Chapter 55
Eve
That’s it.
That’s where I’ve seen him before.
I’m on Tryst, scrolling miserably through the gym photos and drooling emojis in my inbox, when I see his face again.
Adam. 34. Maths tutor; less than one mile away. AreyOu the x axis to my Y? I can be you’re triangle dadddy.
Last active: two weeks ago.
I feel better about the WhatsApp I sent. He’s obviously trying; he ignored the Tryst message he got when he was with me. This is obviously his attempt at reforming himself, getting rid of his player tendencies. Coming over here, explicitly stating that he didn’t want to cheat... that was a brave move. He’ll carry on with Chloe, and everything will go back to normal.
What I felt in Windermere . . .
Why does it still hurt? Why do I still feel like my heart has been ripped out of my chest? Why can’t I forget the things he said, the way he made me feel? And I know I made him feel that way, too.
Even if he is a player, it changes nothing. I can slag him off in my head all I want, but he is kind. He’s selfless, and caring, and — aside from the cheating — would never do anything to hurt someone. Those are the kinds of attributes you can’t fake or cover up.
But me? I’m trying, but I am not selfless. I am not caring. I am driven, and pushy, and self-centred.
It’s incompatibility, pure and simple.
The living room has grown dark over the past hour, and as I move to switch on the lamp, a flash of lightning startles me. The thunder follows, rumbling across the sky, and then the rain comes thick and heavy, smacking against the windows.
I close the back door and my heart feels heavy. The end of the heatwave, and the end of a journey.
I glance at the tiny window above the sink, Old Sausage’s entryway when I’d closed the back door. I smile at the memories; that bloody cat. Something tells me that I could have closed every access point and she’d still have found a way inside. She knew what she wanted and she went for it. She’s my kind of girl.
I pour a cup of tea and take it through to the living room. I am booting up my laptop, ready to pass the afternoon buried in self-assessment registration, when there’s a frantic banging on the front door.
I rush through, my bare feet slipping on the wood. I pull open the front door, my mind full of potentials: someone has died, it’s the police, something terrible has happened, maybe it’s Adam...
And it is.
It’s him.
He’s standing on the doorstep, the rain falling in sheets around him. His hair drips, spiking his dark eyelashes and trickling down his neck. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and the hair on his forearms is slicked against his skin.
I open my mouth to speak.
‘You don’t get to tell me what’s good for me,’ he says. He’s panting, his mouth open slightly.
‘What?’
‘You can tell me to fuck off, but you don’t get to tell me what’s good for me.’
I stare at him, my heart fluttering in my chest. For a moment, I still can’t get my words out. ‘Will you come inside?’
He shakes his head, and a droplet of water lands on my arm. He runs his hand through his hair and it tangles wetly on top of his head. ‘Not until you listen to me.’
I look at the rain around him, at the beads of water rolling down his forearms. ‘Adam—’
‘Just hear me out.’ Beyond him I can see his bike, abandoned by the front fence.
‘OK, I’m listening.’
‘There is no Chloe.’ He breathes heavily. ‘I mean, no, there is, but it’s not what you think. She’s an old friend. I thought — I thought you and Graham—’
‘ Graham ?’ My head is spinning. What does he know about Graham?
‘Your ex?’ He blinks at me. Water puddles at his feet. ‘I saw you both—’
A laugh starts in my tummy and bubbles upwards out of my throat. ‘My ex? Oh, god. No.’
Adam looks confused. ‘I saw you.’
My mind runs frantically backwards. He saw us? Where? I put myself in bed with Graham, the last time, what feels like forever ago. There’s no way. More recently, then.
The kitchen.
‘Please,’ I ask again as the rain gets heavier, ‘come inside. You’re dripping wet.’
He looks like he’s about to refuse again, but then he looks down at his hands, hanging by his sides, and at the individual droplets plinking steadily from each fingertip. ‘OK, fine,’ he says eventually, in a tone of voice that suggests he’s desperately trying to stay on point and be assertive, but that it really isn’t coming naturally to him.
He steps inside, and I step back to accommodate him. Immediately, a dark patch begins forming on the rug beneath his feet. He looks down again. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. ‘Jesus Christ, what a state.’
‘Who do you think you are?’ I joke. ‘Mr Darcy?’
‘See-through shirt included,’ he retorts, and my eyes drop instinctively to his torso — he’s not wrong. His shirt is plastered to him, displaying the outline of his chest, allowing me to follow the trail of dark hair creeping over his collar right down to where it meets his bellybutton. And a little bit beyond that, too.
He coughs, and I tear my gaze away, feeling myself flush. I force myself back on track — Graham. We were talking about Graham.
‘You saw him trying to make us more than it was.’ I realise. His words come back to me: I can’t let someone else get hurt. I spell it out, speaking slowly as I assemble my thoughts. ‘You saw me and Graham... and you assumed...’
‘That you were with him,’ he states. ‘That everything I thought had been a big misunderstanding.’
I stare beyond him to the rain sheeting down, bouncing off the pavement. He’s soaked to the skin. God, what a mess. Not him — he is categorically not a mess, from what I can see. And I can see a lot. ‘Adam...’
‘Wait. Wait, I have more to say.’ He swipes at the rivers of water trickling down his forehead. ‘Now that we’ve cleared things up, can I just...’ For a moment he looks unsure, but then his brow hardens. ‘I have something to say,’ he repeats.
‘Adam, I’m—’
‘You can be kind,’ he interrupts, looking for the first time like he’s certain of what’s coming out of his mouth, ‘or you can be ruthless, but shit will still happen to you.’ He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, still catching his breath. ‘But what you can’t ever do, is let someone else walk all over you.’
I frown. ‘What has this got to do—’
‘All you can’t tell yourself stories, either,’ he continues, ‘about who you deserve, and who deserves you. All you can do,’ he takes a small step towards me, ‘is choose your people, and hold on for dear fucking life.’
All the breath seems to have left my body; my heart is in my throat.
‘So again,’ he’s so close now, we’re only centimetres apart. Droplets of water continue to drip slowly onto the carpet, and the pattering of it is suddenly louder than the rain outside. ‘You can tell me to fuck off if you want to. It’s your choice, Eve.’ His breathing is heavy. ‘We fit. It’s early days, but we fit . I see it, and something tells me you see it, too.’
I can’t speak.
He steps closer, so close, the wetness of his shirt brushes against my arm. ‘I choose to stand right here. I choose this. I choose you, us, what I felt between us, whatever that was. I choose to explore it. What do you choose?’
My mouth is on his before I can think. I collide with him, pushing up against him, my hands on his back, in his hair, his hands on my waist, the back of my neck. I give in to it, the pull I’ve felt since the moment I saw his face, feeling the full dampness of him seep through my clothes.
He kicks the door closed with one foot, not removing his mouth from mine for a second. His shirt comes off, then mine, then everything else, and I feel the strength of him; the power, the urgency.
We go upstairs, him leading, in my house, the carbon copy of his own, as if he knew exactly where to go all along.