After Felix (Close Proximity Book 3)

by Lily Morton

  “I don’t want to do that with you anymore.”

  The relief I feel tells me that he’s right. “What do you want?” I ask.

  He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to look in your eyes and see the reservations anymore,” he says quietly. “I want you to love me again freely and willingly and with everything you are. And I don’t want us to be together if we can’t have that.” He looks suddenly very tender. “How about you take some time to think about it? And if you still want me, then text me and the next morning I’ll be on Vauxhall Bridge at sunrise.”

  I eye him. “That sounds very much like the plot of Waterloo Bridge. You do know they split up, and she ended up becoming a prostitute and then walked under a truck?”

  “Much as I’m sure you could make a very good living at that, my dearest, I’d really rather be the only one who samples your delights.”

  “My delights? Well, they’ve never been called that before. Have you died and become reincarnated as a romance writer?”

  He shrugs and looks slightly abashed. “I’m just hoping for a very happy ending with you, Felix.”

  “And how long will you wait?” I ask softly.

  He looks intently at me, all laughter dying away as he cradles my face between his big palms. His cast catches at my skin and he soothes it with his fingers before pulling me forward and kissing my forehead. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop waiting,” he whispers.

  Then he’s gone, and I’m left standing behind a cigarette kiosk with my heart heavy in my chest.

  I expected to feel relief when I got back on my boat. All those times over the last few weeks I thought I’d be so happy to be back in my familiar comfort blanket. However, there’s no happiness and no comfort. Instead, I just feel… empty.

  The boat is too tidy. I’ve become used to the mess that follows Max everywhere like he’s a party popper dropping crap about. It’s too quiet without his warm voice offering observations on every single thing he sees, and I can’t smell his scent of sandalwood anywhere. It’s as if the past several weeks never happened. Like I dreamt everything.

  I potter about, unpacking my case and bagging the laundry for the laundromat. Then I empty the fridge, holding my nose at the stench of spoilt milk. Going to the corner shop eeks out an hour, as does unpacking the groceries and making a light supper.

  When I finally get into bed, I expect to lie for hours, turning everything over and over in my head, but I fall deeply asleep, not waking until the sun is high in the sky. I lie there for a while, listening to the familiar sounds of home—the lap of the water, the crunch of footsteps on the towpath, and the wind in the trees. Then I reach for my phone.

  A couple of hours later, I pace down the path in the park. A bench hoves into view with a very familiar face turned towards me.

  “Why are we meeting in a park, Felix? I’m not five, and you’re not a squirrel.”

  I smile at the handsome face of my favourite cousin, Misha. He’s very different from me, being tall and wide-shouldered and full of an arrogant confidence that his job as a hedge fund manager encourages. However, he has the same dark hair as me, and when I look into his blue eyes, I see the usual deep warmth he has for his family, and a thousand memories of the year I lived with them.

  “I need to speak to you.” I hold up my hands to show him my offerings. “I brought coffee.”

  “Thank God,” he says, taking his cup eagerly. “Charlie’s gone mad on some organic decaff shit.”

  “Oh, how terrible for you,” I say wryly. “Does he force it upon you, as well as his film-star looks, brilliant cooking, and that arse?”

  “Don’t look at Charlie’s arse,” he says happily.

  “I’m not dead. Works of art are meant to be appreciated.”

  He smiles, and there’s an added warmth there for the sunshiny man who was his best friend for so long before they finally got together and earnt me a fortune on a bet I had with Zeb.

  “So, what’s up?” he says, after he’s taken the first few mouthfuls of coffee in a reverent silence. “I haven’t seen you for ages.”

  “That’s because Max kidnapped me, blackmailed me into being his assistant before taking me to Venice via the Orient Express, and then fucked me senseless. Then yesterday we met the man he thought he was in love with, and Max told me he was wrong and he’d been in love with me forever. Then he left me behind the Benson and Hedges kiosk at Heathrow Airport, demanding I meet him at sunrise on Vauxhall Bridge.”

