Messed Up and Magic: (A New Adult Romance Novel)

by Stone, Holly

  “Bye, Dad.”

  I pulled over so I could turn the car around and head back into town. I felt shaky and it couldn’t all be blamed on the rushing around. Dad was hard on me because he loved me, I knew that, but it didn’t make dealing with him any easier. He’d done everything for Daniella and me when Mum left. He had taken responsibility when she hadn’t, so I understood why he felt it was so important for me to do the same. He had kept our family together with sheer strength of will and he expected us to value it above anything else. I did, but sometimes I felt as if it was at the expense of me and what I wanted. He was always harder on me, maybe because I was the eldest, and I hated resenting Danny for some of the freedoms she had that I craved for myself. As the years passed, my dream of making a living by baking felt less and less realistic.

  It was getting busy on the roads so it took me longer to get back than I’d hoped. By the time I pulled my car into the parking space at the back of the shop I was even more stressed. I got out and unloaded all the stuff from the front seat of my car. As I nudged the door closed with my hip, I could hear the sound of a guitar being played and I stopped to listen, looking around, before I realised it was drifting down from the window of my flat. I’d seen Jack carry an instrument bag up the stairs but I didn’t know he could play so well. Then his voice carried over the guitar and for a moment I couldn’t breathe. I knew the song instantly – it was the last one from an album that I loved, a song about a family breaking up – and I stayed where I was, fixed to the spot, mesmerised by his soft voice and the emotion that it conveyed. I listened until he finished the song, strumming the strings of his guitar loudly as though he were angry. I had to shake my head quickly to clear away the melancholy. That bubble of feeling that formed when I watched him sleep that morning seemed to get bigger.

  I had to rush around to the dry-cleaners and Post Office because I’d wasted yet more time I didn’t have eavesdropping on Jack’s performance, and then I dashed to the door of the flat so I could drop off the clothes I’d picked up at home. The wind whipped my hair as I paused, key in hand, listening for his voice. He had stopped singing now, and although I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to interrupt something that he likely felt was personal, I felt sad too, that I might not hear him again. When I opened the door I bounded up the stairs, calling out ‘it’s me’ to make sure I wasn’t going to catch him in a compromising position.

  Jack was talking on his mobile and mouthed ‘sorry’ when he saw me. He was explaining his circumstances to someone and I felt as though I were intruding. I rushed to put my things in the bedroom and then dashed back out, waving before I left. He waved back and I smiled, but he seemed engaged in something serious and didn’t smile back. As I walked towards the stairs I noticed he had tidied the flat, folding all this bedding and resting it on the end of the sofa. His jacket was hanging up and his boots were on the shoe rack. I thought it was sweet that he was being so thoughtful, but it also tugged at my heartstrings that he was trying to cause me as little disruption as he possibly could. It was stupid that I wanted him to feel at home. How could he when we were practically strangers?

  Angie was waiting for me outside the front of the shop when I emerged from the flat, cigarette clutched between her thumb and forefinger, exhaling smoke from her painted lips.

  “Hey, Ang,” I called out, beginning to raise the shutters. “Sorry I’m a bit late. Dad had me running all over this morning.”

  “Nothing new there,” she said, taking another deep drag and flicking the butt onto the floor. She made a big show of stamping it out and kicking it into the gutter with a foot that looked huge in her fake sheep-skin boots. She ran fingers through her bleach-blond spiky hair, teasing it upwards so it was even more exaggerated. Everything about Angie seemed exaggerated.

  “We’ll have to rush to get ready in time,” I said, trying to look like I felt bad for the inconvenience.

  “Get some music on and it’ll all happen in no time,” she said, popping some strawberry bubble gum in her mouth and following me through the door. I locked it behind us so we didn’t get any customers coming in before officially opening. I’d been caught by that before, particularly in winter when people were looking for a place out of the cold. The radio was already tuned to Angie’s favourite station that played mainly 80s pop, the era from her teenage years; whatever she needed to make sure we were ready on time.

