8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Jon
T he sun has been shining ever since I arrived, a streak of good weather so out of character for Yorkshire that it feels like a cosmic joke. The path I’m on meanders through a patchwork of fields bordered by stone walls, heading towards St. Claire. It’s beautiful in a way that catches me off guard, the kind of beauty that doesn’t demand attention but seeps into you if you let it.
At the top of a hill, I find a good spot under an ancient tree and drop down into the grass. The village is visible in the distance, the church tower the most obvious landmark. I lean back against the tree trunk, pull out my phone, and open the map app to make sure I’m on track.
The device buzzes in my hand, a call coming through. When I see Tom on the screen, I hesitate. I’ve ignored every call and notification since I arrived, but this is my brother. He is persistent and won't give up easily, so I might as well get it over with.
I swipe to answer. “Tom,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “What’s up? ”
“Not much,” he replies, warm and casual. “Thought I’d check in, see how my little brother’s doing. You alright?”
“Fine,” I say, settling back against the tree trunk. “Just out walking.”
“Walking?” Tom chuckles. “You’ve gone full country lad, haven’t you?”
“Not quite,” I reply dryly, though I can’t help the faint smile tugging at my lips.
“Well, when you’re not busy pretending to be one with nature, you should come by. Mum’s already talking about putting you to work in the garden if you visit. Says it’s been too long.”
“I’m sure she does,” I reply, my tone guarded. “But I’m fine here. I’ll visit soon.”
“Right, right,” Tom says, his voice light but probing. “You know, it’s only two hours up to Hexham. She’s doing a roast this weekend, all the trimmings. I can even come pick you up if you can’t face the long drive.”
I glance out at the hills, rolling endlessly toward St Claire. “Thanks, but I’m good. Maybe another time.”
There’s a moment of quiet before Tom speaks again, his voice softening. “Jon… the incident.”
My chest tightens, and I grip the phone a little tighter. “What about it?”
“Remember, I’m always here if you want to talk,” Tom says, his voice steady but with that undertone of brotherly concern.
“I know,” I reply, trying to sound casual, but it feels forced, even to my own ears. “There’s just… not much to say. ”
Tom sighs on the other end. “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know. I get it—you’re good at keeping things bottled up, but you’re not alone in this, Jon.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, diverting as usual. “It’s just… it’s a lot. I’ll figure it out.”
“You don’t have to figure it out by yourself,” he presses gently. “We’re family, Jon. That means you’ve got me, and Mum, and Dad—even if they show it in their own weird ways.”
As Tom keeps talking, his words fade into the background of my mind, replaced by another voice, softer but just as persistent.
Abigail.
Her face rises in my memory—the way she’d looked at me with unflinching understanding during our heart-to-heart. Her words, calm but perceptive, cutting through my guilt without judgement. The warmth in her gaze as she told me I wasn’t the villain I’d painted myself to be.
And then, after dinner, that moment in the kitchen. The way her laughter had filled the space between us, easing a tension I hadn’t even realised I was carrying. The feel of her hand on my arm, the heat of her skin against mine. The tentative, electric pull that had led us closer, step by hesitant step, until—
“Jon?” Tom’s voice pulls me back to the present.
“Yeah,” I say, blinking and shaking the thoughts away. “I’m here.”
“You sure?” he asks suspiciously. “You went quiet.”
“Just got distracted,” I say, my voice more clipped than I intend. I take a deep breath. There is one thing I want to tell him. Tom and I have always been close, or as close as you can be if you live at different ends of the country.
“You know what?” I say before I can second-guess myself. “There’s… something that I’d like your advice on.”
Tom’s silent for a beat, and then his tone shifts, lighter, more curious. “Alright, now we’re talking. What is it?”
“It’s nothing big,” I begin, though the slight flutter in my chest says otherwise. “There’s, uh, this woman at the B&B I’m staying at. Abigail.”
“Abigail,” Tom repeats, dragging out the name like he’s testing it. “Go on.”
I lean my head against the rough bark of the tree trunk, staring up at the clouds drifting slowly overhead. “She’s… different. Bright. Warm. Like she just..lights up a room, you know?”
“Sounds like the exact opposite of you,” Tom teases, but there’s no malice in it.
