Chapter 2 #2
I wasn’t going to pretend that his answer made me feel better, because it didn’t relieve the nausea sitting in my belly.
If anything it sparks a layer of anger to it.
Of course Corbin would be that much of an arsehole to force his own brother's hand, he never could have said no. It had been a surprise when the guys told me they planned on buying the house, turning it into a hotel. They wanted to plant roots and create something together, which I’m sure was Merle's subtle way of stirring my best friend away from partying. Before meeting, Phin wasn’t a stranger to clubbing, drugs, drinking and going off the deep end.
He’d been to rehab twice before he’d turned twenty and just before they met, it was on the horizon again if he couldn’t get his shit together.
After partying all summer, Lil and I spent weeks with him, trying to manage his come downs and get him sober again for the new semester.
He’d had other help, but I didn’t trust anyone other than us two to know what would be best.
“I get it. I’m not mad, I know you don’t have a choice.
I just don’t trust him at all.” Shifting in my seat uncomfortably, I fix my gaze outside of the car, watching the sun dance between the hedges.
“Remember when I wanted to throw a murder mystery party on new years? Corbin told me it was such a stupid idea. A waste of everyone’s time.
Childish games. He made me feel so bad that I’d even suggested it.
Knowing that’s what he really thinks about them, why is he hosting one?
” My cheeks ablaze, I’m still so embarrassed by how I had let someone else make decisions for me.
I really wanted to ask him Wednesday night, but after being out all day distracting myself, no wonder I’d fallen asleep. “Am I invited as your guest or his?”
Flashing me a sad look as he continues down what has turned into a single lane track, Phin sighs.
“Firstly, you should have ignored him and thrown the party for new years. Secondly, he was the worst boyfriend on this planet and I think he isn’t handling someone leaving him very well.
Probably a shock to the system, not getting his own way for a change.
” This conversation needs ripping off like a plaster; quickly so we can move the fuck on.
“Thirdly, the guest list was his entire doing. He’s invited you, Lily’s friends, Merle's brother and I guess friends from his own circle.” He motions behind us.
I almost jump out of my seat when Cardinal scoffs in disgust. “I’m not friends with that wanker!”
“So you're kind of like, your sister's plus one?” Phin asks.
Nodding, he slips out his earbuds, which I suspect weren’t even on to begin with.
I have a suspicious feeling that he heard our entire conversation.
“I received the invite before she’d mentioned anything.
I wasn’t actually free this weekend, but she practically begged me over the phone to come, and said it meant a lot to him.
It's weird because I've only met him once and thought he was an absolute twat.”
I’ve made an educated guess that he's from London, from the twang in his accent, to his smart attire which looks more appropriate for a business meeting in the city.
Slipping further into the countryside, we pass a small sleepy village, with a narrow stone bridge that exits us onto a one-lane road, and the fields dwindle to dense woodland.
I’m studying the trees, waiting for the pops of colour that scatter across the undergrowth this time of year.
As expected they start to thin, wildflowers emerge and become luxuriant across the woods floor.
The morning sun coats each flower, making the left over dew shimmer.
I see buttercups, snowdrops, blue bells, dog violets and endless cow parsley.
As I admire the wild nature, I’m transported to a similar woodland, on the grounds where Phoenix’s Grandmother lived.
Growing up we’d spend endless summers there, pretending to be hobbits, digging for potatoes and tending to our imaginary crops.
We’d make capes out of bed sheets, pick grass and try to stick strands to our toes, to make them hairy.
Phin and I would always demand to be Frodo and Samwise, Lily on the other hand always preferred to be an elf instead.
At the time it felt like she broke our dream trio when she refused to be Merry.
We’d run through the woods, camp outside in the garden until one of us heard a noise, shrieking back inside to be tucked into our warm beds.
Unlike his Grandmother's property, these woodlands didn’t hold fond memories—the opposite, actually.
