by Holly Miller
He nodded. “Partly. A social worker told me once that kids like me go one of two ways: either well off the rails, or sticking to the straight and narrow like glue. Guess I’m the latter.”
“Have you . . . lost patience with her?” I ask Max now, because back then, he would still visit, call, text, and e-mail Brooke, make an effort.
I see a tiny muscle flicker in his jaw, but as he starts to speak, the sushi arrives.
“So,” I prompt, once we’re sitting at the table in Max’s kitchen-diner, the sushi boxes open between us. Max has flicked on a chill-out playlist, dimmed the lights.
He picks up a piece of yellowtail nigiri expertly with his chopsticks, takes a bite, and continues the story. “Well, I made the mistake of taking a girlfriend back to Cambridge for the weekend. I thought I’d introduce her to Brooke, who swore she’d be sober and pleasant and make an effort.”
“Who was your girlfriend?” I ask, hoping my voice sounds light and mildly curious, as opposed to frenziedly desperate for details.
“Allegra. We met at work. This was about . . . seven years ago.”
I nod, mentally chastising myself for wanting to whip out my phone and yell, Hey Siri, show me Allegra!
“Brooke had been trying to get sober at the time, and she’d dumped her leech of a boyfriend, so I was hopeful. We arranged to meet at this restaurant—nothing fancy, just a chain place, thank God—and when Brooke got there her eyes were glazed and rolling. Like, she was out of it. I could tell the second she walked through the door.” He shakes his head. “I just felt this . . . uncontrollable anger inside me. But I managed to keep a lid on it, we sat down, and then . . . literally the first thing that came out of her mouth was to ask me for money. She hadn’t even looked at Allegra, or said hello.”
I frown, set down my crab roll. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah, and I just . . . lost it. Started yelling at her. Allegra literally had to drag me out of there. And afterward I thought, God, if I’d started throwing stuff and something had . . . I don’t know, bounced off a surface and hit someone . . . I could have been arrested and charged with God knows what and my whole career might have been over. All that work . . .” He shakes his head. “Just one stupid move could have changed my entire life that day.”
I realize I’ve been holding my breath as he’s been talking. “Do you still see her?”
“Brooke? Or . . . ?”
I hesitate. “You still see Allegra?”
His gaze finds mine, steady and sincere. “She’s at a different firm now. But we occasionally bump into each other at events and networking stuff.”
“Why’d you break up?”
“She was cheating on me. With a barrister we used to use all the time.” His laugh is brittle. “Don’t use him anymore. Which is a shame, actually. He’s really good.”
I wipe my mouth with a paper towel. My lips are sticky, sweet-tasting from the sushi. “Are they still together?”
“Yep. Married, expecting a baby.”
I don’t know why I feel so sad for him when he says this. Because if they hadn’t split up, Max and I wouldn’t be here now. Or maybe we would. Who knows? I think vaguely back to something my religious studies teacher said at school, about God knowing your destination but you deciding how to get there. If Max and I are fated to be together, then Allegra and the barrister and everything else were just distractions en route to the main event. Weren’t they?
I lift my hand to the back of his neck, run my fingers along his hairline, a small gesture to let him know I feel for him.
“Anyway,” he says, tipping back his head like a cat enjoying a scratch, “I don’t see much of Brooke anymore. She’s got a new man, other stuff going on. I think she always saw motherhood as a kind of obligation. Something that got in the way of what she really wanted to do. And when I stopped making the effort, I think she felt . . . relieved of her duties. If that makes sense.”
I don’t want to say it does, because it shouldn’t. Nothing like that should ever make sense.
It always used to surprise me that Max was such an optimist, given his rough start in life. So perpetually hopeful. I realize now that that was a coping mechanism. If he looked hard enough at the horizon, he wouldn’t have to contemplate the shifting ground of his present, or the rocky terrain of his past.
“So, Luce,” he says, turning his head to look at me, “mind if I ask you something?”
“Go for it.”
“Why did you stop drinking?”
I wonder suddenly if he thinks it’s because I had a problem, like Brooke. If, in the back of his mind, he’s wondering if perhaps Brooke and I aren’t so different. Which is a fairly horrific thought.
“Nothing dark,” I say, though of course that isn’t really true. “I just . . . decided I was happier without it.”
I try to remember how it used to feel, to recall the sensations that ended up scaring me the most: losing control, waking up with no memories of the night before. Being made to feel weak.
Luckily, I struggle to summon them.
“Happier how?” Max asks, setting a hand against my leg.
“Well, I just want to remember everything,” I say. “All the best moments in life. I don’t want to forget any of them.”
He doesn’t reply, just leans over to kiss me instead, moving his hand up my thigh as he does so. And I kiss him back, slightly sad to be relieved that we’re not talking anymore.
* * *
—
A few hours later, I blink awake. At first, I’m not sure why—it’s dark and quiet as a cellar in Max’s bedroom.
Or maybe that’s exactly why.
Don’t panic. You’re with Max, in his flat. Breathe. Breathe.
I grope in the direction of the nightstand on my side of the bed, lighting up my phone to check the time.
