Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Toby
Mist rises off the lake. The weather is getting colder, the days shorter.
I stand at the foreshore of the lake, my arms wrapped around myself.
Memories of my mother assault me. Her kind smile. The way she used to sing to me when I was sick, nonsense songs she made up on the spot. How she’d make mundane tasks fun, like turning grocery shopping into a treasure hunt.
I hear footsteps on the pebbles behind me.
I don’t turn around.
Harry’s arms slip around me. His scent takes me back to last night. Harry holding me is so familiar now that I close my eyes.
“Are you all right?” He whispers, a tentative note in his voice.
I swallow hard, turning around in his arms to see his face. “Yes. I’m all right.”
Harry’s forehead is puckered with concern as he gazes down at me.
I know his face so well now. I know every line and curve of his jawline. I know the rasp of his beard against my skin. I know the particular scent of his skin when I press my nose into the join between his shoulder and neck.
This is not just two men getting off together because of necessity. There’s no way I can pretend any longer that this is just sex. We both know it. It was spelt out in every touch between us last night.
At some point, I’ve got to face up to the fact I’ve caught feelings for Harry Matheson.
I was definitely in my live-for-the-moment mentality last night. And it’s been so easy to use that philosophy to dodge examining what Harry and I are to each other.
But after last night, after the most intimate sex I’ve ever had, I can evade it no longer. It’s a monster staring me in the fucking face. An elephant that’s grown so large there simply isn’t any space for me to coexist with it anymore.
I can’t explain the inner turmoil I’m feeling right now. Because that would mean having a conversation with Harry about things I really, really don’t want to talk about.
“Shall we go and check the snares?” Harry asks.
“Sure.”
He reaches out for my hand, and I take it. And I don’t protest when he entwines our gloved fingers together.
Harry and I walk hand-in-hand.
We’re quiet. There’s none of our usual banter lobbing between us.
Harry knows to let the silence settle, that I need time in my thoughts, so he doesn’t disturb me.
Because he knows me.
He knows me better than anyone has ever known me.
I stumble when I realize this, and Harry’s hand immediately reaches out to stabilize me.
All my deep, dark crevasses no one has ever seen, Harry has seen them all. He’s seen me hungry, he’s seen me tired, he’s seen me scared, he’s seen me hurt.
And I know Harry back the same way.
I’ve always held myself back from falling in love because I absorbed the lesson from my mother. Love hurts. Love can shred you to pieces and leave you diminished and broken. You can’t trust the person you love to be there when you need them.
“You never let me in, Toby. You never let me see the real you. You never let yourself rely on me like most people do in a couple,” my ex-girlfriend Kara had informed me a few years ago as she packed her bags, and I couldn’t deny the truth in her words.
I had a close friendship with Oliver, yes, but when I examined it, most of our friendship dynamic was me providing support for Oliver.
I never leaned on him the way I’ve found myself leaning on Harry.
But with Harry, I’ve had to. I wouldn’t have been able to survive out here without Harry.
Is that what has me so confused? Are these feelings actually real? Or are they simply an artifact of the situation we’ve found ourselves in?
I glance at Harry now, trying to see him how I used to. Harry, the pompous leader of the Conservative Party. My political enemy. The man who stood for everything I disagreed with. The unflappable, arrogant arsehole.
But I can’t see that man anymore. Instead, I see Harry, the man who saved my life multiple times, who looks out for me and cares for me in so many small ways, the man who kisses me like his very existence depends on how thoroughly he can explore my mouth.
The man who has now come to an abrupt stop, his forehead wrinkling.
That one little wrinkle on his forehead has me stopping too.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Something’s wrong,” he says.