Chapter 2 #2
This Phil is calm. Grounded. At home in himself.
For a moment, I simply stand there, watching him exist without the armour he wears everywhere else.
Then he looks up.
Sees me.
And the reaction is immediate and unfiltered.
“Christina?”
My name leaves him like he wasn’t expecting it to exist here.
For a second, neither of us moves. He’s still holding his cards, but his attention is entirely on me now, his brain visibly trying to reconcile the girl from the pub with the girl standing in his grandfather’s retirement home holding a vase of flowers.
His grandfather turns his head slowly, following Phil’s gaze until his eyes land on me. He studies me with open curiosity, taking in everything.
Phil clears his throat, scrambling back into himself.
“Grampy,” he says, voice slightly tight, “this is Christina.”
There’s a small pause, and I realise he’s nervous about the introduction itself, like this moment carries more weight than it should.
“Christina,” he continues, turning slightly toward me now, “this is my grandfather, Arthur.”
Arthur extends his hand immediately, his grip firm and warm.
“Well,” he says, looking at me with unmistakable interest, “it’s nice to finally meet you.”
I blink.
Phil freezes beside him.
I take Arthur’s hand, smiling despite myself. “Finally?”
Arthur glances at Phil, then back at me, completely unapologetic.
“Oh yes,” he says mildly. “You come up surprisingly often for someone he insists he barely knows.”
“Grampy,” Phil says, mortified.
Arthur ignores him.
“He mentioned,” Arthur continues conversationally, “that you sat on his lap in the pub.”
I press my lips together, failing to suppress my smile.
Phil looks like he might actually die.
“And that you fed him a chip,” Arthur adds.
“Grampy,” Phil says again, more desperately now.
Arthur waves him off.
“What?” he says. “You were very thorough in your retelling.”
Warmth spreads through my chest before I can stop it.
Phil talked about me.
Not just in passing. Not just once.
Enough for his grandfather to remember.
Enough for it to matter.
Phil looks like he’s considering faking his own death.
I tilt my head slightly, watching him, letting myself enjoy this moment just a little.
“I knew you couldn’t stop thinking about me, Bambi.”
His eyes snap to mine.
“Christina—”
Arthur turns sharply toward him. “Bambi?”
I grin.
“He startles easily,” I explain sweetly.
Arthur laughs, delighted. “Bambi. Oh, that’s excellent.”
Phil exhales slowly, resignation settling over him.
“Don’t call me that,” he mutters.
Arthur laughs, the sound rich with satisfaction, like he’s just uncovered something he suspected all along.
“Bambi,” he repeats, clearly delighted. “I wish I’d known that sooner.”
Phil’s face turns a deeper shade of red, the colour spreading from his neck to his ears. He doesn’t look at either of us. Instead, he focuses very intently on the cards still in his hands, like they might offer him an escape route.
I shouldn’t enjoy this as much as I do.
Arthur looks between us, his expression softening beneath the amusement.
“Well?” he says eventually, “are you going to to help the young lady with those flowers?”
“That’s okay,” I say because I’m worried this could push Phil over the edge.
“Nonsenses. I’ve taught Bambi to be a gentleman. Tell him what you need,” Arthur winks at me. Phil exhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself because he knows he has lost this battle.
I swap last week's vase with the new flower arrangement. “If you could carry this one for me, that would be fab! I’ve another two in the corridor I need to take back to the van.” I give him a small smile and get ready for him to come up with an excuse.
“Sure,” he says quietly, already rising to his feet.
He takes the vase from the floor, his fingers careful around the glass, and gestures toward the door for me to go first. The movement is small. Automatic. Gentlemanly in a way that feels entirely unconscious.
Arthur watches him go, then looks at me with unmistakable warmth.
“It was lovely to finally meet you, Christina.”
There’s meaning in the word finally.
I smile. “You too, Arthur.”
As I turn to head out into the corridor, Arthur’s voice follows us.
“Careful, Bambi.”
Phil stops walking for half a second.
Just long enough for me to see it.
Then he keeps going.
We walk the length of the corridor without a word.
Close enough for our shoulders to almost brush, not quite close enough to risk it.
He cradles the vase in both hands, careful, deliberate, as if it might bruise.
When we reach the other two, he shifts the first under one arm and reaches for another before I can. I’m left with the last one.
Outside, the rain has softened into something gentler, the air cool and clean when we step out through the front entrance.
My van is parked in the small loading bay to the left. I open the back doors and move aside so he can place the vases inside.
“Here,” I say, fastening the strap around them to keep them secure. “We’ve learned the hard way that flowers and sudden braking don’t mix.”
He nods, his eyes flicking briefly to my hands, then away again.
“Thank you,” I say when everything is secured.
He shrugs, but it isn’t dismissive. More like he doesn’t know what to do with gratitude.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The quiet isn’t uncomfortable.
Just full.
I lean back against the van doors, studying him openly now that he isn’t trying to disappear into a crowded pub. He looks different here. Less guarded. The tension still lives in his shoulders, but it doesn’t own him completely.
“I didn’t know you supply flowers here,” he says finally.
“We started bringing the unsold arrangements after we opened the shop,” I explain. “It seemed like a waste to throw them away when people here would enjoy them.”
He nods slowly.
“That’s… good,” he says.
It isn’t much, but coming from him, it feels like something.
“I usually hang out a bit as well. I stayed the first time because one of the residents asked me about my hair,” I add lightly. “She told me it reminded her of a singer she loved in the seventies and then proceeded to tell me her entire life story. I didn’t have the heart to leave.”
A small smile flickers across his face. Brief. Real.
“I stayed the second time because she asked if I was coming back,” I continue. “And after that, it just became part of my routine.”
I don’t say the rest.
That sometimes I stayed because of him.
That seeing him here had shifted something in me.
That he made this place feel less like somewhere people waited to disappear and more like somewhere love still existed.
He’s watching me now, really watching me, like he’s trying to reconcile this version of me with the one who sits on his lap and gives him ridiculous nicknames.
“You’re different here,” he says quietly.
“Different good or different bad?”
He considers that.
“Different… calm.”
I smile softly. “I am calm.”
Around him, I am also restless. Curious. Hopeful. Terrified.
He shifts his weight slightly, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s working up to something.
“Christina,” he says.
My name sounds careful in his mouth.
“Yes?”
He swallows.
His gaze flicks to the ground, then back to me.
“Would you… would you have dinner with me?”
The question hangs between us, fragile and enormous all at once.
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
I’ve imagined this moment so many times that now it’s here, it feels unreal. Like something I built in my head and accidentally stepped into.
I force myself not to rush. Not to scare him with the magnitude of how much I want to say yes.
“Sure. I’d like that,” I say instead, letting just enough warmth into my voice to tell him this matters.
Relief moves through him visibly, his shoulders lowering slightly, the tension easing.
I unlock my phone and hold it out to him.
“Put your number in.”
He hesitates only briefly before taking it, his fingers careful as he enters the digits. He sends himself a message, then hands it back to me.
Our fingers brush.
This time, he doesn’t pull away immediately.
He lifts his hand, hesitates, then gently tucks a lilac strand of hair behind my ear.
The gesture is tentative. Almost uncertain.
But it’s deliberate.
“I’ll text you,” he says.
I nod. “I’ll be waiting.”
He steps back then, like he’s reached the edge of his courage for the day. He lingers for half a second, like he wants to say something else, then turns and walks back toward the entrance.
I watch him go.
Because for the first time since I met him, it feels like he didn’t run away from me.
It feels like he walked toward something.
Toward me.