EMMA
Mum was leaning too close to the screen, squinting as if there might be smudges on it. Dad sat back, his arms crossed like a man who had been ambushed into this call and was putting up with it.
“Darling,” Mum said, with her eyes shining brightly. “You look positively Canadian. Is that a maple leaf behind you?”
“It’s a tree,” I said, twisting slightly to glance at the view out my window. “With leaves. Which just so happens to be red. Entirely coincidental.”
“So beautiful! It’s like living in a painting.”
Dad grumbled. “Until they all fall and you’ve got to sweep them up.”
Mum ignored him without any hesitation. “So, how are the classes?”
“They’re good,” I said honestly. “Better than I expected. The students are sharp, lively. They argue back. Which is all I want, really.”
Dad brightened a little. “Arguing back is the foundation of education.”
“I thought Napoleon was the foundation of education,” I said sweetly.
Mum laughed; Dad sighed. “I’ve just finished the most marvellous book,” he said, pointing towards the stack of books beside his chair. “On Napoleon. Did you know he wrote a romance novel?”
“Napoleon?”
“Napoleon Bonaparte. Romance. Utterly dreadful, of course, but the fact that he attempted it…” He spread his hands, awestruck.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s absurd. Can you imagine Napoleon dictating love letters between fictional characters?”
“I can,” Dad said firmly. “And I applaud it. Shows depth.”
Mum rolled her eyes. “Shows that men should sometimes stick to battles and leave romance to people with hearts.”
“Rubbish. If more men wrote romance, the world would be better off.”
“Then maybe you should try one yourself,” she retorted, raising an eyebrow.
Dad grumbled again. “I read romance. That’s enough.”
I’d seen it all my life: Mum poking, Dad puffing, both of them secretly loving it. It always made me feel warm inside.
“And what about you, Mum?” I asked, grinning. “Any new projects?”
Her expression shifted to one of mischievous pride. “Kintsugi,” she announced.
Dad groaned. “She’s started breaking pots,” he said flatly.
“Not on purpose,” Mum protested. Then, after a pause, she amended, “Not always on purpose.”
“You’ve smashed three this week.”
“I’m learning! It’s all about accepting flaws, instead of hiding them. Golden seams, beauty in the brokenness.” She leaned closer to the camera again, conspiratorially. “I may have helped a couple of mugs break, just so I could practise. But that’s in the spirit of things.”
Dad shook his head. “Spirit of lunacy. They look like they’ve been sneezed on by a dragon with a sinus infection.”
“They’re beautiful,” Mum said loftily. “Emma, you’ll see when you’re home next time. They’ll be worth fortunes one day.”
I laughed so hard my tea sloshed in its cup. “I believe you, Mum. Whole museums will come calling.”
“You were always my favourite,” she said smugly.
Dad muttered, “She’s your only one,” but he was smiling when he said it.
For a moment it was just the three of us, and I felt both far away and completely at home.
“Anyway,” I said, putting my cup down. “I need to get ready soon. I’m going to a play tonight.”
Mum’s face lit. “A play! Tell me everything. With whom?”
“A colleague from university. Simon.”
Mum’s grin turned sly. “Is this a date?”
I groaned. “Mum.”
“Well?”
“No,” I said firmly. “Simon is gay. And even if he weren’t, we’re just friends. He’s been very welcoming. We have a lot in common. But it isn’t – no.”
“Shame,” she said, unrepentant. “You would probably look great together.”
Dad cleared his throat. “She said he’s gay.”
“Details,” Mum said, waving him off. “I can still imagine.”
I closed the laptop before she could spin her fantasies into something outrageous.
* * *
The play had been good – better than good even. It had been electric. Simon and I left the theatre with the rest of the crowd. October was definitely getting colder every night.
“Wasn’t it brilliant?” Simon said, tugging his scarf tighter. “The way they staged the second act made me want to cry. Almost. I don’t cry in public.”
“It was amazing,” I agreed. “The intimacy of it. The way they made you feel as though you were invading their privacy.”
We walked a little, our footsteps in perfect rhythm. He shot me a sideways look. “Drinks?”
“Absolutely.”
The bar was dim and warm, full of low voices and clinking glasses. We grabbed a corner table and ordered wine.
Simon was still excited about the play, his hands moving animatedly as he talked. “And the chemistry! Did you feel it? I mean – feel it? I nearly jumped out of my chair in that second act. They were practically vibrating.”
I smiled into my glass. “I did. It was… intoxicating.”
He wagged his finger at me. “See? You felt it. That’s what I want. That fizzing, sparking thing that makes you sit up straight without even realizing it.”
“Looking for something?” I asked.
“Someone,” he corrected, grinning. “Nothing serious, not yet. God, not marriage. Just… I don’t know. Something. At least enough to make me want to text them the next day.”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is,” he said firmly. “Chemistry, attraction, a decent cocktail. Honestly, Emma, you overthink it.”
“I do not.”
“You do.” He leaned forward, eyes dancing. “You think of it like one of your books. Structure, rising action, payoff. But love isn’t a novel – it’s improv. You jump in and hope you don’t trip over the furniture.”
“That sounds disastrous,” I said dryly.
“And fun,” he countered, sipping his wine. “So, what about you? Love life?”
I hesitated, swirling the glass in my hand. “Non-existent.”
“By choice?”
“By circumstance. Every time I start a new book, I move. New city, new atmosphere. It’s what keeps me writing, but it doesn’t exactly help when it comes to relationships.”
Simon tilted his head.
“And I’m not interested in flings,” I said. “Or one-night stands. They end before you even learn how someone takes their coffee. Or tea in my case. So, yes, maybe I overthink it. But I’d rather overthink than waste my time.”
He studied me for a moment, then smiled softly. “Fair enough. Still, maybe one day you’ll meet someone who makes you want to stay.”
His words pulled Max Finnegan back into focus, sharp and unwanted.
Tall and broad, with dark brown hair and warm brown eyes, smiling with that annoying cockiness.
Max Finnegan. I had tried to resist googling him, really tried, and I had almost succeeded…
if you don’t count looking at one of his pictures twice.
Okay, maybe five times. Such a cliché, finding a hockey player attractive.
“Maybe,” I said quietly, then took a quick sip of wine. “By the way, I still can’t believe you’re not coming to the Literature Foundation gala. I was counting on you to roll your eyes at all the speeches.”
Simon groaned. “Please, don’t remind me. I’ve been roped into family obligations that night. My cousin will disown me if I skip.”
“I am looking forward to dressing up,” I admitted. “But you would’ve made the whole ordeal more bearable.”
He grinned, softening. “You’ll be dazzling no matter what. Someone else will have to be your partner-in-sarcasm this time.”
“I’ll never forgive you,” I said, mock stern.
“Yes, you will,” he said with a wink. “I’ll take you salsa dancing as penance.”
I laughed, shaking my head.
Simon’s eyes shifted past me, landing on someone across the bar. His grin spread slow and wide.
“Don’t look now,” he whispered, “but I think I’ve just found my text-the-next-day candidate.”
I glanced anyway. There was a good-looking man by the bar, laughing with friends. He caught Simon’s eye and held it, a spark already there.
“Go,” I urged, smiling. “Before someone else does.”
Simon hesitated, reluctant to leave me, then leaned over and kissed my cheek. “You’re a star. Don’t stay up too late writing about tragic heroines.”
“Go,” I repeated, as he slid off, weaving through the crowd towards possibility.
I stayed for a little longer, finishing my wine, but couldn’t shake the image of those warm brown eyes.
When I finally headed home, I knew I wouldn’t sleep anytime soon.