Chapter 7 #2
I remembered. He’d been a stupid bully, looking for any hits to land, and my lack of a dad was a favorite of his. I’d largely been good at ignoring him, but on that particular day he’d gotten to me. And Graham had rounded the corner, fists raised, fury on his face.
“You gave him a black eye,” I said, my lips twitching in a smile even though the memory still made me feel just a touch small inside.
“Aye, well. He deserved worse.” Graham’s jaw tightened. “But that’s not the part I remember most.”
“What do you remember?”
“You.” He met my eyes across the table. “Standing there, chin up, and you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you break. It was like you were just daring him to do his worst. And I thought...” He shook his head. “I thought … she’s so brave.”
My throat tightened, and I shook my head.
“Och, Graham. That wasn’t bravery. I was frozen. I was tired. His constant bullying had just worn me down. I was just being stubborn about giving him a reaction is all.”
“Maybe they’re the same thing.” He reached across the table and covered my hand with his.
“You asked why I haven’t given up, and that’s why, Agnes.
Because I know who you are. I’ve known since we were kids.
And I know that whatever’s making you push me away, it’s not because you don’t care. It’s because you care too much.”
I stared at our hands—his large and warm, mine small and trembling slightly—and something cracked open inside me.
“You got suspended for a week,” I said, because it was easier than addressing what he’d actually said. “For the fight with Jamie.”
“Worth it.”
“You never told anyone what Jamie said. You let people think you’d started the fight for no reason.”
“Because you didn’t want anyone to know he was bullying you.” He squeezed my hand.
The weight of unshed tears pinched my eyes. This was why Graham was dangerous. Not because he was charming or attractive or persistent, though he was all of those things, of course, but because he saw me. Really saw me, in ways I’d spent my whole life trying to hide from everyone else.
He saw me, and he stayed anyway.
“You’ve always done that,” I heard myself say. “Stood up for me. You put yourself between me and anything that might hurt me.”
“Someone had to.”
“Did they?” I looked up at him. “I’d like to think that I’ve been able to stand for myself for a while now.”
“I won’t deny that.” Graham crossed his arms and laughed. “Bloody hell, woman, but nobody’s going to question if you’ve got a spine of steel in that gorgeous body of yours.”
My skin flushed with heat. I couldn’t help it. Every time I thought of Graham touching me again, my body responded in some messed-up Pavlovian response to him.
“But why? Why always you?”
“Because I love you, Agnes.” He said it simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and my soul despaired.
Because he loves me. “I’ve loved you since you came home from uni and looked at me like you were seeing me for the first time.
Maybe before that. Maybe always. I don’t know anymore.
It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I love you, and I’m always going to love you, and nothing you say or do is going to change that. You’re my favorite person.”
I pulled my hand away, blinking against the tears that threatened. My heart yawned, wide open, and I gaped down into the abyss.
This was exactly what I’d been afraid of. This was why I’d kept him at arm’s length for years—because I knew that if I let him get too close, if I let him say these things, I wouldn’t be strong enough to walk away.
“Graham—”
“I’m not asking you to say it back.” His voice was gentle, but there was steel underneath.
“I’m not asking for anything, Agnes. I’m just telling you the truth.
You wanted to know why I haven’t given up?
That’s why. Because giving up on you would mean giving up on the only future I’ve ever actually wanted. ”
The food arrived then—Marco appearing with impeccable timing, oblivious to the emotional earthquake happening at our table. He set down our plates with cheerful commentary about enjoying our meal, refilled our waters, and disappeared again.
I stared at my risotto, not seeing it.
“Eat,” Graham said softly. “Before it gets cold.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Agnes.”
I looked up.
“One dinner,” he said. “That was the deal. We don’t have to talk about feelings or futures or any of the things that make you want to run. We can just ... be. Two old friends sharing a meal. Can you do that?”
I should have said no. Should have gotten up and walked out and put an end to this madness before it went any further. Indecision warred.
Sighing, I picked up my fork.
“The risotto better be as good as you promised.”
Graham’s smile lit his whole face.
“If it’s not, I’ll personally write a strongly worded letter to the chef.”
“Och, because that would work at your restaurant?”
“I mean, the letter would go in the bin, but I’d figure out a nicer way to tell him. Have you seen the lad? He’s terrifying.”
