by Holly Miller
There’s a long pause. For a moment I’m afraid he’s gone out, or that he’s on the phone, or in the shower. I’ve been dreaming about this moment for so long, I don’t think I could bear it if it didn’t go exactly to plan, after so many hundreds of pounds, thousands of miles, and countless skipped heartbeats.
And then, a muffled “Hang on.”
The door opens.
He blinks at me for several moments. And then, “Oh my God.”
“Hey,” I say, my whole heart bursting open with joy.
“Lucy . . . Oh my God.” He steps forward. He is deeply tanned, his dark hair slightly lighter, and he seems taller somehow—though that’s impossible, of course. He looks tired, but a good kind of tired. The kind of tired that says he’s ready to stop missing me.
“Thought I’d surprise you,” I whisper, even as the tears are beginning to swell behind my eyes. “Being apart was getting too hard.”
“Please tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispers back. Then, without waiting for me to reply, he takes my face between his palms and sets his lips against mine, like he absolutely has to check that I am, in fact, real. And now his hands are in my hair, and mine in his, and we are kissing the way they do in films—what Jools would call apocalypse-kissing—fierce and frenzied, a kiss on fast-forward because it’s just been too long.
We stumble together into his room, which I can already feel is hot, under-air-conditioned. But it doesn’t matter. A groan falls from Caleb’s mouth into mine as we find our way down onto his bed, grabbing at limbs and pulling at clothes. We become quickly slick with sweat, burning and hungry. The mattress squeaks comically with every small movement, but neither of us cares. And soon after that he is pushing up my dress and I am tugging down his shorts, and all I can think about is drinking in every second of this moment I’ve been craving since the day he left.
* * *
—
Afterward, we lie unclothed on the mattress together, the ceiling fan spinning hypnotically above our heads as we collect our scattered senses. From outside drifts the soundtrack of a foreign country, horns sounding and traffic shunting, woven through with the reeling of mopeds.
Next to me, Caleb shakes his head. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”
I smile, shuffling round on the pillow to face him. “Are you surprised?”
He turns his head to mine so we’re nose-to-nose. His eyes are shining. “Surprised doesn’t even come close.”
“I couldn’t wait another month.”
“You have no idea how happy that makes me.”
“Knowing I’m impatient?” I tease.
“Well, if this is what impatience gets us,” he says, “please never, ever change.”
I roll onto my front and prop myself up on an elbow, drawing shapes against his chest with one finger. “Look at that tan. I feel so pale next to you.”
He smiles. “Pale and beautiful.”
“God, I’ve missed you. This is . . . so much better than I even imagined it.”
He reaches out and tucks my hair behind my ear, his eyes flitting over me, seeming to drink in the sight of me. “You look amazing. I love your hair like that.”
I’ve been wearing it loose a lot more recently. Rapunzel hair, my mum calls it. It’s spilling out across my shoulders, albeit temporarily roughed up from Caleb grasping it. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“Just . . . tell me you’re not in transit or something. That you didn’t win some sort of . . . twenty-four hours in Bali competition.”
“Nope,” I say, happily. “Ten whole days.”
He shakes his head again, like he’s still half thinking I’m some sort of mirage. “Perfect.”
“Although . . . I totally get that you’re working. You don’t have to be a tour guide, or anything. Just so long as we can do this every day.”
He arches an eyebrow. “I’m not going to take much persuading to do this every day.”
I smile, let my gaze roam over the room. “This is really nice.” Though basic, the space seems bright and in good order—if slightly messy, with Caleb’s clothes and photography kit strewn across every available surface. There are books too, and maps, ticket stubs, and travel documents. I can only think housekeeping doesn’t attempt a daily clean.
“Sorry about the state of it. I’d have tidied up, if I’d known you were coming.”
I smile. “Believe me, I could not care less.”
He runs a hand down one side of my face, like he’s finding it hard to stop touching me. “So . . . what changed your mind? About traveling. I mean, you’ve literally come halfway across the world, Luce.”
I shrug gently. “After you left . . . I started thinking a lot about what you said. About Nate stealing experiences from me, and not letting him win. And I was missing you so much, and I started to get . . . I don’t know. Sort of angry. I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and then me and Jools watched that episode of Friends where Emily flies to New York to see Ross—”
He nods sagely. “Classic.”
I smile. “—and I know we can be apart, but I just . . . didn’t want to be anymore. I wanted to see you, and if getting on a plane was what it took to do that, then I wasn’t going to let Nate be the reason I chickened out.”
He’s stroking my shoulders now. “So, was the journey okay? Did you feel all right?”
I nod. “Yeah, actually. It was pretty good. I brought my laptop. Spent most of it writing.”
Just forty-eight hours after Georgia sent her my manuscript two months ago, Naomi Banks got in touch to ask if we could meet at her offices in Bloomsbury. We discussed the book—why I wrote it and her vision for it—and chatted through her comprehensive list of edits. I’m working on those right now, after which we’ll submit the finished version to publishers. It’s a long game, with absolutely no guarantees, so I’m still working at Pebbles & Paper, which to be honest I do really enjoy, despite Ivan being something of a control freak who’s added two more customers to his barred list over the last five months alone.