  He blinks. “Well, if you don’t want to tell me, then you really don’t have to. There’s no need to make up stories,” he sniffs.

  I laugh and shake my head. “It’s all true.”

  There’s a short silence as we watch a bird edging close to a lady eating a sandwich on a nearby bench. Finally, he stirs. “I suppose it’s good that you finally know that Max has been in love with you all along.”

  I shake my head. “Why didn’t I know?”

  “Because you didn’t want to.” He hesitates, and then as usual for Misha, he just goes for it. “I think if you’d admitted it to yourself, then you’d have had to give up that shitty banter the two of you used to indulge in. You’d have had to let real feelings in, and you weren’t prepared to do that.”

  “Why?” I ask harshly.

  He smiles and pats my arm. “Because your feelings for him made you vulnerable. And then he hurt you. You put on this air of not needing anyone and not having feelings. Then the one time you develop them, the bloke chucks them straight back in your face. And the first time that happens to you, it really fucking hurts. Although, if we’re being really brutally honest here?” He looks at me with a question in his eyes, and I nod. “It’s not the first time for you, because the people in your life never put you first and always chose someone else.” I flinch slightly, and he grabs my hand, squeezing it tightly. “Your dad is a wanker and chose anyone else over you and your mum. And you were second place with your mum because she never let go of your dad. She couldn’t see you for all her pain.”

  “I know,” I say quietly.

  “It’s not surprising you don’t want to let Max in again, because you don’t quite trust that he feels what he says he does.”

  “That’s it,” I say. “How can I trust him again, Misha?”

  He shrugs. “You can’t just decide to trust him, Felix.” He smiles gently. “That only comes with time. You let him in, and after a bit, your heart will decide it’s safe again, and you’ll fall all the way.” He drains his coffee. “Of course I think that’s already happened, but you’re such a stubborn little fucker that you don’t do anything easily.” His eyes become very serious. “Just be sure that it’s not your pride that decides what you’re going to do, because pride doesn’t keep you warm and put its feet on you at night.”

  I shake my head and crumple up my cup. “I’m not sure I want pride putting its feet on me. I’m not a doormat or wherever this weird euphemism is going.”

  “It’s love,” he says, and there’s a simple power to his voice. “It can hurt you and tear you to pieces, but at the same time, it can lift you and make you a better person.” He ruffles my hair. “Whatever you decide, I’ll always love you and be here for you.”

  “I know,” I say softly and reach for my phone. I need to see Max. “Thank you, Misha.”

  “No problem. Make sure to tell Charlie how good I am at advice. Maybe he’ll start listening to me.”

  “Not if he doesn’t fancy utter disaster and maybe the coming of the apocalypse.”

  The morning of my meeting with Max dawns cold and clear. I get off the bus and start to walk down the long length of the bridge, the sky a deep blue shot through with lemon and pale pink. At this time of the morning, there are hardly any people around, but give it an hour, and this place will be packed with commuters walking to work.

  I walk, and then walk some more, the Thames stretching out coldly on either side of me and lights twinkling in the nearby buildings. “When he made these grandios
e arrangements you’d think he could have possibly told me which bit he was going to be on,” I mutter out loud, startling a man going past on a bike. “This bridge is fucking huge. Why couldn’t we just meet at Costa like normal people?”

  Finally, I see him. He’s leaning against a balustrade looking out over the stretch of water. He’s dressed in old jeans and combat boots with a black jacket and a big scarf wrapped around his neck. The cast is off now. His cheekbones are red from the cold, and the wind blows his black hair about his face. My footsteps falter as I’m suddenly slammed with the most ginormous surge of feeling at seeing him again after the last empty few days. It makes my fingers tingle, and my heart beat faster, and suddenly I know.

