Chapter 15 #4
We stand in the stillness for so long, my urge to touch him increases with every note. For three long minutes, I will him to just kiss me.
Then the track changes and with the first strike of a chord, the first note he sings, I’m thrust back to That Night. To the song he sang to me, before Dave asked me to go backstage.
Before Madrid, when I watched a man entirely out of my grasp singing to thousands of people, and marvelled at how his life had exploded, whilst mine had become so incredibly small in the same space of time.
But he’s here now, unbelievably, and his voice coming through the speakers brings with it the rise of goosebumps on my skin.
I know he doesn’t, couldn’t possibly, remember the same moment in Newcastle.
But I wish he did, and though I’m too practical, too logical to think that the way he’s looking at me now is the way he looked at me from the stage then, his pupils dilate and the irrational part of my brain could be fooled.
His gaze penetrates me in the same way it did in that music hall. I want it back, him back, and before everything went completely pear-shaped, That Night.
My body gravitates towards his, weight draining from my legs, and when he reaches out to me, my entire insides turn faster than a vinyl on a record player. Adrenaline courses through me as he twists my hair around and through his fingers.
He takes a breath, then his lips part and he sings his own lyrics, ‘What is it about you, that makes me feel so alive?’
If it weren’t for the shift of his outstretched hand from my hair to my face, I could believe I’m completely liquified. His voice. His words. Him right here. Not angry or stubborn, but something else entirely.
And it’s… really overwhelming. Terrifying, all of a sudden.
I take a step back, intending to break our contact, but he shifts forwards, keeping the same foot of distance between us.
Then he sings, ‘There’s just you and me, forget all these people. Because it makes no sense, but I can’t tear my eyes away from you.’
I’m undone.
My inhibitions have left the building.
I’m twenty-one years old again and mesmerised by this man.
I reach across the distance between us and grab his braces, intending to tug him against me.
Only, his braces are elasticated and stretch towards me, his body unmoving.
I chuckle. ‘That didn’t go to plan.’
He shakes his head, a sexy-as-sin lopsided grin playing tantalisingly on his lips that I need on me. ‘No, it didn’t.’
Then he sobers, and I tug the braces a little harder, smiling as they finally reach their full give, nudging him towards me, until?—
‘What is happening in here?’
‘Mum!’
I let go of the braces and turn on the spot to see my mum, hands on hips, chastising me like I’m a thirteen-year-old girl who snuck her first crush into the house after hours.
The elastic slaps back against Guy’s chest and he screams as it lands. ‘Jesus!’
I shift to stand next to him. Hands by my sides, proving I’m not touching him. Nothing is happening.
‘We were just listening to music,’ I tell Mum. ‘With hot chocolate.’
To be clear, there’s no underage drinking going on here, unless there’s a plus twenty-eight years age restriction on high-sugar cocoa-based drinks these days.
‘And you are?’ Mum asks Guy, her tone utterly admonishing.
His hands slowly trail his torso and come to rest on his nipples. The skin of his neck is fiercely red. Oh God, I’ve really hurt his nips.
He whimpers before telling Mum, ‘I’m Guy. I work with Lyra.’
Mum seems to straighten. ‘Oh. You’re the wedding singer.’ Then she glares at me. ‘And naked servant?’
‘Butler,’ Guy corrects her, still rubbing his nipples.
Suddenly, the whole situation hits me and bursts from my lips as a snigger.
Mum is boring holes in me and, in a flash, every single time she told me off as a girl dances like a storyboard through my mind.
I feel Guy going too and when I look at him, fighting his amusement, rubbing his bruised pecs, it’s the final straw. I’m gone. Laughter escapes me, then him.
‘We’ll talk about this later. Turn the music down; your dad is sleeping. I have to go to the hospital.’
I do hear her, every word, but it doesn’t stop me creasing, nor does it stop Guy from doubling over as soon as she’s gone from view.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell him, barely able to get the words out.
‘Next time, just tell me you’re not into me, would you?’
Maybe laughter makes me brave. ‘I don’t tell lies.’
We’re standing facing each other again and his laughter fades back into that too-attractive-for-his-own-good half-smile.
And I think we’re going to slip back to where we left off.
But I’m left bereft as he moves to the coffee table, drains his hot chocolate, then tells me, ‘I should go, let you get some sleep.’
Oh.
‘Absolutely.’ I’ve no idea why I now feign a yawn because I’m about as wired as I’ve ever been. ‘I’ll show you out.’
Though he actually leads the way through the house, away from my hideaway, back to the front door, and I don’t know which emotion I feel strongest – disappointment, relief, or mortification.