A message preview is waiting for me, from Tash. I scan it, then scan it again, completely confused.
Max. This is Tash. You need to do the right thing. I don’t know why you’ve started something up with Lucy again, of all people, but you need to—
Frantically, I tap into the message and read the rest.
—end it with her. Don’t see her again. It’s not fair. She wouldn’t be able to take it if she found out.
My heart begins to behave strangely, at first speeding up, then migrating from my chest to my throat. I reread the message in confusion again, and then again.
By the time I realize Tash must have sent it to me in error, my phone has started to ring, over and over and over, a shrill jangle that slices through me, like hearing a scream in the dead of night.
Max sits up in bed, snaps on a light. “Luce, you okay?”
“I . . . I’m not sure.”
What would I not be able to take? What does Tash not want me to find out?
I get up, groping for the skirt and T-shirt that ended up on the floor a few hours ago. I pull them roughly on, then stand where I am, unsure what to do next and feeling slightly foolish.
“You going to get that?” Max says with a wince, as from the nightstand, my phone continues to ring.
“No, I . . .” I need to think.
“Luce, what’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” Thoughts are starting to bounce around my brain like tennis balls. If I found out what? Why does Tash want Max to end it with me? If I found out what? If I found out what?
“Luce?” Max reaches for my hand but misses. His voice is more urgent now, perhaps out of frustration. He rolls over to my nightstand, picks up my phone, and glances down at the screen, where I’ve left the message open. As he looks at it, his face becomes clay, like his blood has stopped pumping completely.
My phone begins to ring again.
“Max, what . . . What does Tash not want me to find out?”
Max looks up at me, but he doesn
’t say anything. His eyes look almost empty. If he wasn’t sitting upright, I might think he’d passed out.
“Max?” I’ve never seen him lost for words before, and it’s this sudden inability to speak that lets me know this is bad. Really bad. He has done something bad, something so awful he can’t even bring himself to open his mouth.
But how does this involve my sister? Tash can’t stand him, she flinches whenever I so much as mention his name, she . . . Oh no.
I feel the floor fall away from me as we look at each other, and something unspeakable passes between us.
Not that. Please, anything but that.
“Max . . . what did you do?” I manage to whisper, though my mouth feels dry and unwieldy, like I’ve been chewing on flour.
He just shakes his head in response, and I know that if he can’t even say it out loud, it’s the worst possible thing I can imagine.
So I start gathering up my stuff, because I know the only move I can make right now is to run—as far away as I possibly can, don’t stop, keep running, running, running.
* * *
—
We shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”
I’m back at home, in Jools’s room, sitting with her on the bed. She’s switched on the light and made us both a cup of chamomile tea, and I’ve changed into joggers, washed my face, brushed my hair. I feel a little calmer now that I’m here and have had a chance to think.
“I mean, yes—it’s a weird message. But it could mean anything.” Jools hesitates, presses her lips together, tactful as ever.
“Go on. I’ve literally thought of every scenario.”
She clears a tumble of hair from one side of her face, flipping it over with a tilted hand. “Well, isn’t the most likely explanation that Max just did something a bit shady and Tash found out? I can’t imagine in a million years it involved Tash and Max . . . doing anything together. For a start, when would they even have had the opportunity?”
The screen starts to flash on my phone. I turned it off as soon as I fled Max’s flat and caught the night bus home, and I’ve only just switched it back on.
It’s Max, my tenth missed call from him. Tash, meanwhile, has racked up fifteen.
Jools nods at me. Reluctantly, I return the call.
“I’m outside.” His voice sounds shaky, keyed up. “Please let me in.”
I head downstairs, but I don’t let him in. Instead I move onto the front step, pull the door to behind me. The night air is warm and still, the sky above our heads spattered with stars. I hear the rumble of vehicles on the main road and feel a quick pulse of panic in my chest, the familiar urge to flee.
Usually so smart and composed, Max looks crumpled, undone. He’s thrown on a T-shirt and joggers, and on the road, a 4x4—presumably his—is parked at a ludicrous angle from the curb, the way detectives park in TV crime dramas when they’re chasing a hot lead.
I didn’t even know Max had a car.
“If I found out what?” is all I say, because right now, that’s the only question I want him to answer.
And now his expression turns almost feral with—what is it? Fear?—and my knees begin to fold as I hear him confirming the worst, and then I feel Jools’s arms around me, apparently alerted by some kind of noise I’ve made. A swarm of angry voices rises and falls above my head, and I can hear Reuben threatening to call the police, but the whole time there is only one word in my mind I can grip on to: No, no, no, no, no.
Nine
Stay
Caleb has said I can use the beach hut to write in, so every afternoon, after my morning shift at Pebbles & Paper, I walk down to the beach, stopping at the deli en route for a takeaway coffee and crabmeat sandwich. Then I make my way to the dunes, passing pleasantries with walkers and day trippers and fishermen as I go.
