by JC Harroway
‘No, you wouldn’t. You’d never do that.’ My voice echoes across the room. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. He’s strong. Protective But not violent. ‘You taught me to run, and that’s what you’d do. We’d run away together...’
‘I can’t be that reckless man again. I can’t make another mistake.’ His breath pants out with conviction. ‘Not even for you.’
His final sentence is a mortal blow. I absorb its shock. But I still ache to touch him. To hold him. To show him that it’s okay to feel scared. That the challenge is not to allow that fear to rule your life above all else. ‘You’re just wary of feeling because you’ve been terribly hurt in the past—I understand.’
His eyes seem to soften a fraction. ‘You’re right, in part.’ But then they shift back to flintiness. ‘But I’m more scared of hurting you. Look at us, Brooke. You’ve given me everything—your trust, your vulnerability, your confidences, not that I asked for them––but you laid yourself open to the wrong man again. One who’ll let you down, because that’s what I do. What I’ve done tonight. I put you at physical risk, the very opposite of what you’re paying me to do. Why would you trust me with your emotional risks?’
His reasons feel like repeated blows, because of course I did give him all those things. Because I thought he was different. I thought I could finally be my whole true self with him and be safe. But he’s thrown it all back in my face so he can keep hold of his blasted detachment. His emotional distance. His fear.
‘Maybe I have been foolish again,’ I say. ‘Because I thought you were different to anyone I’ve dated in the past. I thought that I could be myself without fear. I thought what we shared was unique and liberating and precious.’ My throat threatens to close, it’s so clogged with tears. I fight them off. ‘Maybe I have put my trust in the wrong man again. Because there are many forms of cowardice, Nick—yours is that you’re too scared to forgive yourself. And until you do you’re always going to push away the possibility that anyone could love you.’
Despite the crack in my voice, my words fall on deaf ears. His expression stays locked down, guarded, unflinching, as if he’s made of ice. We stare for a handful of painful heartbeats, silent recriminations passing back and forth. For a few heady and illogical seconds, I truly believe he’s going to snap out of it, admit he’s being silly and scoop me into his arms.
But that’s naïve and wishful thinking.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Nick
I SIP MY coffee and stare at the brown paper parcel. I should have left it in the car, on the passenger seat where Brooke placed without explanation last night when I dropped her at her home in Kensington. It mocks me. The bland paper burns my eyes. The unknown contents are a reminder of my failures.
And, just as I couldn’t bear to unwrap the mysterious gift when I returned to my dark, empty house in Fulham, I also couldn’t bear to unpack my feelings around what happened in Switzerland. I still can’t this morning. Examining the contents of my head causes the actual physical pain of a million darts. And also involves facing the possibility that Brooke was right: I am chained by fear.
Have I made the most monumental mistake of my life? Thrown away the rarest gift. Turned my back on life-giving sunshine...?
What could she possibly have given me after the way we parted?
I abandon my tepid coffee and prod at the parcel, my curiosity rampant, but still I resist. My stellar display of restraint brings me no pleasure or even satisfaction. It’s as if all my past coping techniques, all the things I thought made me who I am, no longer work.
Everything’s changed. Everything is Brooke.
I swallow past the crushing pressure in my chest.
I’ve developed feelings for her. That’s what this rampant, uncontrollable restlessness is. It’s ripped me in two so there’s nowhere to hide, no matter how much I want to wrap up these terrifying emotions in brown paper and ignore them.
Brooke was right—I’ve been punishing myself for so long. Pushing people away. Trying not to feel anything in order to avoid the guilt and the pain and the helplessness of my past. But all I’ve done is delay dealing with those things. I’ve bottled them up and now they’ve resurfaced with freshly sharpened claws. Because, without realising, I let Brooke behind my guard to the very heart of me.