  Misha was right. I made my decision about Max ages ago. Maybe it was when he took me to my bookshop again, or when we lay together in a narrow bed on an expensive train and he told me secrets, or maybe it was when he listened to me and gave me my heart’s desire even though it was a tatty Christmas annual. I stop dead, and he looks up and sees me. A wave of emotion flows over his face, and as I begin walking towards him again I can see his eyes are burning with feeling.

  “You came,” he says. He makes an abrupt move, as if he wants to drag me into his arms, but he stops himself, his hands curling into fists.

  I’m suddenly nervous. “Well, I had to see St Paul’s.” He looks surprised, and I flood the air with more speech. “You can see it from here if you look under the bridge. There’s a full-scale replica of the cathedral on one of the buttresses. No one sees it now. I think—” My words abruptly run out.

  “Really?” he says with that sudden enthusiasm he shows for so many things in life. “Let’s see.” He hoists himself over the balustrade and dangles.

  “Oh, Max. Jesus, be careful,” I shout, darting to his side.

  “I can see it,” he calls.

  “That’s brilliant. Now try seeing it from a standing position. On the ground.” I tug his coat until he comes back down next to me. For a second, we stare at each other.

  “You and your little facts,” he says, and the tenderness and joy are ripe in his voice.

  “You just want to see my penis again,” I say softly, harking back to the Cotswolds.

  He shakes his head. “I’d prefer to see your heart.”

  I groan. “What am I going to do with you, Max? That was unforgivably cheesy.”

  “Never leave me?” he suggests, no teasing at all in his tone. “That would be a start.”

  “A start to what?”

  “Forever, Felix.”

  I take a deep breath. “I think I can manage that,” I say hoarsely.

  “Say it again,” he demands.

  I obey, and he suddenly laughs and seizes me. “And again and again and again, darling.”

  “Don’t call me darling,” I say automatically.

  “I shall every day from now on.”

  “Even though when I’m nervous I spout stupid facts?”

  “Yes, because I’ve had long years without them and now I have you back. I can’t believe I’ve really got you back,” he says wonderingly.

  I nod. “You could divide your time as Before Felix and After Felix.” I pause. “Although that makes me sound a bit like Jesus, and I’m really not good-natured enough to take his role. And I can’t grow a beard to save my life.”

  “I think his hirsute place is secure for now,” he says solemnly. He smiles tenderly. “You couldn’t divide my life like that because there is no After Felix for me. This is it. You’ve spoilt me for all other men. My tastes have narrowed to thin men with a mess of hair and a tongue sharper than a knife.”

  My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. “That is rather specific,” I say faintly. “You’re narrowing the field a lot with that criteria.”

  There’s a silence, and he suppresses a smile and pinches me gently. “Well?”

  “What? Oh yes, it’s mutual,” I say awkwardly.

  “You like thin, sassy men too? What an amazing coincidence.”

  “You’re such a prat. No.” I swallow hard and finally throw all my concerns away. It feels fucking fantastic. “I like big, charismatic men who make me laugh, infuriate me, and make me feel incredibly safe.”

  He swallows hard. “Really? I make you feel safe? I didn’t think that would ever happen again.” He grabs me in a huge hug, and I inhale the scent of sandalwood and feel the strength of the arms holding me. It seems like my whole world is resting against me in the form of my Max. “I didn’t think that would happen again,” he whispers.

  I feel moisture on my neck. I reach up and wind my arms around him and kiss the side of his head, rubbing my face in the black silk of his hair.

  He pulls back, his eyes shiny. “I won’t disappoint you ever again,” he says fervently.

  I smile. “I’m sure you will. We’ll disappoint each other.”

  “Not like last time,” he says fiercely. “I will never ever let you feel anything but first place in my life again because that’s what you are. You’re fierce and sharp and funny, but underneath, there’s this wonderful softness and a deep loyalty. I know now how much of a privilege it is to have that directed at me, and I promise you I will always protect it. Because I know what it feels like to have been without you, and it was fucking horrible. I missed you every single fucking day.”

  I stare at him. “I love you,” I finally say.