I do know, though—however the novel works out—that Naomi and I are the perfect match. We work together so well, and are so aligned in many of our thoughts and ideas. She gets my book, and me. I’m now convinced Ryan’s agent turning it down was so Naomi and I could be brought together, even though at the time it felt like such a kick in the teeth.
Caleb sketches the outline of my collarbone with one finger. “This is going to be the most amazing ten days, Luce. I’m so happy you’re here.”
“Me too,” I whisper, and then for a moment we are just looking into each other’s eyes without speaking, our happiness hopscotching through the space between us.
“So, what do you fancy doing now?” he says, eventually. “Do you want to go out? This is a hot surf spot, apparently. Loads going on.”
I shake my head and lean forward, pressing my lips to his. He responds instantly, his hand moving to my back and trailing down between my shoulder blades, a tease traced out across my skin. “Maybe later,” I murmur. “I’d say we’ve got some more reuniting to do yet.”
* * *
—
We spend every spare moment of the next ten days together. Caleb shows me the work he’s been doing and introduces me to his colleagues, and I get to go with them on trips to Hindu temples and museums, and to restaurants after hours when they’ve clocked off, plus a Balinese dance show, a couple of nightclubs. When Caleb’s not working, we explore together, venturing out to the palaces of East Bali, hiking Mount Batur at sunrise, visiting the rice paddies, sinking our feet into the sand of countless beaches. We eat breakfast in cafés and lunch at stalls, drink in what feels like a thousand sunrises, enjoy massages at a local spa. And we end our days with what we’ve been missing most—to touch and undress and soar sky-high with pleasure before lying bare-skinned together in the throbbing heat, al
most numb with bliss, talking into the night and making plans for our future, as outside, the sky pops with a million stars.
* * *
—
On my last night, Caleb tells me he’s made a booking at a fancy restaurant overlooking the beach. So I wear my nicest maxi-dress and leather sandals, twist my hair up and add a flick to my eyeliner, and put in the silver earrings he bought me on our trip to Seminyak a couple of days ago.
As we stroll hand in hand toward the beach, I think about what I’d be doing if I were back in Shoreley right now, if I’d never come out here. Probably FaceTiming Caleb as I walked to Pebbles & Paper on an overcast morning, feeling that deep gnaw of longing in my stomach, oblivious to the magic of being here with him. I think about how glad I am that I pushed myself to do this, that I didn’t let fear overtake me and Nate steal this experience from both of us.
The restaurant is on a vast decked area right on the sand, candlelit and fringed with palm trees, raspberry-pink frangipani flowers adorning the tables. The setting sun makes the sky look ablaze, a tropical bonfire.
Once our drinks have arrived, freshly squeezed watermelon and pineapple, Caleb reaches out across the table and takes my hand. A warm breeze is trickling through the air, waltzing across my bare arms and shoulders.
“This . . . has been the most amazing ten days,” he says, eyes glimmering with emotion.
I nod and grip his hand. “I’ll remember it forever.”
“Really wish I was coming back with you tomorrow.”
“Just a month,” I remind him. “Four weeks. That’s it.”
“It’ll feel longer now.”
I smile. “That wasn’t the idea, but . . . I know what you mean. I feel the same.”
Caleb clears his throat. “You know, if you being here has made me realize anything, it’s that . . . I don’t want to be apart from you ever again, Lucy.”
“Me either,” I say, a warm tingle of relief spreading through me. “From now on, let’s just agree to be a couple of co-dependent limpets, okay?”
He laughs, then trails off. I feel a leap of love for him and, momentarily, I can almost see it suspended between us, like hot breath on a chilly day.
Caleb sets down his glass, and before I can fully register what’s happening, he’s getting off his chair and dropping to one knee in front of me. The restaurant is full, and straightaway I can sense heads turning. Somebody whoops. My pulse begins pumping hard, my heart breaking free from my body.
In the next moment, Caleb has slipped a hand inside the pocket of his jeans and retrieved a ring. I catch my breath. It’s the one I lingered over in Seminyak the other day, momentarily entranced by the dazzle of its stone. I didn’t say anything to Caleb—I hadn’t even known he’d been watching me examine it—but he must have gone back to get it. It’s slender and silver, studded at its center with a bright blue sapphire. He holds it out to me now between finger and thumb, his hand shaking slightly.
“Lucy, I love you so much. My whole life . . . I never believed in soulmates. But then I met you, and you proved me so wrong. I don’t ever want to be without you again. Will you marry me?”
There’s not a single breath of hesitation inside my body. “Yes. Oh my God. A million times, yes.”
And now we are kissing, and crying, and laughing, and the other people in the restaurant are whooping and applauding, and Caleb’s slipping the ring onto my finger, the man I am meant to spend the rest of my life with, the man whose heartbeat feels like home.
Go
I’m just going through the motions when I find it. Drifting from room to room with Macavity at my ankles, picking things up and then putting them back down, pretending to clean the flat but in reality doing little more than moving stuff around. Max’s vitamins. That slightly intimidating book he was reading on the power of habits. The aftershave I don’t dare smell. Dumbbells, cuff links, breath mints. His work scarf, soft as satin. His running shoes, one pair of many. The box of belongings from his desk at HWW that his boss, Tim, dropped solemnly off last week. Two copies of the FT, from the days preceding the accident, which have now, inconceivably, become precious artifacts.