I peel off my running gear and head for the shower, seeking solace from my own thoughts and recriminations. But, just like my other coping techniques, silence and solitude no longer work either. How could I have believed that I had everything under control? How could I have been so content with so little for so long? Because where today there’s chaos, and the clutter of so many emotions, the release is also cathartic.
Because I’ll never be able to extricate Brooke from my heart and soul, and I don’t want to. She’s melted all that’s been frozen inside me. I deserve to bask in her warmth.
I’m falling for you, she said in her candid and fearless way.
Is it too late to repair what I did in Switzerland? Can I take back what I said and fling myself at her feet and beg for her forgiveness? Because I’m falling too.
But that’s not enough reason to beg her to reconsider. She deserves a whole man. An emotionally mature man, one she never has to doubt. I can’t undo seventeen years of self-inflicted damage during twenty minutes of shower therapy, but I can start today. Stop hiding. Face all the things that have been holding me back.
With my towel wrapped around my waist and dripping water onto the tiles, I stride back into the kitchen. I tear into the brown paper parcel as if it’s the lifeline I need in order to breathe again. The paper yields and for a split second I can’t compute what I’m seeing, what I’m holding in my hands. But then my index finger traces a hole, and a burst of laughter splits the silence of my quiet home.
It’s a bobble hat. Hand-knitted. Black.
My grin makes my cheeks ache. I pull it on. It’s a little too big. I search the discarded paper for a note or a card like a starving man. Disappointment slugs me in the gut. There’s nothing. But hope surges through me in electrifying currents.
She made this with her own two hands. For me. I’ve seen how slow her progress is. It’s painful to watch. This must have taken her hours. I’ve been with her every minute of every day and some of the nights for the past five days. When did she have time? She must have worked on this while I slept.
Before I even know what I’m doing, I grab my phone and dial a number I know by heart. One I haven’t used nearly enough. My head pounds, uncertainty crawling over my bare skin like an uncontrollable itch. The phone answers after one ring.
‘Nicky?’
I clear the tightness from my throat. ‘Hi, Ma. I just wanted to wish you happy birthday for tomorrow.’ My voice is thick with emotion, but instead of cowering from that, rejecting it, I embrace it. Allow it to flow through me so I feel every heart-pounding inch.
‘Thank you, son. It’s been a while. How are you?’
I haven’t spoken to my mother in months. Haven’t seen her for longer. Is it my imagination, or does she sound older...?
‘I’m good, Ma. Getting there, anyway.’ Relief floods through my tense limbs and I collapse onto a bar stool. I already know from the tone of her voice and her obvious delight at hearing from me that Brooke was right. This woman loves me. She always has and likely always will. That’s how parents feel for a child. That’s how I feel for my little boy. I’ve just blanked out the knowledge for years. Another coping mechanism that prevented me from feeling.
But now it’s as if all I am is emotion and sensation, splintering apart with the pressure of being so full. Is this what happens when you stop fighting and allow feelings to take over? When you open your heart?
‘You’re a good man, you know that, right?’ my mother says. ‘A good son. I miss you.’
My swallow tastes acidic with guilt. But there must
be truth to her words. Brooke is the best person I know, and she sees something in me worthy of her trust and feelings. But have I pushed her away one time too many?
‘I miss you too. If you’re free tomorrow, I’d like to meet up for a catch-up.’ I grit my teeth, ashamed that by trying to protect myself and those around me I might have neglected my relationship with the woman who gave me life and raised me. A strong, compassionate woman. A woman who, it seems, accepted me when I wasn’t ready to accept myself.
Just like Brooke.
‘I’d like that,’ she answers, with the quiet assertion that tells me we’re going to be okay.
We talk for a few more minutes, arrange a venue for tomorrow and, just as we’re about to hang up, she says, ‘Nicky, are you...happy?’
Blood roars through my head with the yearning for the one thing that will enable me to say yes. The one thing that’s been missing from my life. ‘I’m working on it, Ma. I’ll update you tomorrow.’
