Chapter 10 #2
Is he embarrassed to be seen with me? Have I misread whatever this is between us? Maybe it was never shyness. Maybe he just doesn’t fancy being paraded through the village rumour mill at my side. Small place. Long memories. Narrow minds.
Or maybe it is simpler and worse. Maybe standing next to me, with my brown skin against his, feels like something he would rather keep private.
I try to swat the thoughts away. They refuse to budge. Old memories, sharp and unwelcome, make sure of it.
The gravel crunches under my tyres as I pull into the Fellside Manor car park.
The building rises out of the hillside in pale stone and symmetry, too large to ever belong to one person, exactly the right size to belong to everyone.
I switch off the engine and reach for the passenger seat.
The paper bag rustles as I lift it, the warmth still trapped inside. I’d picked it up from the Cherry Pie bakery between deliveries, standing in line longer than necessary while Mrs Cartwright argued about the price of sausage rolls like it was a matter of principle.
Phil hadn’t asked me to come.
That’s the point.
I climb out of the van and follow the path toward the side entrance, past the sign reminding visitors that the house closes at four. Somewhere behind the building, metal scrapes against stone.
I find him around the corner.
He’s crouched beside a wooden gate, a toolbox open at his feet. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, exposing his forearms as he adjusts something in the hinge with slow, precise movements.
For a moment, I just watch him.
This version of Phil exists completely inside himself. Focused. Certain. His hands move without hesitation, each adjustment deliberate.
He looks up.
Sees me.
The change is immediate.
“Hi,” he says, straightening quickly, like he hadn’t expected the world outside the hinge to exist.
“Hi.”
He wipes his hands automatically on a cloth tucked into his back pocket, like he’s suddenly aware of himself in a new way.
“What are you doing here?”
I hold up the paper bag.
“Lunch.”
His mouth softens into a smile before he can stop it.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
He steps closer.
Close enough now that I can see the faint smear of dust along his jaw, the tiny crease between his eyebrows that appears when he doesn’t know what to do with something good.
“I was nearby,” I add, even though I hadn’t been.
His hand lifts.
Hesitates.
Then settles briefly at my waist.
Warm. Familiar.
My body responds automatically, leaning into the contact.
Behind him, a door opens.
Phil’s hand drops.
Not violently.
Not guiltily.
Just… gone.
An older man steps out, pausing when he sees us.
“Oh,” he says.
His eyes move between us.
Phil steps back.
“This is Christina,” he says, his voice careful now. “She runs the flower shop in the village.”
Not my Christina.
Just Christina.
I force a smile.
“Hi.”
The man nods politely.
“Well,” he says, looking at Phil again, “don’t let me interrupt.”
He disappears back inside.
The door closes.
The space between us stays exactly as it is.
Phil looks at the paper bag in my hands.
“What did you bring?”
His voice is softer now. Controlled.
“Bacon butty.”
He nods.
“Thank you.”
He reaches for the paper bag, his fingers brushing mine as he takes it.
“You’re welcome.”
He opens it carefully, like whatever is inside deserves respect.
“Crispy bacon and brown sauce,” he says, almost reverently.
“I spoil you.”
He glances at me then, that small, private smile appearing again. The one that belongs to quiet spaces.
“You do.”
Without thinking, I step closer.
My hand finds his arm.
Not dramatic. Not claiming. Just resting there, the way it had yesterday morning in his kitchen while he waited for the kettle to boil.
His body stills.
Not pulling away.
Not leaning in.
Just… aware.
Behind him, voices drift through the open doorway. Footsteps. Movement. The ordinary sounds of people existing nearby.
Phil shifts slightly.
The paper bag crinkles in his hands.
He turns toward his toolbox.
“I should finish this hinge,” he says. “It’s catching when it closes.”
My hand slips from his arm.
The absence of contact arrives before I’m ready for it.
He crouches, setting the sandwich bag carefully on the low stone wall beside him, his attention already narrowing onto the gate like it had when I first arrived.
His hands move with quiet certainty, adjusting the screws, testing the weight, solving the problem in front of him.
He isn’t dismissing me.
He isn’t cold.
He’s still talking.
“They get worse when the wood swells,” he says, glancing up briefly. “The rain doesn’t help.”
I nod.
“Of course.”
I stand beside him, close enough that I could touch him again if I wanted to.
I don’t.
A couple walks past the end of the path, their voices low. One of them glances toward us and smiles politely.
Phil doesn’t look at me.
He tightens the last screw, then lifts the gate and lets it fall back into place.
It closes cleanly.
He tests it again.
Satisfied.
He stands, wiping his hands on the cloth.
“Better,” he says.
He reaches for the sandwich.
Not for me.
He eats standing beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, far enough that nothing connects us.
This morning, he’d kissed me before I left his cottage.
His hand had lingered at my waist like he didn’t want to let go.
Now he chews, watching the gate like it might betray him again.
I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything.
He’s working.
People are around.
This is his job.
This is different.
His shoulder brushes mine when he shifts his weight.
The contact is brief.
Accidental.
He doesn’t move away.
He doesn’t move closer either.
He finishes the sandwich and folds the paper neatly, like it still has a purpose.
“Thank you for bringing it,” he says.
He looks at me properly then.
Warm.
Present.
Exactly the same.
Nothing has changed.
Except I can’t remember the last time he touched me first when someone else was there.
The thought arrives quietly.
Uninvited.
I push it away before it can settle.