Mack looked suddenly worried. He stepped toward me, reaching out a hand to me. “Nathan? Did I say something wrong?”
“I think I better take a walk,” I said, whirling round and setting off.
“Wait,” Mack said, hurrying after me. “I’ll come with you.”
I paused my step, glanced over my shoulder. “I need to be alone right now.”
He froze, dark gaze wounded.
“Okay,” he breathed. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is,” I said shortly. And in that moment, I meant it.
I stalked down to the seafront and made my way onto the beach.
Ignoring the biting wind, I sat on the cold sand, huddling into my jacket as I stared at the black waves, letting the soothing rush and whisper of their ebb and flow wash over me. When I’d left home for university, I’d missed that sound more than anything.
I sat there for a long while, trying to get my head round what had happened with Mack. It was like I was trapped in a weird sort of dissonance that wouldn’t let me sort through my thoughts—I just kept remembering his words, and then I’d feel sick with resentment and a sharp sadness that hurt in a gut-deep way.
Distantly, I was aware that I was wallowing in self-pity, but I couldn’t seem to shake the feeling off. The thought kept returning to me that I’d been letting myself be put last by everyone for a long time, and the fact that I suspected I might have had a hand in causing that to happen myself didn’t make me feel any better. I had a bad habit of encouraging other people not to worry about me, even as I tried to sort out their problems. But honestly, didn’t it ever occur to anyone else that I might sometimes need help?
But you always insist you don’t . . . an insidious voice at the back of my mind murmured.
I did do that, I knew. It was a habit I’d picked up at my mother’s knee, though whether I’d got it from copying her actions or whether it was written into the genes, I didn’t know.
What I did know was that I’d been pushing myself too hard for too long. I felt so fucking tired of everything suddenly, like I had nothing left to give. Like I was all used up—no good to anyone.
I wanted someone to take care of me for a change.
And then, I remembered that day when Mack had gone off at Derek. Ice-cream-gate. It was pathetic how much it’d meant to me to have him stick up for me like that—not just because he did it, but because he did it without me having to ask. Because he’d noticed how much I was doing and he’d minded on my behalf.
Was that my problem? That I wanted to not have to ask for things? That I wanted people to be thinking about me so much that they not only anticipated my needs, they actually read my mind and knew when I was bullshitting about being fine?
That sounded pretty fucking self-absorbed, but yeah, maybe I did want someone to do that.
Like with ice-cream-gate.
Or like the day Mack offered to come to meet the Fletchers with me.
Or like the time he told me Mum and Derek asked too much of me.
Like all the times he’d pushed me back down onto the couch and insisted on making dinner or fetching me a cup of tea instead of the other way round.
Yeah, so maybe Mack was actually quite good at thinking about me . . .
But was that enough? What was it he’d said to me tonight? “Maybe it’s time I gave something like this—us—a try.”
It wasn’t exactly the love declaration of the year—pretty far from the stuff that dreams were made of—but then I knew Mack found it difficult to say what he felt, ask for what he wanted. He’d told me as much.
And anyway, who was I to judge him for that? Jesus, I might be even worse at asking for things than he was. So why had I felt so angry? Why had his words upset me so much?
I knew the answer, of course, but it was hard to face up to the fact that Mack might not feel quite the same way that I did. That while I was in love with him, he only liked me enough to give being together a try. I already knew from the relationships I’d had before that if that was how Mack felt, he wasn’t going to magically fall spectacularly in love with me later. If our feelings were unequal now, they were probably going to stay that way.
And I didn’t want that.
I didn’t want to be in another relationship like the ones I’d been in half a dozen times before—only this time with the roles reversed. I didn’t want to be his Ford Mondeo—I wanted to be his gleaming two-seater sports car. Not that Mack was the sort of guy who would ever want a sports car, but whatever the equivalent of that was for him. Maybe the best guitar ever made.
I wanted to be his favourite. His best. I wanted him to feel for me what I felt for him. But the fact was, he didn’t.
By now, the cold had penetrated through the layers of my clothing, and I began to shiver.
Slowly, stiffly, I rose and headed for home.
Mack was still up.
When I walked into the living room, he got off the sofa and stepped towards me, then stopped in his tracks.
“You’re back,” he said, somewhat redundantly.
“Yeah.”
“I was getting worried—you were ages and it was so cold tonight . . .”
“Yeah, sorry. I needed to think for a bit.” I pulled off my knit hat and unzipped my jacket.