  We had been trading for a couple of hours when Jack came through the door. I was serving a regular with his usual battered sausage, large chips and tub of mushy peas. Jack waited behind, looking at the menu as he usually did, even though he could probably recite it in his sleep.

  When it was his turn he seemed shy to ask for what he usually ordered.

  “Hey, Amy. Can I get a cod and chips, please?”

  “Course. You okay?” I started to get his order ready, shaking fresh chips into the fryer.

  “Yeah,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. “Did you get everything done this morning?”

  “Just about,” I said, feeling tension in my throat as I was reminded.

  “Do you mind if I take it upstairs? I’ve got some calls to make.” He looked guilty, like he thought I might not like the stink of fish in my flat or that I might want him to stay and chat. Honestly, if he was thinking either of those things, he was right.

  “Course,” I said, ever the accommodating host, but really I wanted him to sit in his favourite seat so I could watch him out of the corner of my eye, getting satisfaction from seeing him eat and enjoy the food I prepared for him, as I always did.

  Jack turned and rested his hip against the counter, looking out into the restaurant, people watching maybe, or just seeking somewhere else to look. I wondered what he thought of me, dressed in this stupid overall, hair scraped back, standing in the same place I’d been since I was sixteen. Did he see me as an older sister figure? Maybe the age difference between us felt as vast to him as it did to me. Did he recognise my desire to look out for him, and how did it make him feel? Men like to look after women, after all. Mothers look after sons. I didn’t want to be a stand in for his mum but I wasn’t entirely sure what I did want. Well, I knew I wanted him to stay and talk to me. There was something about being in his presence that made me feel better, lighter almost. He had a quiet stillness that seemed to surround him, as if he were in one of those adverts with the special effects that kept the character motionless while everything moved around him like a whirlwind. Standing next to Jack I felt still too, which wasn’t something I was used to at all. My dad kept me busy, but even when I was done running around for him, I would find something else to do. I couldn’t remember the last time I just sat and did nothing.

  I handed Jack his order and he handed me his money. For a second I contemplated refusing it but he had his pride and I didn’t want to strip him of what little he had left.

  “Thanks, Amy,” he said, waiting for his change. When I handed it to him, my fingers brushed his palm and the contact felt charged in a way it hadn’t with the customer before. Romance novels always describe electricity between people, but really it felt more like tension or a want for more connection. My fingers wanted more of his warmth, more of his solidity. What they got were a few moments hanging limply by my sides as I watched him walk out the door.

  When he was gone I felt like I couldn’t swallow. The smell and heat around me was suddenly overpowering and the turquoise walls seemed to be closing in.

  I didn’t know what was going on with me. I was unsettled. I felt on the edge, like I was walking a cliff-side path in four inch heels during a hurricane. Behind me Ang was humming to an upbeat Madonna track but I felt like one tiny thing could push me over. I walked into the staff area behind and took some deep breaths, resting my hands against the back of a chair for support.

  “You okay, Amy?” Ang asked from the doorway a few seconds later.

  “Yeah,” I said with as much false brightness as I could muster, “just needed a breather. I�
�ll be back out in a second.”

  “Take your time,” she said, and I could sense her lingering and watching, her motherly streak breaking through her brassy façade.

  “Thanks,” I said, looking at my white knuckles. If I let go of the chair I knew my hands would tremble and I didn’t want to see my emotions translated into physical weakness. I needed to pull myself together and get on with the day, but burying my feelings was more difficult than usual. I was off balance and the only reason could be Jack.

  The door-chime had rung a few times and I knew Ang would be starting to struggle so I stood up straight and shook my arms out, plastered on a fake smile and forced myself back into the role I’d been playing for years, feeling like I’d folded myself away a little more.

