23. Jack
Chapter 23
Jack
B y Friday night, I was completely shattered. I’d spent the day with Phil and a few old school friends doing something called “canyoning” for Adam’s stag do, which essentially involved jumping off cliff after cliff into the cold water of the Irish Sea on the North Wales coast. I’d enjoyed it, but it was nothing short of exhausting; with all the time I’d been spending with Morgan, I’d gone on way fewer solo adventures than usual, and I was feeling it in my lack of stamina.
I wasn’t the only one who had struggled; Adam himself was terrified of every single jump, and his best man Freddie who had planned the weekend was karmically rewarded for the choice of activity with a too-small wetsuit. Whilst none of us had enjoyed looking at the effect that had created, the waddle it had caused had us all in stitches for the entirety of the hiking portion.
Now we were back at the big house Freddie had rented, eating a massive takeaway order, the leftovers from which were supposed to be our lunch the next day, too. I didn’t relish the idea of leftover Chinese, nor was I keen on the next day’s loose agenda; Freddie was trying to rally everyone to go to a strip club, but he seemed to be the only one interested. Which was saying something, because he was also the only married guy on the trip.
I wasn’t used to quite so much laddish socialisation – I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it through another day and a half – so instead of playing drinking games, I was off in a corner, sitting in an armchair in a little bay window, holding a beer in one hand and scrolling on my phone with the other.
Naturally I’d found myself on Morgan’s profile. I hadn’t used my account in years until Morgan and I had started hanging out, but I’d reactivated it recently, checking out her profile every now and then without actually following her. I was scrolling through a carousel of images she’d posted after our trip to Hay that I’d now seen about a dozen times; there was nothing of me, or even her for that matter, but rather just artful shots of the books and shops, and of a box of fudge next to the river. I could almost taste the chocolate and feel it melting on my fingers when I saw it, and I wished, not for the first time, that I were doing something with Morgan this weekend instead of listening to a bunch of drunk guys try to one-up each other with how well they knew the groom. Three nights was a long time, and not for the first time today, I asked myself if the two days of holiday I’d had to use had been worth it.
“Whatcha doin?” Phil asked, staggering over – he’d clearly had a few beers himself – and sinking down into the chair opposite me. I pocketed my phone as quickly as I could. “Insta-stalking Morgan?” he asked, pointing to my shorts where my phone was still peeking out of my pocket.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Phil laughed. “You’re in so fuckin’ deep, man.”
I shook my head and rolled my eyes, but he wasn’t wrong. I’d spent most of the week reminiscing about last weekend, or looking at the book she’d bought me, or thinking about the Ren Faire. It was getting closer – we were about two and a half months out, and I knew Phil had been sewing his little fingers off to get us ready.
“How’s it going with you?” I asked, partially because I cared, but mostly to get the spotlight off of me.
“Living the dream, man,” he said, but there was a bit of sadness in his eyes that I hadn’t noticed. I instantly panicked – had I missed something going on with Phil? Had something happened? If he wasn’t okay and I’d missed it because I’d been running around with Morgan too much, I’d never forgive myself.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, and he must have heard the heightened tone of my voice, because he instantly smiled, and it was like the sadness just evaporated.
“Oh yeah, all good,” he said, waving his hands. “I’m just getting sick of being unemployed. I know Ethel needs someone around, but she doesn’t actually like being looked after. So when I’m not doing the three things a day she actually needs me for, I’m either working on a project or watching EastEnders reruns with her. That’s why I was so excited to have the costumes to work on. I’ve gone through so many audiobooks making Morgan’s chain mail…”
I smiled, but it didn’t escape me how he’d brought the conversation back around to Morgan already.
“How is she?” Phil asked, taking a sip of his beer, looking pointedly at me over the glass.
I rolled my eyes. “We’re just friends, Philip.”
He pointed at my pocket again. “Jack, you’ve barely been on social media of any kind since you and Aria broke up. If you’re casually scrolling through her profile, that’s a big deal.”
“What makes you think I was on her profile?” I asked, but he just pointed to the window behind me. It was dark outside, so the reflection was crystal clear. He’d actually seen me on Morgan’s profile, which meant he’d known I was deflecting. Which, of course, made me look even guiltier.
“Okay, fine,” I admitted. “She posted some pictures from our trip to Hay over the weekend. I just wanted to see them.”
He nodded slowly. “Sure you did.”
“That’s all I was doing,” I insisted.
“I believe you,” he said, in a way that told me he very much did not believe me. I wouldn’t have, either. “But you know, it would be okay if you did like her.”
“What does that mean?” I didn’t like his tone; it was the way he talked to his nan when he was trying to help her remember something. Like he needed to beat around the bush so she could figure it out for herself.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” he said. “But it’s been a while. And if she makes you happy, you should go for it.”
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a moment. It was exhausting, trying to make sense of things with Morgan. I couldn’t even figure out my side of the equation, much less how she felt – and even less how to go about articulating that to someone else.
A roar of “Wheyey!” erupted from the other room, causing us both to jump slightly.