His eyes, dark and anxious, studied my face. “I was thinking about what I said,” he began, “I wondered if maybe you’d thought again and realised you didn’t really want to give things a go with me after all . . .” He trailed off.
I met his gaze. It was tempting to take that face-saving way out, but it would be a lie, and I couldn’t tell him a barefaced lie, even if it did shred my pride to admit the truth.
“It wasn’t that.”
“Then I don’t understand.” He swallowed hard and rubbed the back of his neck. “Why were you so angry? I thought you might actually be pleased, you know?” This was hard for him, I could see that. The least he deserved was an honest answer.
I braced myself. “I don’t want you to start something with me because of my feelings.”
His frown deepened. “What?”
“The only reason you should stay with someone is because you want to.”
He blinked, seeming none the wiser.
Abandoning the last remnants of my pride, I muttered, “I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t love me back.”
For a long, awful moment he said nothing. Heat crept up my neck and into my face in a slow, agonising wave, the humiliation intense. I couldn’t believe I’d put myself in this position again.
Then Mack said, his voice little more than a whisper, “You—you love me?”
Christ, what did he want? Blood?
“Yes! I love you!” I bit out. “Satisfied? You want me to say it again? I love you, Mack. I love you.”
He glared at me. “You’re saying that like you’re repeating yourself, but you never said it before.”
“Wasn’t it obvious?”
“No,” he said, his belligerence matching mine now. “No, because you didn’t say that. You just asked me to stay.”
“I didn’t just ask you, I begged you,” I said tightly. “I begged you to give us a chance.”
“That is not telling someone”—and here his voice grew hoarse—“that you love them.”
I raked a hand through my hair. “Okay, fine, it’s not exactly the same. But Jesus, Mack, I’d already put myself on the line by begging you to stay and you said no! What was I supposed to do? Humiliate myself even more?”
“I didn’t say no, I—”
“Yes, you did,” I interrupted. “You shook your head, Mack. I asked you to tell me what you were thinking, and you didn’t say anything. You gave me nothing at all. No reason to think your answer was anything but no. I don’t—”
“And I’m sorry!” he cried, and his expression was distraught. “I fucked up, I know! But I really didn’t want to be in love with you! The plan—my plan—was not to stay here.”
I stared at h
im, struck dumb.
“I really didn’t want to be in love with you!”
“Wait . . .” I said slowly, trying to parse his words. But it seemed he was on a roll now.
“I wasn’t even sure that’s what it was. But suddenly I wanted to be with you all the time, and I’d never felt that way about any other person. I noticed all these little things about you, and they made me all so fucking sappy. Stupid shit, like how your hair curls at the nape of your neck and how you look when you’re sleeping. And I was just—” He broke off.
“Just what?”
His gaze was bleak. “I was happy. Like I’ve never been before. I was—” Again, he stopped.
I whispered, “What?”
“Fucking terrified.”
I stared at him. “Me too.”
Strange how you can feel terrified and deliriously happy at the same time.
Slowly, carefully, I moved towards him. “I’m sorry for being a coward,” I said. “I should have told you everything that night after the Sea Bell. I should have been braver about it. But me being an idiot doesn’t change the fact that I do love you, Mack. And I really want you to stay.”
“Nathan.”
I was close enough to kiss him now, but in the end, it was him who kissed me, leaning forward to press his lips against mine. And god, I welcomed the warm slide of his tongue into my mouth, the hard length of his body against mine. His scent, warm and familiar. I’d missed that. Missed him. Holding him like this set everything in my world the right way up again.
When we broke apart, I said breathlessly, “So, will you stay now?”
“Yeah,” he whispered.
I swallowed, hard. “For how long?”
“How long do you want me here?”
“Forever.” I touched his cheek. “But we can take it at your pace. Whatever you’re comfortable with. Just . . . no secrets, yeah? From now on, you tell me what’s on your mind.”
He smiled. “That goes two ways. I’ll promise if you will.”
“Okay. I promise.”
He sighed then, resting his forehead against mine. Closed his eyes. “Will you take me to bed now?”
“Yes,” I breathed. “Let’s go to bed.”
“And no more nights apart?”
“No,” I agreed.
I planned to hold on to him from now on.
All night and every night.
Mack–One Year Later
I’ve never much liked Christmas, but this year is different.
This year, I’m spending Christmas with Nathan. Well, Nathan and Rosie. And Dad and Lorraine.
