Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
LUCY
I’m mortified.
Very few people make the connection between Millie and me, and even fewer ask outright, so Bram’s question caught me completely off guard.
And what can I say? I panicked. I don’t even know what made me tell him the truth, but it’s out there now, and there’s no taking it back.
I thought he might probe more, people usually do, but I said that I wasn’t ready to talk about it, and he listened.
I’m beginning to learn that is what he does.
It isn’t that I’m not desperately proud of Millie and everything she’s achieved – of course I am – but when I looked up and saw Bram there, clutching that damn book to his chest like he’d birthed it, it knocked the wind clean out of me.
Because whatever pride I feel always seems to be matched by the wave of grief I feel when I think about her.
When I remember that she chose her career over me.
That I was never quite enough to make her stay.
It crushes me every time.
‘I need a minute,’ I say, and I dart out of the shop before Bram can stop me.
The street outside is packed, but I manage to tuck myself into a recessed doorway nearby and try to catch my breath.
There’s a puppeteer out on the cobbles in front of me, and I watch as he makes his sinister marionette dance, tracking his path across the stone.
It’s a trick I learned from researching self-help articles for a story.
Find something external to train your focus on so that it isn’t focused on your problem or on your panic.
A haunted puppet wouldn’t be my usual choice, but I can feel it working already.
The race of my pulse steadies, and my breathing begins to ease.
By the time Bram appears next to me, I’ve calmed down enough that there’s room for embarrassment at what just happened. There’s a line of concern drawn between his brows when he looks at me, and I smile, hoping it appears less weak than it feels.
‘Sorry about that,’ I say, but he shakes his head, the action making his hair tumble over one eye.
‘Nothing to be sorry for,’ he replies simply, and then he tucks himself into the doorway next to me, a comforting presence beside me.
The scent of him surrounds me, leather and sea salt, the subtle warmth of his aftershave, and something else.
Something dark and undefinable. My eyes start to flicker closed, but I force them back open, staring at him maybe a little too intensely.
It’s then that I realise he isn’t holding the book anymore.
‘You put it back?’ I ask, surprise making my voice hitch almost into a squeak, but he just smiles quickly, blowing out a breath of a laugh.
‘Don’t worry about it.’
I’m suddenly a little ashamed of myself.
‘Bram!’ I can’t help but squeal. ‘You can buy it. It’s a great book. I don’t want Peggy to miss out on it because I’m having a moment.’
He looks round at me then, green eyes crashing into mine in a way that somehow feels both gentle and very intense all at the same time.
‘I did buy it,’ he says, the gruff of his voice tugging at my chest as the corner of his mouth lifts back into a smile. ‘Betty behind the counter lives three doors down from the cottage, and she’s going to drop it off for me after her shift.’
My face crumples in confusion, and it makes his smile soften, those sea-green eyes just beginning to crinkle at the corners.
‘Now I don’t have to carry it around all day, you don’t have to look at it all day, and Peggy still gets her book.
’ One leather-covered shoulder shrugs. ‘It’s win-win, only better. It’s win-win-win.’
My heart clenches, just for a beat. He did that for me. It’s like he somehow understands that while I’ll always be a huge supporter of Millie’s work, the constant reminder of her success is, well, a lot. I look back at him as one tattooed hand goes to rub his stubbled jaw.
He gets it.
‘Thank you,’ I say, my voice barely more than a whisper, and I know he hears me, despite the bustle of the crowded street. I see it in the way the creases by his eyes deepen, his smile twisting up as he nods once.
‘Now,’ he says, pulling his sunglasses from where they’ve been hanging on the neck of his T-shirt and slipping them back on. ‘Let’s get wandering. These sights aren’t going to see themselves.’ He holds out a hand, and I grab it before I can think of a single reason why not.
His hand is cooler than I expect – softer too. I’m not sure I noticed either thing last night when he was leading me through the alley, but maybe that was because I was freezing too. I can’t deny it feels strange now, but perhaps he just runs cold. Some people do, don’t they?
He pulls me away from the door and back out onto the busy street, but he doesn’t let go of my hand for a while – not until we’re out of the crowd and back on the other side of the harbour.
When he does, I miss the connection immediately.
I almost reach straight out to grab his hand again, but the thought that he might just be taking pity on me crosses my mind and stops me in my tracks.
