25. Morgan
Chapter 25
Morgan
J ack had kissed me.
It took me a solid hour after waking up the next morning to convince myself it hadn’t been a dream. That I hadn’t imagined him staring at my mouth, and telling me he’d left a weekend away and driven hours to spend time doing manual labour with me, and kissing me . On the cheek, sure, but given how panicked he’d been when I’d merely implied a kiss, it still felt like a big deal. If I’d been able to tell the version of myself who had just got done with that hike that this would happen a mere two months later, past me would have laughed in my own face. It was absurd.
Or was it?
After all, there had been something between us on that hike. And before that, in the river. And probably before that, when I’d been tipsy and told him he was a good guy who didn’t deserve what had happened.
(And hell, probably before that; I’d always found him attractive, and maybe – though the idea seemed, again, absurd – he’d been attracted to me, too.)
But it didn’t change the fact that last night had felt like it came out of nowhere, especially when he’d been the one to draw that hard boundary between us. It was emotional whiplash. I’d cut off any and all hope I’d felt of something happening with Jack, but now, suddenly, it was all I could feel.
I distracted myself throughout the morning with work stuff, refining a few of the gala signage options I’d started in the week. Then I got an email from Greg, letting me know he was thrilled with the brand packet I’d sent over. I’d gone a bit overboard in the end; he’d only paid me for a logo, but I’d seen someone on social media design a brand pack with colours and patterns and everything, and I’d decided to go all in. He loved all of it, and he’d sent me the rest of the money for the job. At least that’ll cover the Ren Faire outfits , I thought.
I looked over the designs, proud again of what I’d done. So I decided to share it. I opened Instagram on my tablet, tapped to create a new post, and selected all the image files I’d used for the brand board, sharing them as a carousel. On a whim, I changed my bio so it said “DM me for design enquiries!”
I knew I should spend some time at some point thinking about how I felt about … you know … everything before Jack picked me up later, so naturally I did the opposite of that: I put on a cosy mystery audiobook and tackled re-dressing Cara’s room, which consisted of unboxing and laying out a collection of boring, vacuum-packed soft furnishings.
I’d barely finished fluffing the new cushions when Jack texted me that he was on his way. He said it would take him a bit longer than usual, and that I should wear full-length trousers. I replied asking if I’d forgotten about an activity we’d planned, but he didn’t respond.
Half an hour later though, I got my answer when he pulled up outside on the back of a quad bike, which was being driven by a stunning blonde.
They both dismounted, and Jack tossed a set of keys to the blonde – Amy, I assumed, or at least hoped – who strode over to his car and climbed into the driver’s seat. Jack put both helmets down just inside the gate and headed towards the door. I backed away from the window, not wanting him to see that I’d been watching him.
When I heard his knock on the door, I took a deep breath before opening it. He was looking at his feet when I did, so I got a split second to admire him, taking in his baggy jeans, his muddy boots, and the flannel shirt he’d worn on our hike, open over a white t-shirt. The breeze funnelling along the row of houses was pulling at both tops, so I could see the lines of his body beneath, and I remembered what he looked like in the sun, in the water, with no shirt to cling to him like it did now.
And then I met his eyes, and I could tell the same appraisal I’d been undertaking had been done to me, too.
“Hey,” I said, sounding breathier than I had any right to, given that I’d just been standing there.
“Hey,” he said back, sounding the same as me.
“New wheels?” I asked, pointing to the quad bike.
“Well, you nicked my car,” he said. “Very rude.”
“Seems a leggy blonde just nicked it, not me.”
He smiled. “That’s Amy. She’s just taking it home. You up for a ride?”
A small part of me was disappointed that we wouldn’t be jumping straight into our conversation, but then again, adventuring together was what we did best. So I swallowed the part of me that wished he would come inside instead and smiled.
“Let’s do it.”
Jack trotted ahead to pull the gate open for me, handing me a helmet as he did. I slid it on and watched as Jack swung his leg over the seat, starting the engine. He pointed to a little step I could use to get on the back, offering me his hand to help, and I accepted it.
