From his back pocket, he produced an old photograph, torn around the edges. She hadn’t seen it in years, not since it had occupied space in his wallet. It showed her, Finlay, and a tiny Brook beaming on golden sand the first time they’d been able to afford a holiday together in Devon. Her belly was swollen with Sky’s oncoming arrival, Finlay’s hands cradling the bump with a pride she barely recognised. It had rained every day, but they’d still taken Brook down to the beach to make castles, or to the pier to play arcade games.
“We were so happy, weren’t we?” asked Finlay.
So naive. She gave the photo back.
“Is your phone number the same?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“I’ll text you, then. Until then, just stay away from the kids, okay? I don’t want them upset.”
“Okay. Thank you. Seriously, Eils. I won’t let you down.”
He placed a kiss on her forehead, one she quickly twisted away from. She still had her back turned when he left – and thank goodness, because the tears were already pouring in torrents.
27
Warren was summoned back to the bookshop two afternoons later by a flat text asking if they could talk. He arrived bearing pumpkin spice lattes, a last, fruitless attempt to show Eiley he cared. He clung to a shred of hope that she’d told that slimy ex of hers where to shove it. He hadn’t liked the bloke at all, and not just because he’d laid into Warren likehe’dbeen the one with no right to be there. Finlay had an unsettling air about him, a way of saying the right things without much conviction. Leaving them together alone had left Warren sick with worry, but he knew better than to get involved. He’d wanted to respect her boundaries more than he’d wanted – and he’d wanted, fiercely – to protect her.
As he let himself in, he found new flooring under his boots: a smooth walnut wood that offered a homely rusticity to the place. The walls had been painted the same forest-green as the van he remembered seeing parked outside a few days ago. It was a place to sink into, even empty. A place he wanted to curl up in even if books felt like a language he didn’t speak. Then again, that was probably more to do with the woman crouched over a box of flatpack furniture, surrounded by black slabs that he assumed were shelves.
He made his way over, placing down the drinks before taking a seat opposite her on the floor. Her palm was marked red from the Allen key she clenched in clumsy fingers.
“Let me,” he offered gently.
Stubbornly, she shook her head, and he puffed out his frustration. Seeing as she hadn’t looked at him yet, he assumed this was the beginning of the end – a fact he should have been fine with, considering how little time they’d spent together. And yet he’d lay extra-long in bed this morning because his sheets still smelled like her, his hands wrapped around his cock as he remembered how she’d cried his name, sound muffled by her delicious thighs around his ears. How she’d been wet and tight as he’d slotted into her like a missing puzzle piece. How spilling into the condom, her walls clenching around him and nails curling into his back, had offered a sense of belonging he hadn’t felt in years and years, leaving him dazed and senseless and satisfyingly, unexpectedly full.
He wasn’t ready to lose it. He’d only just got it, for Christ’s sake.
Roughly, he nudged her free hand away from the shelf so that he could hold it steady for her, and finally, the screw twisted in. “It won’t be long until you’re up and running again.”
“Still feels like there’s so much to do.” She let the shelf rest on its side and finally turned and locked eyes onto his face.
He recognised that same hollow exhaustion she’d worn on the night of the flood. It was worse, now, somehow, because that fight she’d carried then, if only for him, was nowhere tobe found. His gut felt like an old building crumbling in on itself, chunks of debris cutting through his weakest spots and pinning him down.
“You’ll get there,” he forced out, because if she was about to let him go, he wouldn’t let her see what it did to him. Whatshehad done to him.
“I’m really sorry that you got caught in the middle of my mess the other day,” she began. “I don’t even know how he found out I’d be here. Maybe one of his old mates or something.”
“You don’t need to apologise for him. As long as you’re okay.”
“I haven’t told anybody yet. If you could just … keep it to yourself?”
“Of course. None of my business, is it?”
“Well, it probably is awee bityour business after …” She trailed off, rubbing her brow like the little patch of dry skin above it was the source of all her problems. Warren wondered what she’d do if he kissed her now. If he told her that she was all he thought about, that they deserved a chance to explore this properly. He didn’t care that she was a single mother. Didn’t care about her history with Finlay. If anything, he thought the world of her kids. He’d never hurt them, never entangle them in any messes they might make along the way.
Would it make a difference? Did he even have a right? It was her family, her life. Perhaps he was just another obstacle in it.
So he leaned back on his palms, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “If there’s something you need to tell me, Eiley, can you just do it quickly?”
Eiley twanged her hairband against her wrist. The urge to stop her rushed over him, afraid all of that fidgeting she did – thenail biting and the skin picking – would hurt her if she kept going. But he was afraid to reach out, afraid of the rejection encroaching over him. He could feel it already, a shadow creeping around his shoulders. If she was going to hurt him, he’d rather it be a quick rip of the bandage. Let him keep his bloody useless pride intact.
“Finlay wants to give it another try,” she whispered finally.
Of course he did. He’d realised what he’d lost, and rightly so. Except any decent man would never throw it away to begin with.
He couldn’t let her see that her words had punched a hole in him. She had enough people to look after already. “And what do you want?”
