Chapter Twelve #2
I narrow my eyes at him, but I can’t help ruining the image with a nervous laugh. “Fine. I’m fine. Well, no.” I take big sip of my drink. “I’m actually a bit scared, to be honest.”
“Scared?” He leans back as if I might be scared of him.
I’m scared of what I want to do to him, if that counts.
“Yeah. I’m scared of where my life is leading me next, you know?
I was on a path. I had plans. I was organised.
I was going to marry Adam, when he finally bloody proposed.
I was going to have, like, maybe two kids.
We were going to buy one of those big, terraced houses a few blocks from the sea. It was all planned.”
I’m so fucking drunk. My loose tongue is feral.
Freddie doesn’t say anything but takes another sip, which says more than any words could. He thinks I’m pathetic.
“And I guess, in some ways, thank God he broke it off, right? Because whatever was going on in here,” I point to my head, “was pretty tragic. Why was I settling for someone who was never happy with me? Or for me. He complained all the time. The only thing he ever looked forward to was a fucking skiing trip. I should never have been jealous of snow. And you know what, he never fucking invited me. Not once. Not even to just watch. He liked leaving me behind. He liked me feeling small. I’m so sure of it now. He liked me feeling dumb and useless.
“When he complained about my lack of career, I don’t think he’d have been happier if I suddenly took up a big, fancy job like him.
No. I don’t think that was what any of that was about.
I think he liked pushing me down. He liked me always trying to kiss his feet and worship the ground he walked on.
He liked leaving me behind and being better than me.
“But now he’s actually gone and done it.
He fucking left, Freddie. He actually fucking left.
And the worst part, I think, is that was his plan all along.
He never planned marriage and babies with me.
He didn’t want a nice, terraced house. He wants a mansion with his imaginary, hot, model wife who falls at his feet the second he walks through the door.
“He never wanted me.” I gasp at the realisation of saying it out loud. It’s fucking shit. But it’s true. I was never enough for him and there was nothing I could’ve done to change that.
And I’m not even sad now.
No. I’m angry.
I’m fuming he let it get that far.
I’m angry he took so much time from me, knowing that was always likely to happen.
“He never wanted me and now I’ve wasted my twenties on him. I’m supposed to just pick myself up and do it all again? I don’t understand it. I feel so lost. So unprepared.”
I take another big gulp of prosecco and find myself holding an empty glass. I don’t top this one up, though. I’m woozy to say the least. I place it on the side of the tub, but it falls in and floats there before slowly sinking.
My companion is watching me warily like I’m a danger to myself, as he fishes the glass out and places it on the side.
I’m fine. I’m just pissed – in both meanings of the word.
“I’ve only ever had sex with one guy, Freddie,” I whisper before dipping my whole head under the water. I’m embarrassed. Tortured.
I hate saying this out loud, but out of all the people in this lodge, I get the impression he’s the least likely to judge.
I mean, I know Priya and Sara are aware of this.
They knew Adam was my first, but I don’t think it’s crossed their mind since.
Or maybe they don’t think it’s this whole big thing.
It’s not embarrassing to them. And they’re so absorbed in their own stuff, why would they even think of it?
I stay under for a few seconds before two large hands are on my waist, lifting me. The pressure from his fingers feels incredible. When I surface and open my eyes, Freddie’s so close, I can make out the amber flecks in his irises. He moves one hand up to my cheek, his thumb squeezing gently.
“Please don’t do that,” he says, his voice serious. His breath fans across my face, hot and minty with just a touch of alcohol.
“I was going to have to come back up eventually.”
He chews on his bottom lip, and I copy because I’m jealous of his teeth.
He’s so handsome. It’s even worse this close up. The way his firm jawline ticks, the small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, his clear yet rugged skin. Agonising. His tawny hair is short but probably just long enough to run my fingers through and tug.
I want to tug on his hair.
“Hattie,” he admonishes, pushing himself backwards.
“What?” I blink, bereft at losing his proximity.
He just shakes his head. “You. Just… you.”
“Adam made me feel like I wasn’t any fun.”
“You? He made you feel like you weren’t fun? Hattie, you have to know he was wrong.” He says ‘he’ with a touch of spite and I love that. I shouldn’t. But I do. It feels good for someone else to hate Adam. Not that I hate him. But maybe I should. Maybe that would help me get over this hurdle.
Heat surges through me. He doesn’t know what I mean. I need to say it directly. And I don’t know why it has to be him to hear it, but I probably won’t see him again for a year after this getaway and I don’t think he’d tell anyone else. He’s too private for gossip. Too stoic.
And besides, all logic went out the window after my fourth or fifth glass of prosecco.
“No, like in bed,” I whisper.
I stare at Freddie for a second, but his face does nothing. He definitely heard and now he doesn’t know how to respond.
Shit.
I dip back under again, submerging my entire head.
This time, Freddie’s hand gently encircles my wrist, pulling me not only upwards but towards him. I take a big breath of night air, looking up at the stars poking through the branches. Anything not to give him eye contact.
His hand around my wrist doesn’t move but his spare hand gently takes hold of my waist. I’m brazenly aware of the heat in his fingertips.
I float in the middle of the tub, waiting for him to clear the air.
But instead, my lips are moving again. Loose.
So loose. I say, “You know what you’re doing.
I heard all the stories. You could help me. ”
“Fuck, Hattie,” is his deep response, sending shivers down my spine.
“Yes. Exactly. Fuck Hattie. Just once. Once and then I’ll never bother you again,” I say, finally looking at him.
His mouth is slightly parted. His eyes aren’t filled with pity like I thought they would. No, it’s something worse. It’s frustration or disappointment. Whatever it is, I recoil.
“I’m so fucking drunk,” I say, forcing a laugh. “I’m sorry. Oh my God. Please add that to the list… I’m just… I need to prove him wrong. I am fun. I know I am. I just—”
“Hattie…” he interrupts, his voice low like he’s trying to prevent the others from hearing it. I’ve put him in an awkward position. I’m terrible. I hate me.
I turn to face the steps to escape the tub. I’m desperate to find my bed and pretend this never happened, but his hand is still enclosed around my wrist, and he squeezes me to stay. Something about the way he does it, so gently, yet firm, makes my insides fizz.