Not So Happily Ever After

by Christina Phillips

  “Miss me?” His tone is mocking, but his smile makes up for it.

  “Not even a little bit.” I sniff the delicious aroma of freshly baked chocolate croissants coming from the bag he’s holding. “It’s your food I’m after.”

  “Do you want to have this in the garden?”

  “Sure.” The big downside to his flat is it doesn’t have a balcony. But he does have access to the communal garden square opposite.

  I grab my bag and loop my arm through his as we leave the flat and cross the road. The garden is deserted, thanks to it being midweek, and we find a park bench without any problem. There’s a chill in the air, a sure sign it’s autumn, despite the great weather we’ve had lately, but at least it’s dry and the sky is blue. I sip my takeaway chai, and with the birdsong floating in the breeze, it’s not hard to forget we’re in the middle of the city.

  After we finish eating, Will leans back against the bench, his long legs stretched out, and eyes half closed. His arm is along the back of the bench, and his fingers lightly caress my shoulder.

  And I can’t tear my gaze from his breathtaking profile. My fingers tingle, and not just because I want to glide them over his irresistible morning stubble.

  I want to sketch him. Immortalize this moment.

  You can’t do that.

  Except for when I visit Hartley Court, the only times I draw are when I’m alone. When there’s no one around to judge or ask are you still doing that? As though my art is something disposable, that I’d no longer want to do now I’m a medical student.

  Just do it. Why shouldn’t I? I’ve shared more with him over the last few days than I have with anyone else. It’s no big deal if he sees me drawing. I even told him the other day this is just a hobby. And he knows I sketch the residents at Hartley. Why am I getting so worked up about it?

  There’s no answer to that, so I pull one of my many notebooks from my bag, find a fresh page, and rest it against my knee. He turns his head ever so slightly, and I steel my nerves for whatever he’s about to say.

  He doesn’t say anything. Just resumes his previous position, as though there’s nothing strange about what I’m doing.

  Although he might not realize what I’m about to do. Maybe he just thinks I’m going to write a to-do list or something.

  Don’t be such an idiot. No one writes a list on an A5 size notepad. Which means he’s perfectly fine about this.

  My tense muscles relax. Why would he say anything? He has no clue how messed up my head is when it comes to my art. I shift my bottom around on the bench so I’m facing him and lose myself in my fantasy world.

  He doesn’t fidget or try to see what I’m doing or ask endless questions. It’s as though we’re the only two people in existence.

  Finally, I lay my pencil on my lap and flex my fingers as I scrutinize the sketch. It’s not a bad likeness.

  “Can I look now?”

  It’s been a while since I’ve shown anyone except the lovely residents at the Court my work. The last time was that art exhibition on Boxing Day.

  Don’t think about that. It’s in the past, and I’m over it.

  “Okay.” I hope he didn’t hear my reluctance. It’s not that I don’t want him to see the sketch. I’m just not sure I’m ready for his reaction. Suppose he hates it?

  Nerves heave through me, and I feel a little ill as I hand him the pad and he stares at it. I can’t tell what he thinks from the expression on his face. Why doesn’t he say something? I know it’s not technically brilliant, but it’s not terrible.

  At least, I don’t think it is.

  The silence is killing me. “Well?” It comes out sharper than I intend, and I bite my lip. But he doesn’t throw back a sarcastic retort.

  “This is amazing.” There’s a strange note in his voice, as though he’d expected to see a stick figure. “Seriously, Mac. You should do something with talent like this.”

  “Huh.” I shift my bum on the hard bench as embarrassment slides through me. I’m not used to anyone praising my art. And the fact it’s coming from Will makes it, I don’t know, kind of extra special. I don’t even know how to respond. “Thanks.”

  He looks at me with his sinfully gorgeous brown eyes, and I clasp my hands together on my lap to stop them doing something random and ridiculous. Like cradling his face and asking why didn’t you call me that morning?

  So much for being over it.

  I am over it. I can’t help erratic thoughts spiking through my brain.