“Beer pong,” Phil said in explanation, and I sighed. It was like a frat house out of some American comedy film.
I was about to suggest I might go for a walk, or at least find a spot even further from the noise, maybe somewhere I could put my headphones on without seeming antisocial. I’d actually brought the bloody book with me, just in case I had time to actually read it – maybe I could flick through it in my room. But before I could suggest it, my phone buzzed.
I took it out of my pocket and tried to control my facial expression as best as I could when I saw the message was from Morgan, but I could feel the corners of my mouth wanting to tug upward.
Hey! I’ve got an obnoxiously long to-do list from Cara’s mum that I have to get done before Monday. If you’re around at all, can I buy you pizza in exchange for doing my work for me? I know you said you’re seeing friends this weekend though, so I’ll text Chloe as backup. No worries.
I’d typed my reply before I could even think twice:
I’m away tonight, but I can be there by 1pm tomorrow. If we don’t get it done then, I can come back on Sunday. That work?
Her reply came almost as quickly as I’d sent mine:
Perfect! See you tomorrow x
I smiled at that little x for longer than I should have, picturing the lips that might form that kiss. Then I realised how pathetic I was being and looked up, where I saw Phil squinting at the window behind me.
“There’s no way you could make that out,” I said, squinting at him sceptically.
“I’ve got incredible eyesight,” he said with an obnoxious wink. “By the way, mate, you’re not looking too well … maybe we should head home in the morning?”
I sighed at him, but I was biting back a smile. “Yeah, I think you’re right,” I said. “I’d better turn in.”
“Good for you,” he said as we both stood up. He put a hand on my shoulder for a moment and squeezed, then dropped it. “Yeah. Good for you.”
* * *
By the time I dropped Phil off and pulled up to Morgan’s house the next day, my duffel bag still in the back seat, it was a quarter to one. I was planning to sit in my car for five or ten minutes before showing up helpfully early, but a minute or so after I parked, I got a text:
You can just come in now. I’ve been at the window for like twenty minutes.
I couldn’t help but laugh – we were actually quite alike sometimes, weren’t we? I hadn’t been past the gate before, and as I came through it, I saw the curtains in the bay window twitch slightly.
As I walked up the front path, I admired some of the species that had taken over the front garden. Mum would have loved it. There was red clover, Yorkshire fog, and even some spotted orchids, one of which was currently hosting a marbled white butterfly. Sure, there was some burdock, which would be a nightmare to pick out of Pablo’s fur if Morgan ever got to bring him home. But it was a pollinator’s dream, and it had an unkempt beauty about it.
As I reached the door – a sage green Edwardian with leaded glass insets – I saw a patch of colour on the step. I bent down and picked it up; it was a postcard from Los Angeles, a stylised print of the Hollywood sign. It must have missed the letterbox.
Before I could read the message on the back, Morgan opened the door dressed in a pair of denim cutoff shorts and a retro Charlie’s Angels t-shirt. Her curly hair was piled on top of her head, and I could tell she’d put on a small amount of make-up. Something tensed in me, not unpleasantly, at the thought of her putting in effort for me. The sun shone in on her through the door, making her skin, which was tanned from our summer adventures and dewy from the heat, shimmer slightly. I had the overwhelming urge to hug her: to wrap my arms around her waist and pull her in close to me.
But I didn’t get the chance, because she hugged me instead, opting for the single-armed side hug, which created painfully little contact.
“This was on the step,” I said as she stepped back, handing her the postcard. She took it from me and frowned down at it.
“Thanks,” she said, setting it down behind her without reading it.
She invited me inside and thanked me for coming, then started rambling about everything we needed to do, but I wasn’t listening, because I was too busy looking around at the inside of Morgan’s mind. At least, that was the impression I got from looking at her home; it was a bit chaotic, with books and knick-knacks everywhere, and it had a pitiful amount of light coming through the big front window; the whole street was appallingly positioned. But it was also warm, and cosy, and vibrant, and full. It made me feel exactly the way she made me feel – like I wanted to stay a while. Settle in. Look around and see what I could discover.
As my eyes scanned the room, I saw a window seat, where I imagined from the indent in the cushion she spent a lot of time. It looked like a great place to draw, or to read. And I pictured her sitting there last night, texting me, whilst I sat in a different bay window over a hundred miles away.
Then I saw the bookshelves, which looked to be double-stacked with books, some of which I recognised from her Hay-on-Wye haul. I’d known she liked to read, but I hadn’t realised just how much. And as my eyes passed over the fireplace and to the other set of bookshelves, I saw the book I’d bought her only a week ago turned outward, different to any other book. Like she’d been looking at it, the way I’d been looking at the one she got for me. Like it meant as much to her as it apparently did to me.
I felt a weight form in my stomach, and I recognised it instantly; it was the same thing that had happened when we’d been hiking. The thing that had made me shut down; made me lash out. And after all the time I’d spent with Morgan, after she’d played riverside therapist, I could finally tell what it was. It was fear.
