Chapter 19 #2
“I thought you were making ‘great art’ next,” she said with a sigh.
“Maybe the one after next,” he said ruefully.
“Speaking of scripts,” she said, catching Rob’s eye across the table. “My boss found out I knew you. He has this script he was trying to get to your agent. I know it’s horrible to even ask…” She trailed off.
Sean’s expression shifted instantly. He gave her a tight smile. “Right.”
“You don’t need to read it. Maybe if you could say you did, so I can get my boss off my back.”
“I tend to get read requests through my agent,” he said, no hint of humor in his tone.
“Cool, no, don’t worry about it.”
“I just don’t read stuff unless it’s through my agent, or it opens me up to all sorts of plagiarism suits. You know, if I do something similar in a few years and then some guy claims I stole his work—”
“Yeah, of course, I get it.” She knew this. McKenzie knew this. Why had she ever agreed to mention it?
“It’s just not a professional way to do things,” he said. Wow, that stung. “But send it to Larry, if you think it’s worth my while. Anyway…”
He punctuated their conversation with another stiff smile, then turned to Katie, sitting on his right.
Chloe felt her cheeks flush, a lump in her throat.
“Excuse me,” she said quietly, getting up to leave.
She caught Rob’s eye as she stood. He made to follow her, but she firmly shook her head; she didn’t want him to come. She just needed a minute.
Outside the hall, she took a deep breath.
The air was warm and still, holding on to the heat of the day.
She turned to lean her forehead against the stone wall of the hall.
It was rough and cool beneath her skin. The scent of damp stone and lichen filled her nose, familiar, grounding.
She exhaled slowly. Why was she even trying to do McKenzie a favor?
She knew how unprofessional it was to approach a director this way.
She’d just got their friendship back on track; currying favor with McKenzie wasn’t worth derailing it for.
Her gut had told her it was a bad idea. She should have listened.
As she squared her shoulders, readying herself to go back in, she noticed John coming out of the dining hall carrying a cardboard box. The golden light from the hall spilled onto the gravel behind him, lighting him like a spotlight. He looked incredibly handsome in black tie.
“Hi. What are you doing out here?” he asked, his eyes flashing with warmth.
Chloe felt a surge of pleasure in seeing him. “I don’t know, looking for bats,” she said, and he smiled that easy, knowing smile that always made her stomach flutter. “You?”
“Wine mission. The dean said we could break out the good stuff, but the waitstaff can’t find it.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I know where the best bottles are hidden.”
“Do you want help?” she offered, the words slipping out before she could second-guess them.
“Sure,” he said, his grin widening. “I get scared of the dark, so you can hold my hand.”
“Really?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, half-laughing, half-nervous.
“No, but you can still hold my hand,” he said, shifting the empty box beneath his left arm, then reaching for her with his right.
The moment his fingers brushed hers, a current of warmth spread up her arm, pooling in her chest. It was familiar, like slipping into something soft and comfortable, a feeling that was both easy and electric all at once.
They stood there for a beat, neither of them moving, then with a small, almost imperceptible shift, Chloe tightened her grip on his hand.
To get to the cellars beneath the college, they had to go through the bar, Deepers, past the jailed imp, then wind through a warren of narrow passages.
Chloe followed John into the dimly lit tunnel.
The scent of damp stone and dust clung to the narrow corridor, but it was his presence, his closeness, that filled her senses.
She could hear the soft scrape of his shoes on the stone floor and the rhythm of his breathing, steady and low.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so acutely aware of another person.
The corridor opened into a small, low-ceilinged room, with high shelves lining each wall.
The air was cooler here. There was a faint scent of cork and something pleasantly musty.
Above them, the hum of a single dangling yellow bulb.
Wooden racks lined the perimeter of the room, packed tightly with dark green and brown bottles, their labels curled or faded with age.
A small stepladder leaned in one corner, and an open crate sat beside it.
“Have you been down here before?” she asked, looking around the cellar. Her voice was quiet, almost hesitant, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the unspoken intimacy between them.