  “When you said it was just a hobby…” He pauses and looks back at the sketch he’s still holding. “I don’t know why, but I didn’t imagine you were this good.”

  It’s not often I’m at a loss for words, but his comment leaves me speechless in the best possible way. The tightness compressing my chest eases, and I smile, even though he can’t see me since he’s still gazing at the sketch.

  “I mean, you’ve always been good,” he adds, like I might take offense, and he glances at me. “Don’t get me wrong. But I haven’t seen anything you’ve done for so long. I guess I’d forgotten.”

  Seriously, Mac, get your shit together. There’s a warm glow in the center of my chest, but I can’t sit here grinning at him like he’s the best thing since soft loo roll. Even if he is.

  “It’s not like I make a habit of doing it in public. I’m not even sure why I did this.”

  Yes, you are. I wanted to capture the moment. Something special to encapsulate how I’ll always remember this secret time with him, in a way all the photos we’ve taken never can. And what a wonderful moment it’s turned into.

  “You mean you’ve got a lot of work you’ve not shown anyone?”

  He doesn’t know the half of it. “You could say that. When I finish something, it’s like I can’t throw it out in case it’s bad luck. I know that’s dumb.”

  “Can I keep this?”

  “Um, sure.” I’m so shocked he actually wants it that the words spill out before I can stop them. Not that I want to stop them. I can always sketch him again later, and it’ll be even more special. “It’s only a draft, really, though.”

  “I don’t care. I think it’s great.”

  Oh wow. If he keeps on being so nice, I’m going to melt into a puddle of goo at his feet.

  “I’m glad you like it. Do you want me to sign it?” I’m half joking, but he hands me the pad back without even thinking about it.

  “Definitely. This could be worth a fortune in a few years.”

  I laugh, as I scrawl my signature in the bottom corner. “Keep dreaming.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You forget. I’m not planning on making this my career.” Because that would be insane. How many artists can make a living doing something they love? Best case scenario, it’s my therapy for stress relief.

  “I know, but you can still do this in your downtime, right?”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t get that much free time at Uni.” Not exactly true, although I’ll have a lot less next term as I need to work on my grades. It’s almost—but not quite—enough to cast a shadow on the day.

  An easy silence falls between us. I shuffle closer to him and rest my head on his shoulder. It’s funny—he’s the only guy I’ve dated where I don’t get fidgety if the conversation lapses.

  We’re not dating.

  Okay, fake-dating. What’s the difference?

  A ragged sigh escapes before I can stop it. It doesn’t matter how much I enjoy being with him, or how badly I’ve missed his friendship. There’s a nonnegotiable end date in sight.

  I’m not stupid. After this week we’ll hardly ever see each other again. Which is just as well. Despite my grand adulting plans, I’m not sure I could go back to being just good friends with him.

  By the time you go back to Uni, he’ll be out of your system, remember? It won’t matter if we see each other or not, will it?

  The echoey silence in my head isn’t exactly reassuring.

  “Can I ask you something?” His
question strikes me as ridiculously funny and shatters my gloom.

  “You’ve seen me in the buff and watched me draw. Which is almost as personal as seeing me naked, now I think about it. You can ask me anything.”

  “Are you happy at Uni?”

  Well, fuck. I didn’t expect you to ask me that.

  I scramble for the right response, but it’s like my brain’s shut down. What does he expect me to say? No one’s ever asked me this before, and for a scary second, I almost tell him the truth.

  Can’t do that. All I need to do is put on my game face and tell him of course I am, but the words stick in my throat. I can’t lie to him, even though it’d make things so much easier. Not telling him the truth, though. “What makes you ask that?”

  He shrugs, and a frown slashes his forehead. Which shouldn’t be so sexy but, hey… This is Will. Even his breathing is sexy.

  Focus, Mac.

  “I don’t know. I’ve just been getting this weird vibe. I get that the course is a lot harder than you expected, but it’s more than that. Like you don’t want to talk about it at all.”