‘You hungry?’ he asks as we walk back along the harbourside, and my stomach growls, almost as if it heard him.
In reality it’s only been a few hours since I ate my bodyweight in cake, but something about the sea air or all the walking – or maybe the emotional breakdown outside the bookshop – is stimulating my appetite, and I nod effusively.
I see his grin out of the corner of my eye. ‘Fish and chips?’
‘At the seaside?’ I duck around a woman in a floor-length Victorian gown adorned with peacock feathers and don’t miss a beat. I’m getting into this Goth Weekend lark. ‘Be rude not to.’
‘Up here,’ Bram says before darting up a side street that climbs up away from the water. I have to dodge a couple in matching steampunk outfits before I can follow him, and he slows his pace as he turns to find me twenty feet behind him. His smile turns sheepish as I fall into step beside him.
‘Sorry about that.’ He gently nudges my arm with his, that soft touch which is becoming familiar.
‘Got a little over excited there. This is my absolute favourite chip shop.’ The excitement in his voice is palpable, and it warms my chest even beyond the way the sudden hike up the hill does.
I’ve noticed he’s enthusiastic about the things he loves – this town, his bar, the end of the pier – and I like it. We’re more alike than I expected.
I smell the place before we reach it. It’s the familiar tang of vinegar that cuts through the warm scent of frying batter in the air, and I’m suddenly just as excited as Bram.
A bell rings as he pushes open the lavender-painted door, and at the sound of it, the woman behind the counter shrieks in delight.
She’s older, maybe sixty or more, but I note the faded pink hair tucked into the hairnet she’s wearing, a single spiderweb delicately painted on one cheek.
She props one hand on her hip as she considers Bram.
‘Liam Bramwell,’ she says, a huge smile distorting the spiderweb. ‘Always a pleasure.’
‘Good to see you, Diane.’ He turns back to me, nodding towards the older woman. ‘Diane is an old friend of my mum’s.’
‘Less of the old, please,’ Diane quips, before her face falls. It’s just a fraction, but I clock it. ‘How is she?’ she asks Bram quietly, and I don’t miss the shift in his weight at her question, either.
‘She’s ok,’ he says, a thread of something in his voice. ‘Still with us.’
‘Good,’ she says softly. There’s a strange look on her face – an expression balanced somewhere between a smile and a frown.
He huffs a breathy little laugh in response, but it feels heavy, as if he’s struggling to even push the air out.
Instinctively, I take a small step towards him before I even know I’ve done it, and the movement makes Diane’s eyes move to me.
There’s the tiniest twitch in one eyebrow as she looks back at Bram, a question in her expression.
But he just laughs, genuinely this time, and the sound of it sends relief racing through me. ‘This is Lucy,’ he says, motioning towards me. ‘It’s her first Goth Weekend, so I’m showing her the ropes.’
Diane doesn’t ask what the situation is between us, though I can tell she wants to, and Bram doesn’t offer her any more information either.
Instead he orders us food, stopping to glance back at me between items to check that everything’s ok.
When he’s done, they chat easily for a minute or two while Diane rings up the sale and sets about preparing our order.
As I watch them, I can’t help wondering what was behind the exchange about Bram’s mum.
We haven’t really talked about his family, not that we’ve talked much about anything at all, but there was something about that question in particular which made him flinch.
It was almost the same reaction I had in the bookshop when I saw Millie’s book.
Not that I suspect for a second that Bram was also abandoned as a child by the household name who birthed him, of course. But there’s something there. Something that hurts him.
He leans a hip against the painted wood of the counter, one leg propped across the other, and I study him like he’s the sole focus of my story, taking in the lines of his face, the cut of his jaw.
Diane says something that makes him laugh, and I notice a dimple low down on his cheek that I haven’t seen before.
The more time I spend with this man, the more intrigued I am by him.
He turns just in time to catch me staring, and I style it out, plastering a stupid grin on my face that I hope will make him laugh.
Mercifully, it works.
‘Want to eat in here or outside?’ he asks, clutching a paper parcel of food to his chest.
I look longingly out of the window. I can just see the glimmer of the sea through a gap in the buildings. ‘Is that even a question?’ I ask. Seaside fish and chips, in my opinion, always taste better outside.