Chapter Thirty
Jim tells me that he thinks you saw me with Marisol? Gert, you have to answer your phone, let me explain. Please. H
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When I wake up the following morning, River is already up, settled at the kitchen table with a pot of coffee and studying one of the books Aled gave us, Squish laid by his feet. I notice that the pillow and blankets he used last night are folded up neatly on the arm of the sofa.
‘How long have you been awake?’ I ask, rubbing my eyes and grabbing my glasses from the side table.
‘Up with the dawn. Old habits.’
I glance at my alarm clock. ‘The dawn was three hours ago? What have you been doing all this time?’
River puts down the book. ‘I took Squish for a run.’
‘You did?’
‘Yeah. We found a garden square nearby. And check this out.’ He stands up, towering over Squish. ‘Squish, sit.’
Squish immediately tucks his bottom beneath him, lifting his head proudly.
‘Whoa, Squish! Good boy!’
Squish darts over to me, jumping on the bed and kissing my nose in excitement at the praise.
River laughs. ‘He’s smarter than he looks. Only took me thirty tries and two whole sausages.’
‘Incredible.’
I climb out of bed, slip on my robe and head over to where my phone-in-a-tub-of-rice sits in the centre of the kitchen table like the world’s least aesthetic centrepiece.
‘Still in recovery,’ River grimaces. ‘I checked it first thing, but nada. Maybe you could talk to it, if you get a chance. I read somewhere that even while they’re in a coma, the phones can hear you.
And just knowing you’re there, that you are rooting for them to pull through, could make all the difference. ’
‘That’s beautiful, River.’
‘Oh, also,’ he says, ‘I tried to make a pot of tea? It should still be toasty warm.’
He points proudly to the kitchen counter behind him where I see my teapot covered with a knitted tea cosy I bought from Mrs Casablancas when she was in her wool phase.
I bounce over excitedly, pour myself a cup and take a sip, but immediately let the liquid dribble back out of my mouth.
‘Oh no,’ I say, grabbing a glass of water immediately. ‘Nooooo.’
‘What?’ River’s face falls. ‘I did it wrong? How can that be? Isn’t it just a tea bag and hot water?’
I laugh. ‘Oh, sweet summer child. There’s much more to it than that. The ratio of tea bags to water, exactly how hot the water is, how long you leave the tea bags to stew. It’s an art. But I appreciate you trying. That was very sweet and nice of you, so thank you, River.’
He shrugs a shoulder, lips raising in a cute lopsided grin. ‘You’re welcome, Gertie.’
He picks up one of the note-covered sheets of paper filled with the plan we made last night after dinner.
At the top of the page is our new mission title: Operation The End.
Beneath it is a list of three things that, after reading through the library books we got from Aled, we deemed to be the most often mentioned in terms of authors overcoming writer’s block. They are:
Learn something new and have fun learning it!
Unravel unresolved emotion.
Get the hell out of your head and get the hell into your body.
Still holding the paper, River raises his arms up into a stretch, tongue poking out slightly, T-shirt riding up to reveal a tiny glimpse of The Torso.
An idle thought immediately pops into my head.
Bet The Torso feels very nice pressed against one’s cheek …
The thought is instantly followed by an overwhelming urge to just casually nip over to him and find out exactly how nice it would feel.
A real urge, a compulsion almost. I mentally scold myself.
Gertie, stop. I quickly grab my laptop and open up my Instagram page in a bid to distract myself.
Less than thirty seconds later I peek back up from behind the laptop and watch as River looks up from the paper to glance at the failed pot of tea on the countertop.
He scowls, like the tea personally did him harm, lips twisting up to the side as if he cannot believe such a simple task bested him.
A laugh bubbles in my chest. I clamp my hands over my mouth so he isn’t alerted to me watching him.
A strange surge of longing warms my body.
I like watching him.
I like it very much.
My hands fall from my mouth, my breath catching in my throat as something occurs to me. Yesterday when Bridget confirmed that River was a real man, my heart leapt with joy to hear it confirmed. And now, since that moment, something major has shifted. Everything has become more … real. This is real.
The evidence is here. It’s right here. It’s in the fine hairs prickling on the back of my neck when his eyes meet mine, the giddy flush of my cheeks when he makes me laugh unexpectedly, the tingle of my body when he’s within touching distance, and the soft slow smile of yesterday when I watched him trying to discipline Squish, or the way he danced when he tasted Auntie’s Delicious Spotted Dick and made me feel like I wanted to dance too.
I’m not watching him because he’s insanely symmetrical and has biceps the size of thighs.
I’m watching him because he’s … him.
River Oakley.
A real living breathing man who exists. Right here.
Right now. A man with his own history, desires, agency, wants and feelings and plans.
And of course he is – someone so multi-faceted had to be more than just a product of my imagination.
Let’s face it, while I’m a good romance novelist, I’m not that good.
I doubt even the great Diana Gabaldon herself could have created a person as true as River Oakley.
Oh God.
I can’t blame it on science any more.
I can’t blame it on the fact that he kisses like he invented kissing.
I can’t even blame it on being miserable and messed up about Henry, because the absolute devastation I expected to sweep over me when I saw him with Marisol still hasn’t arrived.
I fancy River. Emotionally, physically, mentally, properly, properly fancy him. More than just looks. More than just proximity. More than just Big Cowboy Handsome Hunk.
Him.
I watch him now, cleaning out the mugs with a foamy dish sponge, rinsing them and putting them neatly on the draining board.
Then, as if sensing it, he spins around and catches me staring. ‘You’re looking at me weird,’ he says, drying the mugs and slotting them back into the cupboard. ‘You doin’ all right? You good with today’s plan?’
‘Oh! Uh, yes!’ I say, but it comes out as more of a yell. ‘Definitely, haha.’
River’s brows snap together. ‘You sure?’
Argh.
Now that I’ve admitted it to myself it’s like a siren wailing in my mind.
Gertie Bickerstaff has a crush on River Oakley! An honest to God crush! I’ve only ever had one full-blown crush before and that was on my nana’s ornamental bust of Michaelangelo’s David.
Fuck. I feel suddenly crazy, my face going all hot and sweaty like I just walked into a steam room.
I give myself another mental shake. Actively fancying River is nothing more than an exercise in endangering my own dignity.
He made it quite clear yesterday that he regretted our kiss when he ran away into the bathroom right afterwards.
Plus we – I – should be focusing on the much, much bigger, more serious things at stake.
Finishing the book series I’ve been immersed in for years, the book I am under contract to deliver and, most of all, the book that will help River return home.
Where he is clearly absolutely desperate to be. Where he belongs.
Grimacing at the realisation that there is in fact an entirely new way for me to lose my mind, I waddle backwards to the bathroom and slam the door behind me, leaning my forehead against the cool white tiles while I try to catch my breath.
‘Be sensible,’ I say firmly, turning towards the mirror and giving myself a hard stare. ‘Eliminate these thoughts from your mind right now, Gertie Bickerstaff. Thinking this way is not helpful for anyone. Get a grip on yourself.’
I splash some cold water on my face and try once more to focus. To not act like a giddy teenager, mooning over a pop star she will never get to marry.
From the other side of the bathroom wall, I hear River amiably ask Squish to ‘respect his boundaries’. I stifle a laugh, my heart melting completely.
Oh fuck.
Yeah, this is not going to be easy.