Chapter 6
Christina
Iwake to groaning noises and the sharp ache of a neck that feels like it’s been held in a vice.
For a moment I don’t know where I am.
Then I see him on the sofa, one arm draped over his eyes like the light has personally offended him, and the memory of last night comes back in one humiliating rush.
I check my phone.
Seven in the morning.
Phil tries to sit up.
He groans again, his face contorting, one hand flying to his head.
“Good morning, Bambi,” I say, because if I don’t joke, I might start shouting.
He jolts into a sitting position and then winces, pressing his fingers to his temples.
“Oh God,” he rasps. “Christina. I’m so sorry.”
He grabs the water and drains it like a man who escaped from a trek through the Sahara Desert.
I watch him for a moment, letting him sit in the consequences.
Not cruelly.
Just honestly.
“How much did you drink before we met?” I ask.
He swallows hard.
“It wasn’t… loads,” he says, and the pause between the words tells me everything. “But I little more than usual. I'm not a big drinker. And I didn’t eat yesterday. I was too nervous.”
His stomach growls loudly on cue.
Mine answers in solidarity.
I didn’t get dinner either.
I sit forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees.
This is where the doubt slips in again, quiet but persistent. If he got this nervous about dinner, what happens when something real happens? Something scary? Something complicated? Does he reach for the nearest exit every time?
He looks at me like he’s bracing for me to walk out.
Like he’s already preparing for the rejection.
I don’t give it to him.
Not yet.
“Right,” I say briskly. “We’re going for a fry-up.”
His eyes widen.
“What?”
“You can pay,” I add. “To make up for last night.”
He blinks at me.
“You still want to… spend time with me?”
His voice is small. Barely there.
“It’s breakfast,” I say, keeping it light. “Not a date. No pressure.”
He stares at me as if he can’t quite process kindness without strings attached.
Then he nods slowly.
“I need to brush my teeth,” he mutters.
“And wash your face,” I add.
That gets the faintest hint of a smile, like his mouth is remembering how to do it.
I stand and stretch, my back cracking in protest.
“Got a spare toothbrush?” I ask, eyeing him pointedly.
He disappears upstairs and returns with a toothbrush still in its packaging, cheeks pink, eyes avoiding mine.
We end up side by side at the sink, brushing our teeth in silence. It’s absurdly domestic. Intimate in a way that makes my stomach flip with something that isn’t hunger. When our eyes meet in the mirror, I catch a tiny grin on his face.
It’s brief.
But it’s there.
The Mountain Spoon is tucked behind the post office, one of those places you only find if you live here or if your stomach is loud enough to guide you by instinct. The streets are quiet this early, the air crisp, Fellside still waking up slowly.
Phil walks beside me, hands in his pockets, moving carefully like he’s afraid sudden motion will make his head explode.
To break the silence, I gesture vaguely.
“So. Piano.”
He glances at me, surprised by the change.
“I played when I was younger,” he admits. “Not much anymore. But I always liked the idea of having a piano… even if my living room is almost too small for it.”
We stop to cross the road. I grab his hand automatically, tugging him along as a car comes past faster than it should in a village full of pedestrians.
I try to let go once we reach the pavement.
He doesn’t.
His fingers tighten around mine and then, slowly, deliberately, he laces them with mine properly.
My pulse jumps.
I glance at him.
He’s looking straight ahead, jaw tight, like he’s concentrating on something important.
Like holding my hand is an act of courage.
We keep walking like that, silent, our joined hands warm between us.
This is the Phil I saw at the nursing home. The calm one. The grounded one. The one who isn’t running.
And the fact that he exists makes the doubt more complicated, not less.
Because if he can be this person, then why wasn’t he last night?
At the café, we find a small table in the back. I pick up the laminated menu, glance at it, and then put it down again.
“I don’t know why I’m checking,” I say, pointing at myself. “This woman is having a full English and tea.”
He lets out a quiet chuckle.
“A woman after my own heart,” he says, and for a second the warmth of it makes me forget everything else.
He orders at the counter and returns with two mugs of tea. The smell is comforting, familiar.
We sit with the steam between us.
Then he looks at me.
“Why did you mention the piano?” he asks.
I grin.
“Oh, because I have a cunning plan for how you can repay me for yesterday’s…” I wave a hand. “entire performance.”
He winces. “I thought breakfast was my penance.”
“Nope,” I say. “Breakfast is repayment for me missing dinner and sleeping in a chair designed by Satan.”
His cheeks flush.
“You didn’t have to stay,” he says quietly.
I give him a look.
“Someone had to make sure you didn’t do something spectacularly tragic like choke on your own vomit.”
He winces hard at that, embarrassment washing over him again.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, staring into his tea like it might hide him.
I reach out and place my hand over his, firm enough to anchor him.
“I’m not saying it to shame you,” I say quietly.
He swallows hard.
The waitress arrives with our plates, piled high with bacon, sausages, beans, eggs, hash browns, toast. The smell is heavenly.
“Eat,” I order.
He obeys.
Then I lift my fork and point it at him.
“Right. Punishment.”
His eyes widen. “I’m scared to ask. And I’m warning you now, I don’t play piano in public.”
“You don’t have to,” I say. “But you do have to play.”
He pauses mid-chew, eyebrows lifting.
“I want to audition for the Crazy Dogs and I need you to help me rehearse,” I announce.
His mouth opens slightly.