The family.
I’m not sure that’s how I think of them yet. Maybe I’ll never really think of them that way. Except Nathan.
When I get to the café, Dad’s balancing on a stepladder, putting up the last of the Christmas garlands, Michael Bublé’s playing on the stereo—you can’t beat a bit of Micky Bubbles at Christmas—and Rosie’s behind the counter, wrapping up the sandwich-filling tubs for the day.
“Hi, son.” Dad glances down at me, smiling.
Still not used to that. At some point over the last few months—after our big talk—he began to relax round me a bit more. Stopped looking so goddamned guilty all the time. I smile back, hoping I seem as relaxed to him. I still don’t feel completely comfortable around Dad, but it’s getting easier all the time.
“Where’s Nathan?” I ask.
“Through the back, getting ready for you coming.”
I slip behind the counter, where Rosie’s pottering. She’s pink-cheeked and whistling, a picture of good health. That’s not the whole story, of course. She still has to be careful—always will—with her diet and her meds, but she doesn’t let that stop her doing anything. She’s even started a band with some of her school friends. They’re pretty awful right now, but who knows where they might end up. She’s fierce, my sister.
“Hey you.” I tousle her hair. She’s had it shaved on one side and dyed the ends purple. Dad just about had a fuckin’ canary when he clocked it—I nearly pissed myself laughing when I saw his face.
“Hey you back.” She grins. “So, where are you and Nathan off to then?”
“Out,” I say.
She raises a brow. “Like on a date?”
“Like on a date.”
She grins. “More than a drink in the Bell?”
“Yup,” I confirm, but don’t give her anything more. Tonight’s a surprise for Nathan. He doesn’t know what I’ve got planned. Dad and Lorraine know—I wanted to check they were okay with it first—but they’re sworn to secrecy.
Lorraine cried, of course. but then Lorraine always cries at times like this. Dad was a wee bit freaked to start with, but he soon came round. He loves Nathan. And Rosie will be delighted—of that much I’m sure.
I head into the kitchen to find Nathan removing his apron. It’s half over his head and his T-shirt’s riding up, exposing a delicious slice of his naked chest and stomach. I’m reminded of that first night I met him when he got all tangled up and flustered. He didn’t seem to realise how much I fancied him. That’s so typical of him.
I cross the floor, sliding my arms round his waist, and he starts laughing. Somehow we get him disentangled from the apron and it lands on the floor as my lips meet his.
God, I love kissing Nathan.
I didn’t like kissing before I met him. Difficult to forget how close you’re letting someone get to you when their face is shoved up against your own and you’re sharing breath and spit.
It’s different with Nathan, though. Being close to him like that. I remember the first time he showed me what it could be like. He’d moved in slowly as I’d stared into his eyes, fascinated by all the shades of pale green, gold, and brown. I’d been thinking how amazing it was to draw his scent into my lungs and just hold it there as our lips pressed together and our tongues met.
I’d never felt that way before.
I guess that was one of my first clues.
Nathan leans back in our embrace and considers me. “So,” he says. “Where are you taking me?”
“Guess.”
“The Orchid,” he says, naming our favourite Thai place.
“Nope.”
“Gennaro’s?”
“Nope.”
He laughs. “Tell me then.”
“The Hope & Anchor.”
It’s the only Michelin-starred place for miles around and very expensive. But I want tonight to be memorable.
“Oh?” he says, eyes going wide. “Fancy! What are we celebrating?”
I think of the box in my pocket and what it contains. What I’ll be asking him later. But for now, I just smile.
“Us,” I say. “We’re celebrating us.”
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Porthkennack series
A Gathering Storm
The Enlightenment series
Provoked
Beguiled
Enlightened
Seasons Pass
Unnatural
Enemies Like You (with Annika Martin)
The Dream Alchemist
Unforgivable
The Lady’s Secret
Novellas and Short Stories
Humbug
Rest and Be Thankful
Introducing Mr. Winterbourne (in the Another Place in Time anthology)
Mr. Perfect’s Christmas (in the Wish Come True anthology)
Joanna Chambers always wanted to write. In between studying, finding a proper grown-up job, getting married, and having kids, she spent many hours staring at blank sheets of paper and chewing pens. That changed when she rediscovered her love of romance and found her muse. Joanna’s muse likes red wine and coffee and won’t let Joanna clean the house or watch television.
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Tribute Act Page 17
