18
‘I’m sorry,’ Flynn whispers Sunday morning, as I lie facing the window, wondering how I’m going to navigate this crazy situation I’ve put myself in.
Because it’s all down to me. It’s all my fault. I kissed the boy who made it clear that that’s the last thing he wants from me. Although, that didn’t feel true last night when his lips were on mine.
His hand finds my waist, the barest of touches, and the bed dips as he moves a little closer.
My breath hitches, and I force myself to lie very still.
Not break the fragile contract we made about how we share this space.
I’ve already broken all the rules of our friendship with that kiss.
I just hope I haven’t ruined everything.
Last night, I didn’t know how to respond to what he said about forgetting him.
Part of me felt so upset because he was the one who left in the first place.
Then I remembered how sad he seemed our first night in the Corner Bar, when he talked about what he wrote in that second Christmas card.
I know he had no control over any of it.
His family moving, his mother getting sick, me choosing to focus on Jamie because it hurt too much to think about Flynn.
All I said was, I never forgot you. And he said, I know.
And then he put down his glass and said he’d promised Pat that he’d drop back the keys to his truck.
And I pretended to be asleep when he came home and climbed in beside me, leaving what felt like an ocean of space, as a safety zone between us.
But now his hand is at my waist, his breath warm against my neck. And I have to hold myself back, for both our sakes.
‘It’s okay,’ I say, and I put my hand over his and squeeze tight. It’s my friendship that he needs, not my horny, crazy dreams.
‘I know you didn’t forget me.’
The warmth of his sigh caresses the bare skin of my shoulder, and I keep myself still.
‘It just felt like that for a while. And last night was a weird night for me. I was freaked out about you having dinner with Jamie, and I know I’d no right to be, but I don’t like that guy.’
I lift his arm and turn around, edging back so I can see his face. ‘I get Jamie can be arrogant but I was perfectly safe.’
His fingers tug at the end of my pyjama top, twisting the fabric.
‘But I still worry, Gracie. Because you two have finished before and you always got back together. He always managed to persuade you to change your mind.’ He lets go of my pyjama top and moves further away towards the edge of the bed.
‘But I don’t believe he makes you happy. ’
He releases a strained breath. ‘I’m sorry if it’s not my place to say this, but I won’t forgive myself if I don’t. I wanted to every time I got your card, or heard the news from Pat, and it was clear he’d manipulated you again.’
I sit up and pull a pillow into my lap. ‘You’re making me sound pathetic, and I’ve had enough of that from Jamie.’
Flynn sits up too. ‘Of course you’re not pathetic.
You’re amazing.’ He shakes his head. ‘But you always see the best in people, even when they don’t deserve it.
’ He goes quiet for a beat, then his voice comes out raw.
‘I’ve spent my whole life watching my mother give up everything for my father.
Her family, her career, all the friends she made here in Oakwood.
Then he wasn’t there for her when she needed him.
’ He squeezes his eyes shut and drags his hands down his face.
‘I couldn’t bear for that to happen to you. ’
I reach out and glide my finger across his cheekbone, tracing the tiny freckles that I love so much.
‘That’s not going to happen. Jamie and I are finished.
And maybe you’re right, maybe I did go along with his plans, but it was more because I didn’t want to focus on what was missing in my own life, the things I felt sad about.
’ I sigh and finally voice the thoughts that have been circling in my head since last night.
‘Jamie’s not perfect. But neither am I. I spent ten years with someone that I don’t think I was ever in love with because I didn’t want to be on my own.
I might be even more selfish than he is. ’
Flynn presses his palm over my hand and holds it against the side of his face. ‘You could never be selfish, Gracie.’
I look into his eyes, sad and soulful, and I feel like I’m staring into the depths of a deep blue lake. But I know it’s time to swim to the surface and stand on my own.
‘I’m not so sure. I keep freaking out about everybody leaving. Mam, Sarah, you. When I should be thinking about what’s best for the people I care about. Being on my own will be good for me. I have to learn to rely on myself. And stop expecting everyone to be there for me whenever I need them.’
‘But that’s what friends do.’ Flynn squeezes my fingers. ‘I like being here for you.’
I shake my head, close to tears, I’m so frustrated with how I’ve handled things. ‘But look how I thanked you. Messing with our friendship. Making you kiss me just to get rid of Jamie.’
‘That’s okay, I forgive you.’ A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. ‘It wasn’t that awful. I’ll survive.’
I pull my hand from beneath his and easy laughter bubbles out of me as I push against his chest. ‘The nerve of you, Flynn Anderson. That was a damn good kiss and you know it.’
‘I do know. I’m the one who kissed you, remember, and you’re welcome.’ He grins cheekily. ‘Anytime. Like I said, always happy to help a friend.’
And just like that, it feels like we’re almost back to us, laughing like there’s no awkwardness between us. Like there never was, and never could be, no matter what.
‘Is this enough?’ Aisha from our knit and crochet group calls from the children’s section, later that week.
The group have yarn-bombed the entire adult library with strings of knitted pumpkins and garlands of crocheted gold and copper leaves.
And now Aisha’s decorating the children’s area with bright yellow sunflowers, complete with smiley ghosts at the centre of each crocheted bloom. More Casper than Bogeyman, for sure.