Once I was on, it became clear I’d be holding onto him the entire time. Crafty man , I thought. But I wasn’t complaining.
Jack put his helmet on, too, and suddenly I could hear his breathing just behind me and to the left. It was strangely intimate, and disorienting, as if he were whispering in my ear from behind. I wrapped my arms around his torso without even thinking about it, feeling the hard lines of his muscular form beneath my fingers.
“Shall we?” he asked, and I nodded before I realised he couldn’t see me.
“Ready,” I said, and the quad bike lurched forward slightly; not enough to knock me off balance, but enough to make me tighten my grip around him. I couldn’t look straight ahead with the helmet, so I turned my head to the side and rested it against his back.
He drove slowly along the roads, but as soon as we passed the football club and joined the path to the river, he opened it up. Suddenly we were flying, slowing only occasionally to pass people.
As we rode, Jack asked me about my day, and I told him about Greg’s response to the designs I’d sent. He was thrilled for me, congratulating me so enthusiastically that it was actually a bit much coming through the helmet speaker.
We were on the river path for several minutes before we turned off up towards the closest village, and then off into some farmland.
“Are you allowed to ride here?” I asked as we manoeuvred around a closed gate to get into a field.
“Oh yeah, this is Uncle John’s land. This field’s fallow this year.”
We followed a farm track for a couple of minutes before suddenly taking off like a rocket into the field of tall grass to our left.
I’d thought we’d been going fast before, but that had been nothing. We were going so fast that I couldn’t hear Jack’s breathing anymore. So fast that he had to tell me to lean into the turns, and it was only because I was clung so tightly to his body and could feel his muscles moving that I had any idea what I was actually supposed to do and when. It was terrifying at first, but once I let myself cling tightly enough to Jack that we felt like one mass, I was able to relax into it a bit. Before long I was laughing as we caught air going over bumps and drifted around corners.
Then Jack stopped and asked if I wanted to drive, and I’d never said yes to anything more quickly. We swapped places – which involved him getting up and me awkwardly shuffling forward on the seat so he could re-mount behind me – and then he talked me through what the different buttons and levers and rotating handlebars did. He had to go through it twice; I hoped he thought it was because I was just confused, and not because of the real reason, which is how I was concentrating too hard on ignoring the feeling of him pressed against my back, knowing that he’d be able to hear every hitch in my breath.
Once I finally grasped the basics, I was able to get us going, slowly at first but then faster and faster. I found that it felt even more controlled when I was the one doing the steering, and I let myself really open up, then fought the urge to pull the brake when I felt him tighten his grip around me, his hands low around my stomach, his hands brushing the zip of my jeans. He whooped and cheered as I took hard turns and found where he’d managed to get a bit of air, managing at least a couple of inches myself.
When I slowed to turn again, he took the chance to move his hands from their position clasped in front of me to the crease between my hips and thighs, and I couldn’t help but arch my back in response. I realised what I’d done when I heard a sharp intake of breath through the speaker in my helmet, and I accidentally released the throttle, effectively causing us to do the quad biking version of slamming on the brakes.
Flustered, I got off the bike immediately and let Jack take back over. He asked if I was okay and I said yes, that I just got a bit excited about the jump and was ready for him to take over again. He agreed and offered me his hand to climb on again, but I declined this time, using his shoulders instead.
“So I was thinking,” he said, “if you want, we could have dinner at my place? I got some really nice stuff from the farm shop today, and I thought I could make us dinner.”
“Uh, sure,” I said, not sure what I’d been expecting. When I’d seen the quad bike, I’d just assumed that was the activity. The adventure. Going to Jack’s house? That was something else entirely.
But I wasn’t opposed to it. If anything, it made the butterflies I’d already felt whirling around my stomach flap their wings even harder. If he wanted me to come to his, what did that mean for this conversation we were having? My mind raced to the obvious conclusion, which probably only felt obvious because I was pressed up against Jack in that moment, and the butterflies threatened to start a whole-ass tornado.