  He inhales sharply. “Really?” There’s a wealth of emotions in his voice—relief, jubilation, astonishment. And I know what he’s going to say before he says it. It’s written all over that wonderful high-boned, naughty face of his.

  “I love you too, Felix. So fucking much. I’ll love you until the day I die.”

  And then he kisses me. On Vauxhall Bridge in front of the world. Or at least five nosy pedestrians. And I kiss him back. This big, warm man who makes me feel safe and melts all the icy corners of my heart. And I know with a sudden deep certainty that this is it for us. This time we’re going to make it work because this time we’re coming into it with our eyes and our hearts open.

  Epilogue

  One Year Later

  Felix

  The phone rings and I smile when I see Max’s photo on the screen. It’s a picture of him from the trip to Paris we took last week, giving me the smile that still makes my heart beat a bit faster.

  “Yep,” I say as the call connects.

  There’s a short silence.

  “Yep? The love of your life rings you, and all he gets is a measly yep?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I say, fighting a smile. “Because I’m not Barbara Cartland.”

  “If you were, we’d have lots of chocolates in silk boxes and a spoilt Peke instead of that ferocious creature you adopted.”

  I look over at the tiny dog who we found shivering on the towpath a month ago. She’s lying curled in a small ball on the sofa. Her white and tan fur is ruffled out, so she looks like a cotton ball on skinny legs. We’d taken her in that night and despite both of us taking care to remind each other not to get attached in case the owner claimed her, she’d managed to worm her way into our hearts within ten minutes. Max had opened a bottle of champagne when no one claimed her.

  “Weetabix is not ferocious.”

  He groans. “And that’s a ridiculous name.”

  I smile. “The internet suggested naming her after the last thing I ate.”

  “I feel stupid calling her that name.”

  I bite my lip to hold the smile in. “You just feel silly because she never comes to you,” I say and then carry on in an earnest voice. “It’s not her fault that she doesn’t like you, Max. You can’t be everyone’s cup of tea.”

  “I’d rather be that than a dog’s dinner. I’m telling you she watches me while we sleep. She’s putting me in reserve for when the Winalot runs out.”

  “Well, I’ll be fine then, especially when there’s so much of you to nibble on.”

  “Are you saying I’ve got fat?” He’s trying f
or indignation, but laughter is winning. “How very dare you, Felix Jackson.”

  I’m lying because he’s as fit as ever, jogging down the towpath for miles every day. His long, rangy body is now a familiar sight on the path, and as per usual with Max, he seems to know everyone. He moved in with me on the boat the first night we got back together and never left. I’m sure some people think it’s too soon, but I’m equally positive those people didn’t have a two and a half year gap in their relationship and Max warming their bed.

  “More of you to love,” I say happily, listening to his splutters.

  “People only say that when they’re shagging the homely pool-maintenance man.”

  “Then you’re safe,” I say placidly. “We don’t have a pool. Just a canal. Unless you think I’m going to shag the water board.”

  “No, darling, you’re too busy, and those uniforms won’t do it for you at all.”

  “You do realise that you’re actually keeping me from meeting you for this mystery tour of yours?” I say. “Let me go, and I’ll meet you as planned.”

  He rings off but not before saying he loves me. It’s something he always does. I suppose the life he’s led, and the people he’s lost along the way, make him treasure life and love more.

  I go to move towards the door and then curse as I trip over one of Max’s shoes. I adore living with him and can’t imagine being without him, but it’s a sure fact that this narrowboat isn’t meant for two men, one of whom is very tall. Plus, Max’s idea of tidy would send Marie Kondo into a tailspin. He sheds possessions here, there, and everywhere, and his books alone are going to sink the boat one day.

  My smile dies because we’ve come to decision time. We both know we can’t continue living here. He can’t work in such a small space, and I can’t live with the mess. But what do we do? I know he doesn’t want to get rid of the cottage and I can understand that, but equally, I love living on a boat. I love the lifestyle and the close community that grows up around boat people.