I say goodbye, hang up the phone and jog to my wardrobe to choose clothes that will complement my hat.
I’ve never dressed more hurriedly.
* * *
By the time I arrive, Regent Street has been cordoned off in preparation for the annual turning on of the Christmas lights. The iconic street has been pedestrianised from Piccadilly Circus to Oxford Circus. The world-renowned shopping destination is awash with onlookers, tourists and families, the festive atmosphere high. There’s live music and food vendors and giant screens displaying the action on the stage.
But all I see are obstacles and barriers to me finding Brooke.
A quick search of her website and social media accounts once I’d thrown on some clothes had told me where I could locate her tonight. She’s pressing the button that will illuminate Regent Street with the impressive Christmas lights, the largest festive installation London boasts. How fitting that they chose a woman who could illuminate the whole city with just her smile...
I wanted to call, to speak to her, but I can’t tell her how I feel over the phone or in a message. It’s too huge. I need to be able to see her when I lay myself bare. When I tell her that I need her and want to be worthy of her.
Refusing to believe that I’ve missed my chance, I dodge the stream of bodies aimlessly shopping and milling around. I duck frantically through the buoyant crowds to get as close to the stage as possible. A sense of urgency drags the frigid November air into my lungs in great gusts.
What If I’m too late? What if my rejection proved to her that she was wrong to give me her trust? That I’m just like the ex who betrayed her? Taken her wonderful gifts—her wicked, playful humour, her astounding bravery and her enormous capacity for compassion and love—and used them against her.
Time ticks in my head, growing louder with each second. I fight my way closer to the stage, listening to the talk on the PA system for the sound of her voice as panic flies through my bloodstream.
Then I’m slapped in the face by a glimpse of her. She’s glowing, wrapped up against the cold in a woollen coat and matching faux fur hat. My other senses shut down as I watch her smile, laugh and wave. When my hearing returns, the countdown is coming to an end. The entire street overhead lights up with a million tiny bulbs woven in intricate patterns. Fireworks erupt against the black sky. The crowds cheer and clap and children gaze in wonder.
But I only have eyes for Broke.
I need to get to her, but I’m trapped where I am by the crush of bodies and the weighty sense that it’s too late. She’ll leave the stage and I’ll miss my chance.
I fight the panic, searching my mind for logic. Brooke won’t hang around. She’ll be whisked away as soon as her job is done. I scan the closest side streets for a sign of her car. Nothing obvious. But I have a split second to decide which street to choose. To go left or right.
She’s waving goodbye to the crowds. Heading for the stairs at the back of the stage where, if they have any sense at all, the security team will quickly bundle her away into the night.
Of course, I know where she lives. But I don’t want to wait another second to tell her that I’m ready to stop punishing myself. That I made a mistake, perhaps the biggest of my life, in letting her go. That I’ll work on my issues every moment of every day just to be worthy of her love.
Taking my life in my hands, I dive right, weave my way through the mass of bodies until I’m only a few rows back from the cordon facing backstage. There are fewer people here, because the view to the stage is obscured. But enough people have twigged that this is the best vantage for celebrity spotting. They’re lined up against the barriers with their phones out ready to snap a picture.
Then Brooke emerges. My heart lurches against my ribs. I instinctively raise my arm, trying to win her attention. But I’m not the only one who’s spotted her. I’m not the only one clamouring for her breath-taking smile. I’m just another face in the crowd.
Several people call her name, their phones clicking in her direction. Flanked by two guys dressed in black overcoats, she waves over as the men usher her towards a car idling at the kerb in the nearby side street.
Her name is trapped in my throat. The vision of her so blinding I actually close my eyes against the glare. But they’re open again a split second later. I rise up to my fullest height, craning onto the balls of my feet, and wave once more. I’ve never been more grateful for my height.