“Once or twice. I roomed with the keeper of the keys in second year,” he said.
He put down the box he was carrying. “The stars might fade, and summers fly, but Lincoln College will never run dry.” She laughed as he moved toward a large, empty wooden shelf, testing how heavy it was.
“And if you know where to look, there’s always something better hidden at the back.
” He nodded toward the empty shelf. “Can you help me move this?” She went to take hold of the other side of the shelving unit, and together they shifted it just enough to reveal a hidden wooden door in the wall behind.
“In there?” she asked, a flicker of claustrophobia tightening in her chest.
“Don’t worry, it opens up inside,” John said, reaching for her hand again, and as his fingers entwined in hers, she felt like a compass finding her north. “Not many people get to see this. Are you ready?”
As he guided her through the small doorway into the dark cellar beyond, she was close enough to catch a trace of his aftershave, something warm and clean, faintly spicy. Once they were through, he turned to look at her, his eyes pools of light and shadow, impossible to read in the dimly lit cellar.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and as she made eye contact, she felt a rush of feeling, almost like wanting to cry. Her watch pulsed pink. “What’s that?” he asked, glancing at her wrist, a neon beacon in the dark.
“Nothing. An alarm…a, um, reminder to do my pelvic floor exercises,” she blurted.
Why had she said that? She could have said anything!
Luckily it was too dark for him to see her blush.
There was no light in the hidden chamber, but John pulled out a torch and shone it around the room to reveal a small circular space, like an underground igloo, with bottles stacked in crates around the edges.
“Welcome to the good stuff,” John said, an edge of excitement in his voice. “It’s hidden back here to stop other colleges from stealing it.”
“Wow, I feel like Indiana Jones unearthing a long-lost treasure trove,” she said, then shivered, not just from the coolness of the room but from a keen awareness of John’s proximity.
“Indiana Jones and the Temple of Pouilly-Fumé?” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.
“That would have a niche audience,” she said, then laughed. “If we pick up the wrong bottle, is a giant boulder going to come flying toward my head?” She watched as he shone the torch around the crates, inspecting their labels.
“Don’t worry, I will protect you from flying boulders,” he said, and though she knew they were only joking around, his words still ignited a small thrill.
“Do you mind holding the torch while I look?” he asked, handing her the torch handle.
Their fingers brushed as she reached for it, and they both paused a fraction too long, holding the torch between them. Eventually, he cleared his throat and then turned back to the crates behind him.
“So why did you leave dinner so suddenly like that?” he asked, eyes scanning the labels on the crates.
“Oh, it was silly,” she said, moving to stand beside him to better shine the torch where he was looking. “I asked Sean for a favor, to read a script for my boss. He said no, obviously. I was embarrassed. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“He’s sensitive about stuff like that,” John said gently. “He’s been burned before. I wouldn’t take it personally.”
“We had such a good talk this afternoon,” she said. “It felt like we put everything back to rights. Then I go and ruin it all by asking him for a favor.” Her voice caught. “It’s not even a good script.”
“Why did you pitch it, then?” John asked, as he picked up a bottle and wiped dust from the label. It was a simple question, but Chloe paused, struggling to find the answer.
“I don’t know. Because it felt like my job depended on it,” she said, her voice thin, unraveling.
“I thought he’d just say ‘sure,’ then never actually read it.
” John moved across to inspect the next crate, and she moved the torch to follow his gaze.
Listening to the sound of his breathing, so sure and steady, she was seized by a reckless urge to reach out and hold him.
She took a small step back, to stop herself.
“Maybe I just wanted a seat at the table again.”
John turned to face her fully now, and she held her breath, because she felt like he might be about to hug her. She desperately wanted him to. But he didn’t, he just said gently, “You seem a little lost, Chloe.”
Her spine straightened. She frowned. “I’m not lost.”
“Fine, you’re not,” he said with an edge of impatience.
“What?” she asked, her voice high, defensive.