  Chapter 7

  JACK

  The day had turned out to be one of mixed blessings. Stan had called to say he could put me on for enough extra hours a week to take me up to full time. My next shift was tomorrow and for the first time I would be working during the day. Unfortunately, that was the only bit of good news and the cash results wouldn’t be felt for over a week. My hunt for accommodation had hit a blank. I was low priority for the council because of my age, and any temporary accommodation was way too expensive. I wasn’t sure how I was going to broach things with Amy when she finished work. I wanted to be able to thank her for her hospitality and move on, but without putting myself on the freezing street, I was stuck.

  I looked at the clock, realising she would be closing up soon, and felt a strange mix of nerves and anticipation at her imminent return. I’d taken a shower and put on some clean clothes, feeling like I should do it while she was out to avoid unnecessary embarrassment.

  When my phone rang I almost didn’t want to pick it up, thinking it would be my mum spouting more hollow words, but when I saw Amy’s name flashing on the screen I answered in a rush.

  “Jack…” she said, sounding breathless, “can you come down here now? Please.” The last word was sobbed out and, before I could reply, I could hear her crying.

  I started towards the door without a coat or shoes, heart pounding at the weeping I could hear on the other end of the line. “Amy…what is it?”

  “Just come,” she gasped, and I flew down the rest of the stairs and out the door, slamming it behind me.

  The lights were dimmed in The Chubby Friar but I could see Amy leaning against the door, staring out into the night, eyes flitting back and forth. She looked terrified but there was no one around and no obvious cause. I tapped on the glass and called out that it was me, and she started to turn the key on the inside to let me in.

  “Jack…” She reached out for me as I stepped through the narrow gap, and then seemed to crumble. I was close enough to grab her by the upper arms and when I pulled her towards me, I could feel her trembling.

  “What is it, Amy, what’s the matter?” I said over her sobs. She buried her face against my chest and I could feel the wetness of her tears seep through my shirt to my skin.

  “They took everything,” she whispered. “What am I going to tell my dad?”

  “What? Who? What happened?” I eased her away, needing to see her face while she explained. There was so much fear in her eyes and it tore something in me to see her usual confidence stolen away.

  “They begged to come in as I was closing up. Ang left early so I was by myself. I should never have agreed but they seemed friendly and I had some food still good to go. I thought I could make a bit extra from things I would have thrown away. When I opened the till to sort out their change, one of them pushed me backwards and the other grabbed the takings. It was all so quick. I can’t believe I was so stupid.” Amy swiped at her tears, shrinking away from me as though she was suddenly uncomfortable with how close we were standing, or maybe because she was showing me her vulnerability.

  “Fuck, Amy. Who were they?” I said, seeing red. North Riding was a small place so they were likely outsiders, but there was a chance she might have recognised them.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen them before. Two men, roughly early twenties, white, mid height, nothing distinguishable.” She clasped her hands around herself and slumped down on a nearby chair. “What am I going to do?”

  “I’ll call the police,” I said, starting to dial on the phone that was still in my hand. I gave the details, watching Amy the whole time. She seemed so small and broken and all I wanted was to be able to take away her terror and bring permanent pain to the lowlifes who put it there. When I hung up, I crouched in front of her, reaching out to hold onto the edge of the seat with one hand and her knee with the other. “It’s okay, Amy. Everything will be okay. The police are on their way. Your dad isn’t going to care about this. He’ll have insurance or something. Believe me, he’ll be more worried that you could have been hurt. Money is just money.”

  “Money and family are the two most important things to my dad…probably in that order,” Amy said with an edge to her voice. Then she put her hand over my hand and let out a big, shaky sigh. “I feel better now…now you’re here. I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t upstairs.” She shook her head. “Do you believe in fate?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, unsure of where the conversation was going but knowing that I wanted to be honest with her, no matter if it was what she wanted to hear or not. “Sometimes, and other times I think it’s all just a random pile of bullshit.” She smiled a small, shaky smile and held my hand tighter.