We pulled back onto the farm track and followed it for a while, almost reaching the road before we came to an old stone farmhouse. I thought I saw Amy disappear from one of the windows. Then we turned up the drive and carried on past the house, passing between more fields, these ones full of what looked like actual crops. We were going vaguely uphill, but then we came to the top, and a tiny little hollow appeared in front of us, a lush pond pooled in the bottom and a small wooden cabin perched half over it.
We parked the quad bike out front, and I stood and admired Jack’s handiwork. When he’d said he’d built his own house, I hadn’t really known what to expect; at times I’d imagined it as some super modern shipping container conversion, and sometimes as a glorified shed. But if there had been a spectrum between those two, Jack’s house wouldn’t have been anywhere on it. It fit perfectly within the landscape, like it was a natural part of it, yet looked so purposefully crafted. The wooden exterior didn’t look cheap or rough but intentional, like an extension of the fields around us.
Walking through the front door, which he held open for me as he watched me take it all in, I was surprised at how spacious the vaulted ceilings made it feel. It was also nice and cool, which didn’t surprise me after the “designing for air flow” conversation we’d had yesterday. It also got much better light than my house, despite the fact that I couldn’t see any actual lights on. Clearly he’d designed for that, too.
A door off to the right was halfway open, and I saw a small slice of a very stylish bathroom beyond. The door opposite was closed, but I suspected it led to his bedroom (cue those damn butterflies again). The open kitchen was made of finished plywood with poured concrete worktops, including waterfall edges on the giant island that housed the sink and three barstools. A small table with three chairs sat just off to the side of the island against the windows, and a comfortable-but-sparse-looking lounge lay beyond with a tiny wood-burning stove in one corner and a desk in the other, piled high with file folders.
But the main focal point was the huge wall of glass that made up the back of the house. Big French doors opened up onto a wooden deck, which seemed to lead straight out over the pond. There was a single rocking chair and side table there, perfect for watching the ducks I could see paddling around the pond.
Of all of the times I’d pictured Jack’s day-to-day life, this house fit that life perfectly. It was so meticulously made. So practical. So considered. So Jack . From what he’d told me about his relationship with Aria, he’d spent years bending himself around someone else and her idea of what their life should look like. With this house, for the first time, he’d been able to create out of his grief a home that was exactly what he needed; nothing more, nothing less. And from his body language as he moved around, grabbing dishes and ingredients from various cabinets and drawers, I could tell he was instantly more at ease just being here. It was how I felt at home, too, and I was glad to see him visibly relax a bit.
Jack poured me a glass of wine and recommended I go sit on the deck whilst he made dinner. But I was feeling nosy, so instead I wandered over to his desk, where a stack of folders sat next to an ancient-looking laptop.
I looked over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t watching me, and then I pulled open the top drawer. Inside were several sketches on scrap pieces of paper, all of buildings. There was one that seemed to be almost carved into the side of what looked like a quarry. There were old farm buildings converted into modern houses, the materials blending seamlessly together. There were floorplans, too, dozens of them, from tiny cabins like the one we were in to sprawling family homes. There even seemed to be one for a restaurant.
“Did you do these?” I asked, turning around and holding up some of the sketches. Jack looked up from the pomegranate in his hand and squinted across the room at me. When he realised what I was holding, his eyes went wide.
“Nosy, much?” he asked, and I could tell he was trying to sound casual.
“Answer the question,” I said, walking over to the island with one of the sketches still in my hand.
“Yeah, I guess,” he said, looking down at the pomegranate as he opened it with a knife. Red juice flowed out over his hands, and for a moment I thought he’d cut himself.
“They’re really good,” I said, wondering why he was so intent on ignoring me.
“Thanks,” he said. “Will you pass me a towel? I don’t want to drip everywhere.”
I walked around the island and grabbed a kitchen towel, placing it next to his chopping board as he knocked the seeds out and pulled chunks away.
“So is that what you want to do?” I asked. “Architecture?”
Jack shook his head. “I’m taking over the family business,” he said. “Contracting. So not designing, building.”
I frowned; not that he saw it, with how focused he was on his hands and the pomegranate he was holding.