  I give a fake laugh, but inside I’m reeling. I always thought I managed to hide my true feelings so well. “Who wants to listen to me bang on about Uni?” Please don’t ask me anything else. But it’s half-hearted and pathetic. Because a part of me does want him to ask.

  Because a part of me wants to spill my guts.

  Never…

  “I was standing right next to you when we were at Blitz last week, when you and Alice were talking. It was like you kept deflecting every time she asked you anything. And that’s not like you. Is something else going on, Mac?”

  He noticed that?

  Since when has he been so perceptive? I don’t know whether I’m impressed or horrified. Because if he’s noticed, who else has?

  Nobody. I’m overreacting, as usual. All he picked up was how I didn’t volunteer a lot of information. There are a million reasons why I might not have done that, which have nothing to do with the truth.

  He asked me if I was enjoying the course the day we visited Jake in hospital.

  Okay, so he’s far more observant than I’ve ever given him credit for. He’s far more everything than I’ve assumed over the years. But that doesn’t give me the right to dump my deepest problems on him. All I need to say is everything’s fine. That I just don’t like talking about Uni. That the course is way harder than I imagined—not lying there. Come to think of it, I already have told him that.

  “I don’t want to do medicine.”

  What the fuck? Please tell me I didn’t say that out loud. Heat blazes through me, and my face is burning.

  Why are you so easy to talk to? I can’t even backtrack. My brain’s frozen and my tongue’s paralyzed. Earth, swallow me now.

  “You don’t?” He sounds doubtful, as though he’s not sure he heard right. “Since when?”

  I close my eyes, but it doesn’t make this excruciating moment vanish. Instead, acidic guilt sears me. All I see is Mum lying in that hospital bed, as I desperately wished I could turn back time.

  Why did I open my big mouth? I don’t want to talk about this.

  “I never did.” Shut up, Mac. A shudder wracks me, and he slides his arm around me, holding me close. It’s like he guessed I was about to spring to my feet just to get away from him.

  To get away from my memories. Like that could ever happen, no matter how far I run.

  “Okay.” There’s a soft note in his voice I’ve never heard before. “It’s all right.”

  It really isn’t. I’m rigid in his arms, despite the way his fingers are lightly stroking my shoulder, and there’s a suffocating rock lodged in my chest.

  Keep it together. It’s been six years since Mum died. Sometimes it only seems like last week. My eyes prickle, and I blink furiously and furtively pinch my nose to stop the snuffles. For God’s sake, say something.

  My brain’s flatlined.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  No. Definitely not. I haven’t told anyone about that last time I saw Mum. I’ve never wanted to. Except now, with Will’s solid warmth surrounding me, there’s a scary craving deep inside that does.

  I shake my head. Let out a ragged breath. And realize my fingers are clutching his shirt.

  With an effort, I loosen my grip but leave my hand against his chest.

  Against the familiar, comforting, thud of his heart.

  He doesn’t press me for answers, just holds me, and slowly the panicky churning in my chest subsides.

  The strange thing is, I wanted to tell him years ago, when we used to share stuff the way good friends do. But I didn’t because he was Lucas’s best friend before he was mine, and it was an unspoken line in the sand I wouldn’t cross.

  If I couldn’t tell my own dad and brothers about how screwed up I was, it felt almost like a betrayal to tell Will.

  Stupid. But Brooklyn had my back, and I spilled out my heart to her. I didn’t need him in that way, and besides, he was a guy. And guys don’t get it the way your best girlfriend does.

  But now…it’s different. I want to tell him. And more than that. I know he’ll understand. Because he, too, is going through personal stuff I’d had no clue about until recently.

  It’s still hard to find the right words. Because there are no right words. Only raw, bloodied chunks of my heart that’s never fully healed.

  “The last thing Mum and I said to each other…” I swallow, but it doesn’t ease the ache in my throat. “We were in Paris, getting ready for the awards night.” He knows Mum was named European Laureate for her contribution to medical research, so I don’t need to explain.