I snorted, but some of the tension eased. Maybe I could fumble my way through this dinner, after all, though all I could think about was how earnestly Graham had just confessed his undying love for me. And now I was meant to dig into risotto and talk about the weather?
But somehow, we managed it. Graham told me about the latest drama at the pub—a tourist who’d insisted that Scotch whisky was basically the same as bourbon and nearly started a riot among the regulars.
I told him about the shipment of rare books I’d received last week, including a first edition of something that had made me actually gasp out loud when I’d opened the box.
“What kind of book warrants a gasp?” Graham’s eyes lit.
“An 1847 edition of Wuthering Heights, in original cloth binding, with light foxing and exceptionally well-preserved pages.”
“I have no idea what most of those words mean, but you look so happy that I’m going to pretend I’m impressed.”
“You should be impressed. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”
“Tell me.”
So I did, launching into an explanation of Victorian publishing practices and the Bronte sisters and why this particular copy was significant. Graham listened with what appeared to be genuine interest, asking keen questions in all the right places, and I relaxed despite everything.
This was what I’d missed. Not just the sex—though goddess, I missed that too—but this. Easy conversation and the way Graham could make me forget to be guarded. The simple pleasure of sharing a meal with someone who actually wanted to hear about the things that mattered to me.
“Do you remember,” I said, swirling the last of my wine in my glass, “that summer we found the old cottage in the woods? The abandoned one with the caved-in roof?”
“The one you were convinced was haunted?”
“It was haunted. There were definitely ghosts.”
“There were definitely bats. Which, to be fair, did seem ghostly at the time.”
“You screamed louder than I did when they flew out.”
“I did not scream.” Graham’s eyebrows drew low over his forehead as he glowered at me. “Men do not scream.”
“You screamed like a wee lass and grabbed my arm so hard you left bruises as you dragged me out of there.”
“Bloody hell, woman. I was protecting you.”
“From bats?”
“From potential vampirism. You have no idea what a bat bite could have done to you. I think it was quite heroic of me.”
I laughed—the kind that bubbled up from somewhere deep—and Graham’s face lit up at the sound.
“There she is,” he said softly. “I’ve missed that laugh.”
“I laugh.” I rolled my eyes at him.
“Not like that. Not with me.”
He was right. I’d been so careful for so long, rationing my smiles, measuring my words, keeping him at a distance that felt safe even as it slowly killed me.
“Graham,” I started, not sure what I was going to say.
“Don’t.” He held up a hand. “Just … let me have this. Let us have this. One dinner where we’re just Agnes and Graham, the way we used to be.”
“We can’t be the way we used to be.”
“Why not?”
Because a dying woman, who also loved you, begged me to let you go so that you’d live. Because I’m not strong enough to survive losing you.
“Because too much has changed,” I said instead.
“Some things haven’t.” He reached across the table and touched my cheek—just a brush of his fingers, there and gone, but I felt it everywhere. “Some things are exactly the same.”
The restaurant had grown quieter around us, other diners finishing their meals and filtering out into the night.
Marco appeared to clear our plates and ask about dessert, and Graham ordered tiramisu to share without consulting me, which should have been annoying but somehow wasn’t.
When the dessert arrived, we ate in comfortable silence, the sweetness of coffee and mascarpone melting on my tongue.
“Can I ask you something?” Graham said when the tiramisu was half gone.
“You’ve been asking me things all night.”
“One more.”
I gestured with my fork for him to continue, bracing myself.
“What do you see for yourself? In the future, I mean. Do you picture yourself still in Loren Brae in ten years? Twenty? Running the shop, making pottery, that kind of thing? Have you thought about it?”
The question hit harder than it should have. I’d trained myself not to think about the future—not to imagine wedding dresses or growing old beside someone. Because what was the point?
“I don’t really think about it,” I said carefully.
“Everyone thinks about the future.”
“Not everyone.”
“Agnes.” He leaned forward, his eyes searching my face. “What are you so afraid of?”
Standing at your graveside because I was selfish enough to love you.
“I’m not afraid of anything,” I said, and even to my own ears, it sounded like a lie.
“Then why won’t you let yourself be happy?”
The question hung between us, heavy and unanswerable. I stared at the remains of our dessert, at the smear of chocolate and coffee on the shared plate, and I felt the walls I’d built so carefully begin to tremble.