“Come on, Jack,” I said. “Clearly you’re really good at this.”
“Like I said, thank you.” He sounded much more dismissive this time. “Now please, just go out onto the deck for a bit so I can focus.”
I narrowed my eyes at him until he looked up at me, a pleading look in his eyes.
“Fine,” I said, rolling my eyes and turning around, back towards the desk. I replaced the sketches and plans in the drawer and shut it.
As I headed towards the back door, I saw a magazine open on the dining table. It was open to a full spread about an introductory course for aspiring architects. It certainly made the sketches and plans and perfect house make a lot more sense, but his insistence that he was planning to take over the family business did not.
After I’d stepped onto the deck and pulled the door shut behind me, not wanting to disrupt his precious air flow pathways, I settled down in the rocking chair that he had there; it was the only piece of furniture. Not a pair, just the one.
Actually, looking back through the window, there seemed to be little about his home that suggested he had any intention of housing anyone but himself. There were no chairs, just a three-seater sofa; the perfect size for him, Chloe, and Phil. There were three chairs at the tiny dining table. Three barstools. I’d only seen one sink in the bathroom. And I’d have bet that his bed was pushed up against one wall.
But those were decisions made years ago, deep in the throes of his heartbreak , I told myself. They weren’t a reflection of who he was now. At least I hoped they weren’t.
I sat back and looked out over the pond, rocking myself. I relaxed so quickly and to such an extent that I started to zone out for minutes at a time, only to be brought back by the sound of a duck quacking or a bird twittering nearby. This was the nature people were always trying to “get back to”. I was jealous that Jack got to experience this level of Zen every day, but then again, it explained a lot about how laid back he was.
Until one of his triggers was pulled, of course, but that was all of us, wasn’t it?
I was just pulling out my phone to take a photo when I saw that I had several notifications – two Instagram messages, and one email from Greg with the subject line “Whoops!”
I sighed, wondering what he’d decided he wanted to change about the logo, and tapped to open the email:
I told them you charge twice what I paid you – hope that’s okay! And before you thank me, it was partially to save face for myself over my atrociously low budget.
Greg
Sent from my iPhone
I frowned as I wondered what he was on about, scrolling back to see if I’d missed another message from him, but no; I didn’t have any other unread emails.
I opened up the DMs instead, and Greg’s message quickly made sense. Two different people had messaged me, asking for information about my brand design packages. Apparently Greg had shared his new logo in a Facebook group for aspiring small business owners, and they were interested in my services because they’d liked his logo so much.
I practically jumped out of the rocking chair, which was more difficult than one might think, and which almost resulted in my phone flying into the pond. But I managed to avoid disaster and ran inside, desperate to tell Jack the good news. After everything he’d said about my art last night, I knew he’d be over the moon for me.
But when I ran inside, Jack was just setting the table with two plates full of food.
“Voilà,” he said, doing a little hand flourish around the steaming spread, putting on a terrible French accent. “Dinner is served.”
I sat down at the table, deciding to let Jack show off his surprisingly fancy creation – a dish of “pan-fried wood pigeon in an orange glaze” – before accosting him with my design news. I took a bite and practically sank into my chair; the bitter chicory and vibrant pomegranate seeds he’d paired it with added just the right touch. And the white wine, which he’d topped up when I’d sat down, went perfectly with it.
“I didn’t know you were such a chef,” I said. “But this is incredible.”
“Can I admit something?” he asked.
“There’s a little rat hiding in your hair who actually made this dinner?”
Jack laughed, and I smiled at how satisfied I was to have caused it.
“No, but that would be better. Rather than a rat, it’s Phil.”
“Phil is hiding in your hair?” I asked, squinting and moving my head around as if to get a better look. “I know he’s not a tall guy, but that feels like quite the feat.”
Jack laughed some more, and I chuckled along with him. It was such a far cry from the stoicism he’d shown months ago. I wouldn’t have wanted to go back to that for anything, now that I’d seen how silly and joyful he could be.
“No,” he said again, “Phil is the cook.”
