Words were never my friends, so I wait for him to speak. He doesn’t. He knows I know he’s there, and he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t try to defend his almost use of “boyfriend,” or deny it. Eventually Owen pulls up next to me, and we’re both silent, facing forward, staring into the never-ending darkness.
I play his words over and over in my mind.
“It doesn’t mean anything. Literally doesn’t mean anything.”
He doesn’t want to be my boyfriend? Does it really not mean anything? Do I not mean anything?
And why are those the bits I’ve homed in on? Why should I care? I’ve got a couple of months tops left in this village and with the Cents, and then I’ll be back in Wales. I shouldn’t want it to mean anything.
But . . . I do.
Without saying a word or making a sound, I reach my left hand out until it makes contact with Owen’s right-hand knuckles, and I wrap my fingers around his, holding them tight, as though I’m anchoring myself.
I don’t turn to look at him, but I feel him smile. I sense it.
Owen inhales like he’s going to say something, but I interrupt him before he even has a chance.
“I’ve never been someone’s boyfriend before.”
Owen stills, turns towards me. I remain facing forward.
“I . . . I . . .” I begin, but can’t quite gather my thoughts.
I need to organise my feelings. Need more time.
I never finish my sentence.
After a few more minutes, he moves his hand from mine up to my shoulder. “I have to get back to the pub. Are you coming with, or do you want a while longer?”
“I’m coming.” I may have reached social capacity, but I was the one who invited my teammates tonight, so I’m at least partially responsible for their enjoyment. Plus, I don’t want them to think I’m weird—weirder. “Wait, Owen.”
He stops in his tracks, pivots on the spot to face me again.
I don’t want to go back in just yet. “Kiss me?”
The briefest smile cracks Owen’s face before he crashes his mouth onto mine.
Turns out a quick snog and an even quicker BJ in a field at the back of a busy pub’s beer garden does wonders for the mood.
Owen returns with dirt on the knees of his jeans, and once the lads spot the brown patches, they’re cheering and lifting him up like we just won the Six Nations. How much have they drunk while we were out there? Daisy pretends to gag. No, wait . . . she’s actually gagging.
Thankfully, no one notices the jizz on my shoes.
Owen sings his “Walk the Line,” and I swear by the end of his set, everyone in that room is a little bit in love with him. He’s awful, really truly shite at singing, but he gives it his all.
I’m finally persuaded to have a go on the mic and sing Bruno Mars’s “Grenade.”
Viv boos me. “You lied to us! I knew you could sing. You’re no fun.”
Ordinarily I would take these words at face value, but I know Viv is messing around, so I force a laugh.
“She loves you, really,” Daisy says to me when I occupy my usual seat at the bar.
I need to remember Daisy doesn’t mean that literally either. Or does she? I don’t fucking know.
“Viv asked me the other day if you were staying in Mudford,” Daisy said.
My heart is beating too quickly. It takes a while for the words to squeeze themselves out. “What did you say?”