The flat just feels ludicrous without Max in it.
It’s now a mess of crusty crockery and strewn items of clothing and half-drunk cups of tea and sauce-stained takeaway cartons. I know I need to do something about this, if only out of respect for Max, because he always took such good care of his things. And it’s as I’m putting some of his T-shirts away—I’ve been wearing them at night, but I can’t bear to wash them—that I see it, nestled deep inside the drawer. A small box, in leather the color of cream.
I prize it open, and my world caves in all over again.
* * *
—
I try calling Jools, but she’s at work and her phone just rings out. So, in desperation, I call Tash.
For the first couple of weeks after the accident, I couldn’t even look at my sister. There’s nothing quite like losing a loved one to bring past resentments springing vividly back to life. I just couldn’t square the idea of her being sad on my behalf, because she had, albeit years ago, tainted me and Max in a way that would be there forever. Like a chip in a precious object, not constantly on show, but unmissable if you tilt it just the right way, or hold it to the light. An imperfection, a flaw that can’t be fixed.
But then I rang her one night, when Jools couldn’t pick up, a little like I’m doing now. And I realized after we’d spoken for a few minutes that I was clinging to the sound of her voice, to the knowledge that my sister was probably more invested in being there for me than anyone else I knew. The time had come for her to really and truly prove herself, and I knew she would rise to the occasion.
Two months ago today, shortly after I told him to turn the car around, Max’s SUV was crushed against the central reservation of the M25 by an articulated lorry. The driver escaped without injury, but Max died at the scene. The police investigation is ongoing.
His funeral was a month later, my only chance to say good-bye, as I opted not to see him at the mortuary due to the nature of his injuries. Nearly one hundred people gathered at Lambeth Crematorium to pay their respects, after which we scattered his ashes at the garden of remembrance. It was never in question that he would stay in London. His heart was always here, not in Cambridge.
I found it bizarrely hard to cry that day, even when we played “Wonderwall” at the end of the service. I was still in shock, I think, struggling to feel anything but numb. My memory of those first few weeks is so foggy. They say love is a drug—but so, I’ve learned, is grief. I was having a hard time believing Max was actually dead: I kept checking my phone for messages from him, staying up into the small hours in case he walked through the door. I would think I’d spotted him at the shop, or crossing the street in front of the flat.
Only his mother, Brooke, was conspicuous by her absence at the funeral. I’d asked Tash to track her down with the details, as I couldn’t face speaking to her myself, so soon after the accident. And Tash did manage to find her, but Brooke didn’t show up. And I hated her for that. Because even after Max had died, she couldn’t bring herself to be there for him.
I wondered afterward if she was angry, because it turned out that Max had recently written a will, in which he’d appointed his friend Dean Farraday as executor. Dean told me Max had left his flat, money, everything—aside from a few items for Dean and his family—to me. Brooke got nothing. Dean said Max had made the arrangements shortly after the fire at my parents’, but decided not to tell me because he was worried I’d argue it should be Brooke’s name on that document, and not mine.
Max knew me so well. Because at the time, yes—I probably would have said that. Now? I’m not so sure.
It wasn’t until after the funeral that I think I finally understood—the realization as brutal as swallowing dynamite—that I would never see Max ag
ain. That the only man I’d ever truly loved was gone forever, because I’d told him to turn the car around.
Since then, I’ve been surviving from hour to hour, moving through the days but not experiencing them. The grief has seeped into my bones, invaded my body like a disease. People think you’re sad when you’re grieving, but it’s so much more primal than that. That’s why grief has its own word. It becomes a part of you, alters you without permission.
Every time death takes a life, it steals a few more too, just for kicks.
“You okay?” Tash asks when she picks up.
I start stammering into the phone. “I found . . . I found . . .”
“Lucy? What did you find?”
I’ve been off work since Max died. Zara’s been amazing—far more compassionate than I might have guessed she would be. She even gave me that promotion in absentia, in recognition of the nearly two years of hard work I’d put in at the time of the conference. When she told me, I burst into tears. It should have been such a proud moment, not the bittersweet wrench it was.
I have no idea what Tash is doing right now, or even what day it is: it could be the weekend, or perhaps she’s just stepped out of a meeting at work. But you’d never know: she talks to me as though she’s my own personal helpline, like she’s got nothing better to do right now than listen to me gabble.
“A ring. A ring in a box. A ring in a box.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” I can hear precisely the moment my sister’s heart breaks with mine.
I tell her I’ll call her back, then run to the toilet and throw up. I can’t keep anything down at the moment. Last week was my first session back with Pippa, the psychologist I’d been seeing before Max died (yes, died: if one more person says passed, I won’t be responsible for my actions). Pippa explained that nausea is a common physical manifestation of grief, as is my lack of energy and complete loss of appetite, as well as the constant metallic taste in my mouth, which only serves to further put me off my food.