“Her daughter, Layla, is this whirlwind of energy. And Abigail, she just…” I hesitate, searching for the words. “She makes you feel like you’re not as broken as you think you are. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah,” Tom says softly. “It does. Sounds like someone you could use in your life.”
I exhale a short laugh. “It’s not like that. I mean, it’s not going to be like that. She’s just—she’s different. And somehow, I ended up telling her more about myself in a week than I’ve told most people in years.”
There’s a knowing chuckle on the other end of the line, and I can almost see Tom smirking. “And then?”
“And then…” My ears start to burn hot, though there’s no one around to see it. “It, uh… escalated.”
Tom bursts out laughing. “Oh, now this is good. So, you’re not just moping around Yorkshire, then. You’re getting some action.”
“It’s not like that,” I say quickly, though the words feel weak even to me. “It just happened. We were talking, and then—”
“And then?” Tom prods, clearly enjoying this.
“And then things got… physical,” I admit, lowering my voice. “It wasn’t planned. Hell, it caught me completely off guard.”
“Well, good for you,” Tom says, his tone genuine now. “Maybe this is exactly what you need, Jon. Someone who reminds you there’s still something good out there.”
“I don’t know,” I mutter, my gaze drifting to the horizon. “It’s complicated.”
“Life’s complicated,” Tom counters. “Doesn’t mean it’s not worth it. And what now? You going to see where it goes?”
I run a hand over my face, conflicted. “I don’t know. I’m not exactly in a place to be… anything. And she’s got her own life. Her daughter. This isn’t—”
“Stop,” Tom interrupts firmly. “You’re overthinking. Just let it be what it is, Jon. You don’t have to plan out the next ten years right now.”
I chuckle faintly. “Yeah. I’ll try.”
“You’d better,” Tom laughs. “And hey, if you end up marrying this Abigail, I’m calling dibs on being best man.”
“Fuck off. I’m hanging up,” I chuckle, shaking my head.
“Take care of yourself,” he says warmly before the line disconnects.
I sit there for a moment longer, the phone resting in my hand, before finally slipping it into my pocket. The wind picks up, rustling the grass around me, but my thoughts are elsewhere.
Abigail. Maybe Tom’s right. Maybe, for once, I should just see where this leads.
The taxi pulls up in front of Sunshine Cottage, the tyres crunching on the gravel. I climb out, grabbing the shopping bag from the seat beside me and thanking the driver. The walk to St. Claire had been refreshing, but my legs were ready for a break after the trek. The drive back was a welcome reprieve, especially with the weight of the shopping pulling at my arm.
Before I can reach the door, it bursts open, and Layla flies out, her backpack swinging wildly. She skids to a stop in front of me, her eyes darting straight to the bag in my hand.
“Doctor Jon!” she exclaims, bouncing on her toes. “What’s in there?”
“Food,” I reply, holding the bag up.
Her curiosity is insatiable. “Food? What food? Can I see?”
I chuckle at her enthusiasm, but before I can answer, Abigail appears in the doorway, tea towel slung over her shoulder. Her smile is warm but quickly shifts to suspicion as she spots the bag.
“Food?” she echoes, her eyebrows rising .
“I went shopping,” I say simply as I step past Abby into the house and head towards the kitchen. “Thought I’d cook dinner tonight.”
Layla and Abigail follow me. “You’re a guest, Jon. You’re not supposed to cook,” Abby protests.
“Consider it my contribution,” I say, setting the bag on the counter and starting to unpack. “It’s happening, Abigail. No use arguing.”
Her eyes narrow in mock disapproval. “I don’t think that’s how being a guest works.”
Layla gasps dramatically, grabbing Abigail’s arm. “Mum, please let him cook! Doctor Jon is going to make something amazing, I just know it! Can I help? Please?”
I glance at Layla, who’s practically vibrating with excitement. “I could use an assistant,” I say, giving her a conspiratorial nod.
Layla squeals, dropping her bag to the floor with a thud. “Yes! I’ll be the best assistant ever!”
Abigail sighs, clearly outnumbered. “You’ve really done it now, haven’t you?” she mutters but she can’t fool me. I can see that grin she is trying to hide.
“It’s all part of the plan,” I say, smirking as I pull ingredients from the bag. “And don’t worry—I’m pretty decent in the kitchen.”
“I’m holding you to that,” Abigail replies, leaning against the counter with her arms still folded. “But if you burn the house down, you’re paying for the rebuild.”