“Oh, well I knew that,” I said. “But really, is he hiding here somewhere? Because if not, it feels like you did this.”
“Well, I was on the phone to him pretty much the whole time. He sent me the recipe, told me where to shop, and talked me through it. Why do you think I sent you out to the deck?” I smiled at him, and he held my gaze for a moment as he took a bite. He was clearly enjoying making me smile as much as I was enjoying making him laugh.
Well, if he wanted to see me smile, I could help him out.
After I’d taken enough bites of my food that I could stand to part with my fork for a moment, I unlocked my phone and pulled up one of the messages I’d got.
“Look at this,” I said, handing him the phone. “I’ve gotten two enquiries since I sent Greg his logo. People love it! People want to pay me for design!”
“Of course they do!” he said, matching my enthusiasm. He handed me my phone back. “You’re so talented! They’d be idiots not to want to work with you.”
“And I was thinking you were right,” I continued. “Maybe I want to do this as my job.”
Jack’s fork paused slightly on the way to his mouth, but then he carried on as if it had just been a glitch. “I mean, yeah! You should probably build your client base up a bit before you go full-time, especially with your house situation, but that sounds great. I’m really proud of you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m really proud of me, too. Though I’m not sure I’m cut out for the whole freelance thing full-time.”
Now his fork stopped all the way, and he set it down on his plate and looked up at me. “What do you mean? Like, you want it as a side hustle?”
I shook my head, my smile faltering slowly. Hadn’t this been his idea? “No, I mean, maybe I want to apply to some design jobs. Like, at companies.”
“Oh,” he said, the enthusiasm dropping like a lead balloon. I stayed quiet for a moment to let him continue, but he didn’t. And the lack of excitement was riling me up.
“Sorry, Jack, but just to clarify, this is a good thing. You helped me have this big revelation last night that I may actually be good at this, now I’m choosing to pursue my passion, yada yada. Why aren’t you more excited?”
He stayed frozen for a long moment, his eyes fixed on his plate before he spoke. “This is not the direction I thought this conversation would go,” he said, his voice low.
“Yeah, well, me either,” I said, my voice definitely not low. “Given how effusive you were last night, I sort of expected you to be happier for me.”
“You expected me to be happy that you want to leave?” He asked, his voice rising in volume to match mine. He looked up from his plate finally, and I could see that there was hurt in his eyes.
Suddenly I was very, very confused.
“Sorry, when did I say I wanted to leave?”
“Last night,” he said. “You told me that you didn’t apply for design jobs after uni because it would have meant moving away.”
The memory hit me right as he reminded me. Of course. My heart sank as I realised what he must be thinking. That me telling him this was my way of saying I wasn’t interested. I could have cried with relief; that was the whole point of the conversation we needed to have, right?
“That was years ago, Jack,” I said, putting out a hand to touch his forearm. “The town is bigger now. And there are other towns nearby. Hell, I didn’t even go to uni here, but I lived here.”
But he went rigid beneath my fingers, so I pulled them back and folded my hands in my lap instead. The wall had gone up.
He looked back up at me, his jaw set but his eyes searching. He didn’t soften, or speak. He just sat there, staring at me. I remembered the first time I’d seen his jaw set like this. When he had rejected me . Was that what was happening now? He’d been the one to set that boundary to begin with, I supposed.
But then, why did he care so much if I left? I couldn’t sit here and guess anymore. I couldn’t read him when he made himself so unknowable like this. It wasn’t fair to me, and I wasn’t going to let him feel entitled to certain intimations if he was going to play his own cards so close to the chest.
“But Jack,” I said, sitting up a bit straighter, a new sense of daring coursing through me. I tried to pull all emotion out of my voice. “Even if I did want to leave…”
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and I locked my gaze with his as I asked him what we’d both come here to ask, really.
“What’s it to you?”
He sighed, and I could see how his eyes glazed over that I’d lost him once and for all. But I couldn’t bring myself to care.
He wanted to put up walls? He wanted to push me away every chance I got? Fine. Two could play at that game.