sash. Selfish ones. The kind that make you happy instead of making everyone else comfortable.
That's what I've learned these past two weeks, and I thought you should know it too.
All my love,
Ambrose
P.S. The purple ones are called lisianthus. Lukas chose them. Apparently they mean appreciation and lifelong bonds, which seemed appropriate given that you're stuck with me forever now, whether you like it or not.
Sasha read it twice, then a third time, trying to process the words through the crushing weight of disappointment that it wasn't Victoria mixed with genuine affection for her ridiculous best friend.
The relief that it wasn't Victoria saying goodbye warred with the disappointment that it wasn't Victoria saying anything at all.
She'd been braced for closure, for some final word that would let her move on cleanly.
Instead, she had Ambrose's typically perceptive observations and absolutely no idea what Victoria was thinking.
She sank into a kitchen chair, still clutching the note, and let herself have exactly thirty seconds of feeling sorry for herself.
Thirty seconds of wanting Victoria with an intensity that made her chest ache.
Thirty seconds of wishing things could be different, whilst knowing that they couldn’t be.
The flat seemed even emptier now. She could hear the upstairs neighbor's television through the ceiling, the distant sound of traffic from the street, all the small sounds that made up a life, none of them hers.
She'd lived here for ages but hadn't left much of a mark.
Her room was still mostly boxes she hadn't unpacked, temporary accommodations for a temporary life.
Even her clothes were wrinkled from being shoved into a suitcase rather than properly hung, like she was always ready to flee at a moment's notice.
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she'd spent so long being temporary that she'd forgotten how to be permanent. How to commit to something, anything, long enough to make it matter.
The flowers looked expensive and out of place on Ambrose's kitchen counter. She touched one of the roses gently, feeling the velvet softness of the petals.
In twenty-eight years, no one had ever sent her flowers before.
Then she stood up, put the flowers in water, and opened her laptop.
If Ambrose was right about making selfish choices, and annoyingly, he usually was, then she needed to start somewhere. And if she couldn't have Victoria, at least she could have purpose.
The first horticulture course website she found was intimidatingly professional. Twelve-month intensive program, comprehensive botanical training, hands-on experience, and a price tag that made her wince. She bookmarked it anyway.
The second was more reasonable but required relocation to Edinburgh. The third was online but looked slightly dodgy, all stock photos and vague promises.
By the time she'd looked at ten different programs, the sun had set and her stomach was reminding her that train station sandwiches weren't actually food. But she'd found three courses that looked legitimate, achievable, and only mildly financially catastrophic.
She could do this. Wait tables or something during the day, study at night, build something real instead of drifting from one terrible job to another. It wouldn't be easy, but at least she'd finally know what she was working toward.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Ambrose: Did the flowers arrive? Are you weeping with gratitude? Have you started your new life yet?
- Flowers are lovely. You're a sap. And yes, I'm looking at courses now. Happy?
- Ecstatic. Though you're still avoiding the real issue.
- Which is?
- You know which. But fine, I'll drop it. For now. Love you, you disaster.
- Love you too, you meddling nightmare.
She closed her laptop and looked around the empty flat. Tomorrow she'd start calling garden centers about jobs. Tonight she'd heat up something freezer-burned and pretend she wasn't constantly thinking about dark hair on white pillows and the way Victoria's mouth curved when she smiled.
Making choices for herself. Right. She could do that.
Even if the choice she wanted most was the one she'd already walked away from.