“Fair deal,” I say. Layla’s already tugging at my sleeve, demanding to know what we’re making.
“Doctor Jon,” she says seriously, pointing to the bag, “is it going to be spaghetti? I love spaghetti. ”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” I say with a wink. This is going to be interesting.
The kitchen is a mess of flour, laughter, and sticky fingers. Layla stands on a chair beside me, her hands buried in the dough we’re kneading together. Her face is smeared with a streak of flour, and her grin is so wide it’s infectious.
“This is so squishy!” she exclaims, pressing her tiny fists into the soft, elastic dough. “Is it supposed to be this squishy, Doctor Jon?”
“Yes, exactly this squishy,” I reply, chuckling. “You’re doing great, Layla. Keep going.”
She kneads with all the enthusiasm of someone who thinks the fate of dinner depends on her. To be fair, it kind of does.
“When does it stop being sticky?”
“When it feels smooth like your cheek,” I say, poking her cheek for emphasis. She giggles, and I can’t help but smile. “Here, let me check.”
I take the dough from her, knead it a few more times and press it lightly with my fingers. “Perfect,” I declare, earning a proud little squeal from her. “Now we let it rest while we work on the sauce.”
Layla hops down from the chair and drags it behind her to the hob, where the ragù is simmering away in a large pot. The rich scent of beef, garlic, and tomatoes fills the air, and I can see her nose twitch as she takes it in.
“Can I stir it?” she asks, already reaching for the wooden spoon.
"Alright, Chief Stirrer," I say, stepping back from the pot. "Before you start your important job, we’ve got to wash those hands. Can’t have extra seasoning in the sauce, right?"
Layla giggles, sprinting to the sink. I lift her up, and she turns the tap with gusto. She scrubs her hands enthusiastically under the warm water, sending soap suds flying everywhere.
"Clean!" she announces, holding up her tiny hands for inspection.
"Spotless," I confirm with a nod. I grab a towel to dry her hands, then help her back onto the chair she’s using as a makeshift perch by the oven. “Now, ready to stir?”
She nods vigorously, taking the wooden spoon with an air of responsibility. "I’m ready!"
I scoot the chair closer to the hob so she can see into the large pot. She leans forward cautiously, her tongue sticking out in concentration as she stirs the rich, bubbling sauce.
“Remember, slow and steady,” I say, keeping an eye on her. “We don’t want any sauce splashes.”
“Got it,” she replies, her focus unwavering. She stirs carefully, the wooden spoon moving in smooth circles through the thick, aromatic mixture.
While she tends to her very serious task, I turn my attention back to the dough. I roll it out roughly with the rolling pin and cut it by hand. Scooping up the uneven but charmingly rustic strips, I drop them into the boiling pot of salted water.
“Time for a quick hand wash,” I say, heading to the sink myself. Layla pauses in her stirring, watching me .
“Why do you need to wash your hands? Your hands look clean,” she asks, her voice filled with genuine curiosity.
“Just in case,” I explain. “Clean hands make great cooks.”
She nods sagely, clearly storing this nugget of wisdom for later use. By the time I’ve washed up, the pasta’s ready to be plated.
“Alright, Chief Stirrer,” I say, “your work here is done.”
Layla sets the spoon down carefully and leans back, her face a mixture of pride and delight. “We make a good team, don’t we, Doctor Jon?”
“We do,” I admit, pulling the steaming strands of fettuccini from the pot and stirring them through the sauce. The fresh pasta is glossy and perfect, and I can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction.
“Now for the finishing touch,” I say, spooning generous portions of the ragù over the pasta. The rich, meaty sauce glistens under the light, filling the room with its mouth-watering aroma.
Layla sniffs the air dramatically, a big smile spreading across her face. “Mum’s going to love this! Can I go tell her it’s ready?”
“Go for it,” I say, watching as she bounds out of the kitchen, her excited voice ringing out.
“Mum! Doctor Jon says dinner’s ready, and it smells amazing!”
I smile to myself, wiping my hands on a tea towel. The kitchen looks like a war zone, but Layla’s joy makes every bit of the mess worth it. What would have stressed me out a few weeks ago just makes me smile nowadays. I just have to hope Abigail thinks the same when she sees—and tastes—the results.