“Are you trying to become a famous singer?” he asks, humour slipping into his voice.
I laugh.
“Not famous,” I say. “Let’s be realistic. It’s the Crazy Dogs. Their biggest gig was the FMR fundraiser. Otherwise it’s just pub nights and the occasional wedding where the bride’s dad gets too emotional and requests ‘Wonderwall.’”
He watches me, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and admiration.
“I love singing,” I continue, “and in Fellside the choices are church choir or local rock band. I’m not religious, and I’m definitely at least a little crazy.”
I grin at him.
“Obvious choice.” I shrug.
He studies me for a long moment.
“You are fascinating,” he says softly.
The words hit me, warm and unexpected.
I swallow, trying not to show how much that matters.
“So,” I say, forcing my voice back into teasing brightness, “are you going to help me?”
He nods once.
“I’ll help you.”
I smile, relief spreading through me.
“Good,” I say, then tap my fork lightly on his plate. “Now eat. Nothing cures poor life choices like a fry-up.”
Phil finally starts eating properly, like his body has remembered its original purpose.
He moves slower than usual, careful with himself, but the colour is beginning to return to his face.
The tightness around his eyes has softened.
He doesn’t look like a man on the verge of collapse anymore.
He looks like someone who made a mistake and is quietly trying to climb out of it.
We fall into a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional clink of cutlery and the low murmur of conversation from the other tables.
Outside, Fellside is fully awake now. People pass the windows carrying shopping bags, walking dogs, living lives untouched by the emotional rollercoaster that has defined the last twelve hours of mine.
Phil reaches for his tea, takes a careful sip, and exhales slowly.
“I really am sorry,” he says again, his voice stronger now.
I look at him for a moment.
“I know,” I reply.
Because I do.
The apology isn’t performative. It isn’t a tool to win me back over. It’s simply there. An offering without expectation.
He nods once, accepting that, and we return to our breakfast.
For a brief, fragile stretch of time, everything feels almost normal. Almost easy. The kind of morning that could belong to people who haven’t already complicated things beyond repair.
Then his phone vibrates on the table.
The sound cuts cleanly through the quiet.
Phil frowns and glances at the screen.
“Hi Tommy.” His voice is tense, focused.
He listens.
His expression settles into something I’ve never seen directed at me before. Calm. Precise. Present.
“I’m thirty minutes out,” he says. “See you in a bit.”
He hangs up.
The version of him sitting across from me now is not the man who apologised five minutes ago. Not the man who held my hand like it was something fragile. Not the man who threw up in his own bathroom after a night of poor choices.
This man is still.
Certain.
“I’m really sorry,” he says. “I have to go.” He puts rashers of bacon and a sausage between two slices of toast whilst talking.
“I’ve been called to a rescue,” he says.
Of course.
Of course Fellside Mountain Rescue has perfect timing.
I almost laugh, but it gets stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat. Just when he finally stopped looking like he might bolt at any second. Just when breakfast started to feel less like damage control and more like something new. Something fragile and possible.
They have to pull him away.
For a split second, irritation flares. Not at him. Not really. At the universe. At timing. At the fact that Fellside, with all its mountains and ridges and endless opportunities for people to do stupid things outdoors, has decided that right now is the moment Phil needs to disappear.
He’s already pulling on his jacket and rolling his breakfast sandwich up in a napkin.
And that’s when I see it.
The difference.
It isn’t dramatic. He doesn’t suddenly become someone else. He’s still Phil. Same face. Same hands. Same slightly crooked posture he never quite corrects when he’s unsure of himself.
But the uncertainty is gone.
He isn’t hovering. He isn’t hesitating. He isn’t watching me like he needs to measure every reaction before deciding what he’s allowed to do next.
He’s simply moving.
Each motion deliberate. Efficient. Certain of itself.
He looks at me, and for a moment, something softer returns.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “’ll text you. I promise.”
“Right,” I say, because it’s the only word my brain offers up.
He nods once, like he understands what that right contains. Disappointment. Acceptance. Resignation.
He turns slightly, already halfway between here and wherever he needs to be.
“Phil.”
He stops immediately and turns back.
“Yes?”
The question leaves my mouth before I can stop it.
“Are you really fit to go into the mountains?”
It isn’t meant to sound accusing. But it does. Because last night is still there between us. The weight of him leaning into me. The helplessness. The loss of control.
He knows exactly what I’m asking.
For a second, he just looks at me.
He exhales slowly, like he’s checking in with himself.
“I’m hungover,” he says plainly.
No excuses. No attempt to pretend otherwise.
“But I’m not drunk.”
His voice is calm. Matter –of fact.
“The adrenaline helps,” he adds. “And the cold air. It clears your head fast. And I have my breakfast sandwich.” He winks at the last word.
There’s no bravado in it. No reckless pride. Just quiet confidence born from experience. From knowing himself. His limits. His responsibilities.
He shifts his weight slightly, already half turned toward the door, but his eyes stay on mine.
“I wouldn’t go if I wasn’t capable of doing my job,” he says.
“Be careful.”
A small smile touches his mouth.
“Always.”
And then he’s gone.
The bell above the café door chimes softly as it closes behind him.
I sit there for a moment longer, staring at the empty space he left behind, trying to reconcile the man from last night with the one who just walked out without hesitation.
Not weak.
Not fearless.
Just someone who keeps showing up, even when it would be easier not to.