  “I need to let Jess know I can’t meet her tonight. Could you do that? Before the police get here.”

  “Course. Do you want me to tell her why?”

  Amy pulled up Jess’s number and handed me her phone. “Tell her there's been some trouble but I’m okay and I’ll call her tomorrow.”

  I did as she asked, but Jess was belligerent about wanting to speak to Amy. She took the phone from me in the end and confirmed she was okay and that she didn’t need any additional support, looking at me when she said the last part. I felt ten feet tall hearing that, and glad that I had in some way repaid her kindness to me.

  AMY

  The police took longer to arrive than I’d hoped and during that time Jack made small talk to keep my mind off what had happened. He reminded me of things from our time at school, stories about funny teachers who stuttered or spat when they were provoked to shout, kids that got their heads stuck between the railings or got caught in compromising positions behind the bike sheds. He spoke quietly and I soaked up the calmness that he gave off in waves until my heart rate slowed and my trembling stopped. I managed to sit through the police questioning without breaking down, clutching Jack’s fingers in my hand until our skin was sweaty. When they finally left, he helped me lock up and then we went up to the flat, now silent, the time for stories over and exhaustion setting in. He locked the door behind us as I watched and he made a show of checking the locks as if he could sense my sudden insecurity.

  When we reached the living room Jack headed for the kitchen to put the kettle on and then turned back to me.

  “What are you going to do about telling your dad?” he asked, and that question made me tremble all over again.

  “I don’t want to call him now…I can’t face it,” I said, turning away. I went to sit in my favourite chair and pulled a nearby blanket over myself.

  “It’s okay,” Jack said. “Maybe wait until the morning, when you have had a chance to set yourself right.”

  “Yeah,” I replied, knowing that twelve hours wasn’t going to make any difference to my unwillingness to confess my mistakes to my father. To hear his disappointment and disapproval in return.

  “Tea?” Jack asked from the kitchen.

  “Vodka,” I said. “It’s in the cupboard on the left of the oven. Make it a triple.”

  I didn’t look at him while he did as I asked, but wondered what he thought of my desire to drink away my troubles. There was something distasteful about it. I knew it, but at that moment I didn’t care.

>   He came into the living room and handed me a glass that promised the start of oblivion, then he went back to make his tea. I guess I’d hoped that he might join me, and the fact he didn’t felt like disapproval.

  I took a big gulp, hating the taste, hating the burn that cut through the centre of my body, but loving the warmth that followed. Jack stood in the doorway to the kitchen with his steaming mug, watching but saying nothing.

  “If you’ve got something to say, just say it.” I knocked back the rest of the clear poison in my glass defiantly. I suddenly felt so angry with him. I didn’t need another person in my life to set barriers and restrictions or to make me feel like I couldn’t be myself. He was in my space because I’d allowed him to be. I’d accepted his situation and I wanted him to do the same for me, to understand why I wanted to take control, even if it was in a way he considered weak.

  “Maybe you should go and have a shower,” Jack said, his voice patient but firm. “It’ll make you feel better.”

  “How do you know what’ll make me feel better?” I snapped.

  “I’m just guessing,” Jack replied cautiously.

  “Well, you guessed wrong. I’m going to have another one.” I waggled my now empty glass from side to side.

  I strode towards the kitchen, pushing past him through the narrow doorway, and digging around in the cupboard for the vodka. When I couldn’t find it I looked up to where he was watching me.

  “Where is it?” I snapped.

  “You don’t need it, Amy,” Jack said, still so calm in the face of my anger, and it made me want to poke at him until his composure crumbled. I didn’t want his usual quietness, his still cyclone-centre. I wanted the swirling wind of anger so I felt less out of control, less volatile.

  “Don’t tell me what I need,” I hissed, the effects of the alcohol in my system magnified by my earlier trauma. “I’m not a child, you know. I’m a grown woman and if I want to drink away my sorrows, I don’t need your approval to do it.”