“Something is going on with you, I don’t know what it is, but I hope you’re okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” she asked, clutching her elbows, bracing against herself, the torch in her hand shining toward the ceiling.
“I don’t know, but this weekend, it feels like you’re putting on a performance half the time. You bring your weird boyfriend, when no one ever brings plus-ones to these things—”
“They do! Lorna did,” she snapped. “So did Colin and Tali. And Rob isn’t weird.”
John took a small step toward her. His voice was soft, measured, his eyes intent on hers, as though he was trying to read the truth in her face.
“I don’t know what was going on back there in your room, but I know there’s something off with him. Richard sees it too.”
She dropped her gaze, then let out a forced laugh. “Sorry, I didn’t know I was supposed to be taking dating advice from your dog.”
He stopped still, reaching out to put a hand on her arm now. “I’m just worried you’re in a relationship you don’t want to be in, that you don’t know how to get out of.”
“That’s not it at all. Rob’s just…different.”
“You’re not in love with him,” John said, and it wasn’t a question.
He stepped closer, and she could feel the heat of him, steady and certain in the cool of the cellar.
She didn’t have any words, only her breath, which had grown fast and shallow.
His pupils flared. There was a hum beneath her skin, a pull toward him, an inevitability.
She didn’t know what he was about to do, but she desperately wanted him to do something.
Slowly, he reached for her, one arm sliding around her waist, the other slipping up her neck, into her hair. It was so controlled, so excruciatingly slow, she let out a small groan, and then her fingers loosened on the torch, and she let it drop to the floor with a clatter.
Now, in the darkness, they both lunged forward, closing the gap; she found his lips with hers.
The kiss was breathless, all-consuming, like a wave of heat breaking over her—she felt it in the very marrow of her being.
If this was a kiss, then she had never been kissed before.
But it was painfully fleeting, because just as she felt herself opening up to the sensation, John gently pulled away.
“Chloe, we can’t,” he said, his voice catching in his throat.
But his words didn’t match his actions, because she reached for him again, and as soon as she touched him, he pulled her toward him, hands firm on her waist as she clasped his back.
His kiss was deeper this time. Chloe couldn’t believe how right it felt.
Like a key finding the correct lock. But then he pulled away again.
“Sorry,” he murmured. They both stepped back now, needing space between them. He reached for the torch, and with the light came sense. “I’m so sorry,” he said again.
“Don’t be,” she said. A red glow emanated from her wrist.
He sat down on an empty crate behind him, steadying himself, then let out a pained, frustrated sigh.
“Was it really just a game to you, the Imp?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“What was it, then?” she asked. Though he’d put space between them, she could still feel the tension, like an elastic band, pulled taut.
“I think you know,” he said quietly.
“You liked me?”
He exhaled, sharp and quiet, then muttered, “Why are you torturing me?”
“Why didn’t you tell me, back then?”
“Because I knew you didn’t see me that way.
And because…it didn’t end well for people who did,” he said, his voice tightening.
Chloe felt more memories unlocking, how he used to wait for her when she was late for rehearsals, making it seem like a coincidence; the carol he wrote for her one Christmas; the tiny violin he made Aloysius.
She’d imagined these gestures as sweet eccentricities he’d do for anyone, but perhaps they had only been for her.
“Oxford for me was just music and you, you and music. You were a song stuck in my head that I was never allowed to sing. Because Sean was my best friend, so who could I tell?”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. He glanced up at her, a pained look in his eyes.
“The Imp, your notes, they meant a great deal to me,” she said quietly. “I kept every one.”
For a moment, she glimpsed hope in his eyes, but then it quickly vanished.
He shook his head. “This reunion, it’s not a time machine, we can’t go back. We’ve all grown up.”
That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. He walked purposefully toward the door now, shoulders tight, body language closed.
“Let’s just go back up.” She was about to speak when there was a crashing sound outside, a shelf falling.
The cellar door slammed shut, the echo like a gunshot.
John lunged for it, pushed his shoulder against it.
Chloe rushed to help him, but it was stuck firm. They were sealed in.