There’s something about the vista from the hut—the mercurial landscape of the water, the braying of gliding seagulls, the push-and-pull of the tide like a creature drawing breath—that fires my imagination. Through the front door, I watch the weather twist and shift: sheets of summer rain that slice into the sea and drill down on the roof, intercut by splashes of bright, brilliant sunshine. I watch the sky in its catalog of colors—from the rarest of silvers to a flawless afternoon blue—as clouds tumble through it like cashmere on a breeze. The view from where I sit is an ever-changing artist’s canvas, my daily spur of creativity.
Thanks to Caleb’s encouragement, and the inspiration I’m getting from the writing group, I’m beginning to grow in confidence. The words are flying from my fingers. I feel them like a second heartbeat inside me. I write for hours at a time, stopping only when I realize I’m thirsty or hungry. Each day my mind spins with new worlds, my blood rushing with possibilities.
Maybe whoever said the best things in life are free had it right after all.
* * *
—
Luce, I love him,” whispers Tash.
I’ve invited Caleb to Tash and Simon’s for Sunday lunch. We’re in the living room, and Caleb’s sitting with Dylan on the carpet near the fireplace, helping him out with the component parts of an airport-themed Lego set. He must have said something funny, because Dylan is laughing loudly in that throaty way small children do, and just at the point he’s begun to calm down, Caleb says something else, detonating another full round of hysterics, resulting in Dylan tipping his head to the carpet then falling onto his side, completely unable to contain himself.
“Are you absolutely sure he doesn’t have children?” Tash says.
“Positive,” I whisper.
“So are you two . . . you know, officially together now?”
“I mean, I guess so. We haven’t really said it in so many words . . . but it kind of feels like we don’t have to. You know?”
She nods, thoughtfully. “I see what you mean about him being different to anyone else you’ve dated.”
I turn to look at her. “Go on.”
“Well, he’s very . . . self-assured, isn’t he?” she whispers. “But not in an arrogant way. He just seems like someone who’s comfortable in his own skin. Like he wouldn’t be into playing games.”
“Yeah,” I say, as I watch Caleb help Dylan stick the wings onto his plane. “I feel like I know where I stand with him.”
“You know what he is, don’t you?”
“No, what?”
“He’s a proper grown-up.”
“Ugh, that makes him sound boring.”
“No, not boring, just . . . what you see is what you get. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling as I lean back into the sofa, sipping my sparkling apple juice, today’s version of an aperitif. “It’s very good.”
And really, the past couple of months have been just that. Caleb and I have spent the onset of summer drinking in the joys of Shoreley before the main tourist season hits. We’ve meandered hand in hand through the cobblestoned streets, pointing out all our old childhood haunts to each other—the bandstand on the green where my friends and I used to congregate after school, the little courtyard behind the old-fashioned sweet shop where Caleb had his first kiss, the hill sloping toward the north end of the beach where I sat with my friends on the last-ever day of school and watched the sun setting between bouts of dramatic sobbing as we swigged from a bottle of cava, heartbroken at our forthcoming separation. We’ve waded in wellies through the creeks behind the harbor as seagulls swooped low above our heads, the sails of moored boats ringing against their masts like percussion in the breeze. We’ve walked barefoot across the salt flats, both of us laughing till we cried when Caleb slipped in the mud and then couldn’t get up, pulling me on top of him as I tried to help. We’ve plucked fresh samphire from the ground then taken it back to Caleb’s cottage, blanching it on the Aga and drenching it in butter and black pepper before devouring it with our fingers. We’ve eaten way too much s
alted caramel gelato from the ice cream parlor on the promenade. We’ve been crabbing and skinny-dipping, we’ve watched raspberry-ripple sunsets drizzle into the sea from the harbor wall, we’ve kissed under lampposts on moonlit streets. It’s been the best, most romantic time, and it’s cast my hometown in an entirely new light. I’ve rediscovered its romance, its charm and appeal, worthy of all those postcards and jigsaw puzzles and fridge magnets. It’s reminded me why people come here now. Shoreley sells them a dream, and this year, I have fallen for it, hard.
“Are you going to introduce him to Mum and Dad?” Tash asks.
It’s always an intimidating idea, introducing a boyfriend to our mum and dad: lifelong soulmates, the lighthouse keepers of their own epic love story.
“Thought I’d ease him in with the older sibling. Anyway, it’s only been two months. Feels a bit soon.”
Tash grins as Simon bellows, “Lunch!” from the kitchen. Dylan jumps up and leads his new best friend out of the living room, following the scent of Sunday roast. Caleb glances over his shoulder at us, shrugging happily as he’s led away.
Tash shakes her head, watching them go, then nudges me. “Remember when you first met him, you thought you knew him from somewhere? Like you’d met before?”
I nod. “Yeah. But I never did work out why.”
Tash presses her lips together like she’s trying to hold in some excitement. “Well, apparently, that’s a sign you’ve met your soulmate.”
I snort softly. “I thought you didn’t believe in soulmates.”
She shrugs. “This girl at work was talking about it on Friday. She’d read a whole magazine article about it. It all sounded quite convincing, actually.”
I smile. “Well, Caleb doesn’t believe in soulmates either, so don’t be sharing that over the Yorkshire puddings, will you?”