  “We had a huge row.” I can’t even remember how it started, although I could guess. I was a horrible bitch to Mum when I was fifteen. My chest hurts so bad I can hardly breathe. “The thing is, everyone—including me—had taken it for granted I’d go to university and study the sciences, just because I was good at those subjects at school. But when I hit fifteen… I don’t know. I felt stifled. Like I wanted to scream.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but the tender stroke of his fingers calms me in a way I can’t even explain.

  I take a shuddering breath. “I never got the chance to say sorry. That’s the worst thing. All those things I said to her—I didn’t mean them. And then it was too late. She was gone.”

  He rubs his jaw over the top of my head, before dropping a soft kiss on my hair. It’s so sweet and tender, tears prickle behind my eyes. “At her funeral, I made this promise to her. That I’d go to Uni, make her proud. It’s the only thing I can do.”

  There’s a long silence after my confession, and my rigid muscles slowly relax. I’m not sure I believe in the soul and all that weird woo-woo stuff, but sharing with Will feels oddly…good. As though something hard and heavy has dissolved a little, deep inside my chest.

  “Mac.”

  “Hmm?” Maybe he wants to go back to his flat. I’m up for that. All I want to do right now is hold him tight and breathe in his sexy cologne. All I want is you.

  “You know your mum would be proud of you whatever you do with your life. Don’t you?”

  My hand slips from his chest to his thigh. I should’ve guessed he’d want to talk about this. He knew Mum for years, after all.

  “I gave her my word.” I sigh heavily. Just because she never knew of my promise, doesn’t make it less binding.

  “But you’re not happy, are you? She wouldn’t want that. You know it.”

  I do know it, and I’m not sure how I feel about him throwing it in my face. Not when I’ve just opened my heart and laid the tangled mess of my guilt at his feet.

  Except, deep inside, I knew he wouldn’t just let it go. Wasn’t I secretly hoping he’d tell me exactly this?

  Yes. My problem is, I don’t know how to respond. “It’s complicated, Will.”

  “Trust me, I know.”

  If anyone else said that to me, I’d shrug it off as a me
aningless cliché. But he does know. Well, not exactly, but close enough.

  “It’s not just that, though. I’ve got this bursary from Mum’s work, and the professors she knew personally at Uni are all invested in me.” The panic churns again, and I fight it back down. “And Dad would be upset if I didn’t go through with it. It was hard enough when Harry decided not to go to university, and Lucas was never interested in an academic career. I’m the only one left to, you know. See it through.”

  He’s silent for so long, it’s like he’s decided this conversation is over. And it is. There’s nothing else to say. I’m glad I told him, even though it doesn’t make a lot of sense. Or maybe I just wanted him to know something about me that next to no one else does, the way I know about his Mum and why he hasn’t yet fully committed to Oakland.

  “Yeah,” he says at last, as though he means the complete opposite. “Don’t get mad. But all those reasons? They suck. You only get one life, and you’re the one who’s got to live it. Don’t throw it away.”

  I press my lips together. I’m not exactly mad with him, but I’m not thrilled with his comments. Not that I’m going to take issue with them, because he’s trying to help. And I love that he’s on my side. But I’ve made my choices.

  And I have to live with them.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mackenzie

  “All right, I admit it. I thought you and Will would’ve either killed each other or split up by now.”

  It’s Friday before Brooklyn and I see each other again, for a quick catch up over lunch at a little café down the markets. Can’t say I’m impressed by her remark, though.

  “I don’t see why.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Interesting.”

  I know exactly what she’s getting at, and don’t even know why it’s kind of annoying me. She’s already taken credit for Will and me getting together because she stuffed those condoms in my bag before we went to Wales. “We haven’t argued once. It’s been”—the best week of my life. I nearly choke on my tongue. No way can I say that. And obviously, it’s not true. Well okay, so maybe it is, but I’m still not saying it out loud. We’d have to dissect every minute that Will and I have been together, and we don’t have time. I settle on a safe alternative. “Great.”