‘It looks perfect,’ I call from behind the desk.
Then I smile. This feels like my happy place, exactly where I’m meant to be.
I’ve managed to make it to Thursday afternoon without a word of criticism from Gertrude, no awkward moments with Flynn – we’re both still acting like that kiss was no big deal – and not one single sighting of Moll or Barty to put a damper on my mood.
I even found time to crochet some of those beautiful sunny flowers.
‘They should be pissybeds!’
I whisk my head around to see Moll and Barty stomping towards me with scowls on their faces and mucky black plastic sacks dangling from their arms.
‘Piss-ee-beds?’ Aisha frowns at them.
‘Pissybeds, pissybeds,’ Moll rants as though it should be obvious what she means. ‘Dandelions.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Those fancy French flowers are not Irish at all. I blame it on the EU. We never should have joined.’
I count to five and breathe deep as I’ve long ago learned to do whenever the Stringers appear.
No point assuring her that we definitely haven’t received an email from the European Parliament instructing us to cover the library in sunflowers.
Or mentioning that they’re native to North America, not France. That would only make it worse.
‘We’re going for bright and cheerful for the children’s section,’ I say as Moll and Barty reach the desk and deposit their sacks on the countertop, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I managed to scoop up my festival flyers just in time.
‘But thanks, that’s helpful, dandelions would look cheerful too.’ I smile pleasantly. ‘And I’ll ask Pat to share a few folk tales about them. The children would love that.’
I know Pat uses dandelions in those old Irish herbal cures he makes for himself. I also know he sometimes shares them, and he’s given some to Moll and Barty. Free of charge.
Moll’s face softens but Barty just grunts.
‘Humph. Him. That’s why we’re here. That and these turnips.’
He opens his sack, lifts out a mucky specimen, and plonks it on the counter. ‘We’ll say fifty cents a head and that’s a bargain. Now, how many of these lads do you want?’
‘Em, it’s a bit early, Barty. The lantern workshop’s not on for another two weeks.’
‘I’ll bring another batch for the workshop so. You can leave these lads on the counter. I got a sign made up and everything.’ He pulls out a laminated placard from his sack, then shoves it back inside and pulls out a smaller sign that reads Stringers’ Stingy Jack Turnips. Best Price. Pay at Desk.
My mouth opens, torn between a gasp and a howl of horrified laughter.
‘We can’t sell turnips in the library. Even if they are very fine turnips.
’ I bob my head to stress how impressed I am with his great unwashed offering, despite the fact that my nice clean countertop is cloaked with a layer of earthy dust.
Moll looks less impressed with me now. ‘Typical,’ she mutters, but she doesn’t say what it’s typical of.
‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ I say as sweetly as I can, and Barty doesn’t wait for me to finish my sentence before he whips out a laminated placard and hoists it in front of my face. Three words in large black capitals on a plain white sheet. Down With Plastic.
I clamp my lips tight to stop myself pointing out the irony. He’s standing in front of me, holding up a protest sign, laminated in clear plastic, and pulled from a black plastic sack.
‘We want you to give these out tomorrow night,’ Moll says. ‘And we’ll march on Pat’s Plants and Herbs as soon as the meeting is over.’
‘You want to march on Pat’s business? Which you do realise is closed down and fully cleared out. So, there won’t be anybody there on Friday night.’ I lean my head closer. ‘Am I hearing that right?’
Moll looks down at the countertop, then back up at me. Her faces flushes. ‘We’ll march on the Corner Bar then. He always goes for a pint Friday night.’
‘Let me get this straight. You want to march against the man who brought you a flask of his special elderflower tea the night before he left for Spain, because he heard you were coming down with a dose.’ I stare at her. ‘And it seems to have worked. You certainly have your voice back.’
Her veiny cheeks flush deeper, but I keep going. ‘The same man who called over to you every night with a fresh poultice when Barty cut his leg on those briars.’ I arch my brows. ‘And the same man who let you set up your cart to sell vegetables in the yard behind his shop.’
She looks over at Barty, and I can almost see her relenting, but then she purses her lips.
They’ve been protesting every change in Oakwood for years, as though any progress is a personal attack.
And even though Pat has helped her and Barty in more ways than anyone I know, she still hasn’t forgotten him standing up to her on my behalf.
It was Moll who first sowed the seeds of doubt in my mind about Dad, muttering that she didn’t know why my mother kept insisting he slipped and fell into the river that stormy night in Portville, when nobody else was there and nobody knew for sure.
Flynn was with me and told her she was talking rubbish and to not dare repeat her ignorant comments again.
Then he told Pat, and he had words with her too.
‘You know well that Pat has no intention of selling his property to a plastics factory.’
She shifts from foot to foot, but then Barty chips in, ‘We heard different.’
I don’t bother to ask what he heard, or who from.
‘Barty,’ I almost growl, ‘if you don’t take those placards out of my sight, right now, I will tell every person who comes in here, and everyone who comes to the meeting tomorrow night, that every single one of your turnips is rotten to the core.’
I would love to order them out, but my ethos of keeping the library as an open, welcoming space runs too deep.
Thankfully, Aisha and her gang are doing such a good job of freezing them with icy glares that I don’t need to say another word, and they both slink out silently, dragging their mucky wares in their wake.