She sees me. Our eyes collide. The noise of the crowd disappears. A thread of connection arcs between us across the space. But the beam of her smile falters a fraction, her eyes dimming. And then she turns away and ducks inside the car, speaking to one of the men before the door closes.
A part of me withers. Dies.
I know she saw me. I felt the pull as surely as if she’d tugged on that connecting thread. I know, because the end of it is coiled between my ribs and wrapped around my vital organs.
I watch the tail lights of the car disappear around the corner, my stomach somewhere in the vicinity of my size-eleven boots.
Then my phone vibrates. I yank it from my pocket, my hands trembling as I read the text.
Pick you up at Golden Square.
I set off at a run in the direction of the small public garden, one of London’s many historic squares located near Regent Street. When I see her car parked in a no-parking zone, I almost collapse with relief. Her driver opens the rear door as I approach and I slide inside, bracing myself for the dazzling vision of Brooke, once more up close.
She’s more exquisite than I remember, although it’s only been twenty-three hours and forty-seven minutes since we parted.
‘Hi,’ she says with a tight smile as we pull out into traffic.
I open my mouth to speak and then close it again. There’s not a single word in my head, though I’ve waited for this moment, the chance to allow everything I want—no, need—to say to burst free.
She’s removed her hat and unbuttoned her coat. The car interior feels stifling, perhaps because I sprinted like a man running for the last train to the rest of his life.
I pull the bobble hat from my head and Brooke smiles. ‘It more or less fits,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry about the holes, but...’ She shrugs. ‘You know me. What I lack in skill, I make up for in enthusiasm.’
I’m still agape at her beauty. Humbled anew by her gift and, for a big tough guy, struck strangely mute.
‘Did you come to see the lights?’ She slides her hand along her trouser-clad thigh in a gesture that hints that she’s nervous.
I’m almost apoplectic with my own nerves. I exhale a sigh. ‘No. I came to see you. I need to apologise—’
‘No, you don’t,’ she interrupts. ‘I overstepped the mark. I should mind my own business and examine my own behaviour before I go around finding fault with others. I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused you, Nick.’
A band tightens around my ribs. It feel
s as if we’re strangers again. But, even if she can, I can’t go backwards.
‘You’re perfect, Brooke. Your gift is perfect.’ I clutch the woollen hat in my fist for luck. ‘I’m the one who should be apologising. I said horrible things—lies. You were right. I’ve been punishing myself for years. Hiding, pushing people away to avoid facing the pain of what I did, and then the pain of the consequences...losing my baby. Being with you these last few days—it’s woken me up to a lot of things.’
She stares, her big eyes catching the reflection of the many city lights outside.
‘I thought my mistake, the past, defined me. That I could never be accepted again because I didn’t deserve happiness. But I felt it with you. As if I was capable of finding it if I was only brave enough to open my eyes and see.’
‘Nick—’
‘No.’ I shift a fraction closer to her on the seat. ‘I’m falling for you, Brooke. I can’t even put it into words yet. I have a lot of work to do on myself, but I want to keep seeing you, as you suggested. Try dating. Those people back there screaming for you don’t know you. But I do. And I want the real version, the knitting version the most.’
Tears glisten on her lashes and I touch her then, dropping my precious hat and sliding my palms against her smooth cheeks.
My thumbs gently brush away the first drops to fall. ‘Don’t cry, Lady. Just tell me it’s not too late. Tell me you still mean all the wonderful things you said yesterday, because I’m ready to hear them now. I’m ready to feel again. I can’t help myself—you’ve jump-started my heart with your sunshine.’
She looks up at me with those trademark eyes of hers and I search for all the things I saw there when she was open and trusting. ‘I know it’s a risk for you. I’m a risk,’ I admit. ‘But I’m ready to be open to my feelings. For you.’ I grip her face and search her sparkling eyes. ‘Say something...’
‘Nick...’ Her voice breaks and I shrivel inside. She’s going to rebuke me. I’ve messed up and she’s done.