Even though I told my best friend it was fine, I was fine–I told myself six months ago I’d never step foot on this land again.
I’d told myself to never look back, as I ran from the front door.
To never imagine this house as my future and to let go of all the dreams I’d wanted so badly to manifest into existence.
The universe can be unpredictable, but I always knew it could be cruel.
Corbin had bought the house for me to make it into our home, so what a twisted parallel that instead his brother would make it his.
THE brand new sign for The Nightingale Hotel the stone pillars with sculpted birds on each side of the gates, giant willow trees hanging slightly over the long gravel drive, that we start to descend down.
I can’t drag my gaze away from the wildflowers that continue to cover every inch of the ground.
The drive bends to the right and I see the flash of glass between the trees, along with sandy brick structures that I know to be outbuildings on the property.
Both the guys were so eager to show me all the plans they had drafted, sending me endless photo messages of the building's progress, until a month ago.
They said the final look was to be a surprise when they could reveal it to us all at their opening weekend.
Anything that happened through these gates, for the next couple of days, would all be for Phoenix and Merle.
“We’ve turned the outhouses into a street food style restaurant, bar and games area.
” He says, pointing through the trees to the left of the house.
“We also built a wooden port to rent bikes and we’re thinking of small quads if we can get the permits.
” He explains for Cardinal’s benefit, because I haven’t had a moment's peace about the renovations.
I expect him to remain disinterested as we continue down the drive, but looking over my shoulder, I find him glued to the window, with a look of admiration. “Is that a giant glass house?”
“Yes! It used to be a birdhouse—owls, I think. It's the only building not finished yet, but we plan to make it into a venue for parties, receptions, that sort of thing.”
Slowing down the car, he makes a left instead of continuing down the gravel lane.
If we were to continue that way, it would take us to a large space they’d reserved for parking, beyond that was the lakes edge.
What had called to me so much was the glimpse of the lake, which you can see from the back of the house.
The light shimmers on the water right until sundown.
The trees sway in the gentle warm breeze, making me all the more eager to try and get some alone time down by the shore.
The entire place was incredibly peaceful.
The grey stoned house comes into view and my stomach flips.
It is something out of a Grimm’s fairytale.
The charcoal grey slate roof has many slopes and chimneys, light wood features, lattice windows are everywhere, my eyes not knowing on which set to linger on first. Ivy climbs the front of the house and window baskets of pansies sit sunbathing.
An orangery wraps around the left of the house, where it meets the edge of the wood and a neat gravel path.
Where the orangery is, to the front of the house is a large section dedicated to a herb garden.
I watch who I assume to be a gardener, decant soil from a wheelbarrow into the ground, smoothing over freshly planted rosemary bushes. His khaki uniform is crinkled but clean, the only part of him dirty being his gloves as they pat down the earth.
The downfall of living in an apartment is that we residents don't have a garden. I have an abundance of indoor plants and the odd tomato plant, but what I’d give to find solace in a hobby like gardening.
It had occurred to me that with my upcoming book tours, I may have to give them away to one of my neighbours.
The beauty of writing is I did it mostly from home, the money my Mum left me in her will was enough to sustain a comfortable life, but I always wanted a career after university.
I tried to not wonder if she’d had any expectations for me, but we’d been parted when I was so young.
My home was my safe space, so I felt a little uneasy with how long I’d be away from it.
Gravel grits the tires as we ascend up to the house and we pull up around the pale stone fountain.
A birdcage has been sculpted at the top, with more Nightingale birds flying from its open door.
Tiny toy boats float in the water, as a stream of blue falls down from the sprout.
The car stops and I feel a squeeze on my knee, Phin’s smile warm and reassuring.
“We got this.”
I give him a shaky nod, opening the door before I chicken out and drive myself back to the safety of my apartment. The warm air hits immediately and I shift uncomfortably in my cardigan. Why in the world did I opt for knitwear anyway?