But there’s nothing to be afraid of , I told myself. It’s just Morgan. And when that didn’t work, when my breathing started to get shallower and faster, I decided to try a different approach. Just take it one step at a time , I thought. You’re just doing a bit of DIY. That’s all. You can panic later if you need to.
Surprisingly, that seemed to work, and I was able to calm myself down. Morgan was now over by the shelf, clearly having realised that she’d left the book on display, apologising.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’ve been reading mine, too.”
I didn’t know why I’d told her that, but it seemed to appease her, or even thrill her; she grinned, and her cheeks went even more pink.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, and she bent down to grab it. She clearly enjoyed what she saw, smiling as she stared down at it.
“Good news?” I asked.
“Oh yeah,” she said, turning it towards me. “Phil and I have been texting about my second Ren Faire look. He’s just sent a picture of the progress.”
I scoffed; he’d been home for all of twenty minutes, and he was already back into the projects. Then I processed what she’d said.
“Sorry, he’s making both of your costumes?”
She smiled innocently, putting a hand under her chin to add to the cherubic image. “Yeah, but honestly the chain mail is so expensive I’m beginning to regret it.”
I beckoned for her phone. “Show me what you’ve got.”
She started to give it to me, then thought twice about it and yanked it back before it could settle in my hand. “Actually, I want it to be a surprise,” she said. “We’re doing something a bit different.”
I narrowed my eyes. “A surprise?”
She nodded. “At least until it’s ready for me to try on, I guess.”
An image flashed into my mind unbidden of Morgan in a classic Ren Faire get-up, like the tavern wenches in the videos I’d seen online. I didn’t hate the idea of it. But I needed to stop thinking about it, otherwise I’d be useless for getting anything done.
“Okay fine, what’s on the list for today?” I asked. And when she smirked, I realised my mistake. “Sorry, yes, I know you were telling me a minute ago. But I wasn’t listening. I was too busy being nosy.”
“Fine,” she said, then walked me into the kitchen – equally cosy, though the stick-on vinyl everywhere was definitely a choice – and showed me the to-do list she’d written up on a tiny whiteboard. Funny enough, removing all the offending vinyl was on the list. Only one item was checked off so far – “get rid of mood lighting”. I chuckled and wondered if that was a landlord-mandated task or a precaution for me. Either way, it was probably for the best.
“Okay,” I said with a big exhale, taking in everything we still needed to do. “This is a lot for one day, but it’s possibly doable. Do you have the paint?”
I looked down at her, and she shook her head, baring her teeth in a not-quite-smile.
“Okay, then that’s job one. It also depends on how easily this stuff comes up,” I said, rapping my knuckles against the worktop. “Did you keep any of the instructions from when you put it on?”
“I’ll give you one guess,” she said, and I sighed. This would be a long day.
“Okay, then we’d better get started,” I said. “Why don’t you start on some of the easier stuff, like boxing up the books that need to move? I’ll go get paint.”
She frowned. “I don’t know what colour it is.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Here, let me show you.”
I grabbed a knife from the small pile of dishes in the sink and led her to the front door. I opened it and then held up the knife, working slowly and carefully to remove as big a piece of paint as possible from the door. It wasn’t easy; most of it was weather-beaten, and it had clearly been years since it had been painted. But it was a nice wooden door, not a modern PVC one, and so I managed to get roughly a square inch, which I held carefully in my hand.
“Can they really match it that way?” she asked. I nodded.
“It’s usually pretty good. It may not be exact, but I’m sure your landlord wouldn’t notice. If they knew the exact colour, I’m sure they would have told you.”
“Thank you,” she said, and she sounded genuinely relieved. “I mean, I could have figured out the paint matching. But thank you for being here. I’ve been dreading all of it.”
“Happy to help,” I said, trying to sound as casual as possible. “Now, I should go get some paint. You take this” – I handed her the knife handle-first – “and make sure you wash it before you use it again. Really well.”
“Aye aye, captain,” she said, saluting me. I rolled my eyes and then headed back to the car.
A moment later, right as I got in, she ran out after me, thankfully no longer wielding the knife. “Wait,” she said, leaning in through the passenger window. “I need to give you money for the paint.”
“I don’t mind helping out,” I said. “You can pay me back later.”
“It’s fine,” she said. “I took out some cash specifically for it. Take it.” She reached over to hand me two folded-up twenties, which I was confident was more than enough for what we needed.
Just as the notes transferred from her hand to mine, her eyes panned to the duffel bag in the front seat, and she frowned. Then she looked back up at me and narrowed her eyes.
“What’s that for?” she asked, and I had the sudden realisation that it might look like I planned to stay the night.
“Oh god, not that,” I said, and she instantly softened, and something that maybe looked like disappointment flashed across her face. I tried to ignore how that disappointment made me feel. “I was away with some friends.”
“Oh really?” she asked. “What for?”
“A stag do.”
“Fun,” she said, then leaned back out of the window. “See you in a bit then!”
“Yeah, see you,” I said, waving as I put the car in gear and drove off, desperately hoping she hadn’t seen the book-shaped protrusion on the side of the bag.