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“For fuck’s sake, yes.”
“Well, with an offer like that, how could I possibly refuse…” I tease.
“I’m trying,” she says sincerely. Curiosity gets the better of me, so I cut her some slack.
“Let me get changed.”
Less than twenty minutes later, after a silent but surprisingly not awkward drive, Natasha pulls her car into the entrance of Herrington Country Park. I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia at the familiar winding road that leads through the grassy parkland and down to the lakeside where she pulls into a space staring straight ahead at a group of swan’s converging on a couple of kids with a bag of feed. I can practically see the cogs turning quickly behind her eyes as she plans her words.
“I’m not good with apologies or talking about feelings and shit, so can we just run for a little bit?” she asks before I can ask if she’s okay. It’s the first glimpse of vulnerability I’ve seen in her since we met.
“Sure. It’s probably for the best anyway, I always seem to fuck things up when I talk to you.” I’m delighted when she letsout a small but genuine laugh. It’s a little win I didn’t know I needed.
Once we’re out of the car, I follow Natasha’s lead and let her set the pace, allowing her to remain in control. Maybe if she’s comfortable, she’ll eventually open up.
I’ve always liked running outdoors. The sound of our footsteps pounding the gravel paths mix with the wash of the lake and the animals that inhabit it, providing a calming soundtrack.
After our third or maybe fourth—I’ve lost count—loop around the lake, Natasha suggests continuing up the path towards Penshaw Hill. She quickens the pace until we’re almost sprinting instead of jogging, and by the time we reach the halfway point of the steep incline, she doesn’t look too good.
“Stop for a minute.” I glance to the sky with my hands on my hips trying to catch my breath. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to throw up.” Her cheeks are flushed but at the same time the rest of her face has a pale grey-green tinge to it.
“I’m fine.”
“Natasha, it’s okay to admit if you’re not fine. Cards on the table, my entire body feels like it’s on fire,” I say, doing my best to encourage her.
“Oh god, you’re right,” she says with an added groan, giving in and doubling over with her hands on her knees, her breathing heavy and uneven. “I skipped breakfast this morning and, fuck, I feel like I’m dying.”
I rub gentle circles on her back in a gesture I hope is comforting and watch as her breathing slowly returns to a steady rhythm.
“Is this okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s working. I don’t feel like I’m about throw up or pass out anymore.” She straightens up once again, the colour slowly returning to her face. “Thank you.”
“Do you think you could make it up the last…” I turn to count but give up and guestimate instead, “thirty, forty steps? We can find a nice spot with a view to sit and talk.”
“Okay, let’s walk this time though, no running,” she jokes with another smile, and the relief that surges through me when I know she’s okay almost knocks me off my feet.
Chapter Eight
Natasha
We reach the wooden steps to Penshaw Monument and Luke offers me his hand. When I take it, another swarm of butterflies flutters in my stomach. Exactly like they did when I knocked on his door this morning and he gave me one of his smirks that says, “I know you’re checking me out and I know you like what you see.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask, taking my hand back, shy at his chivalry. I don’t deserve it, especially not after the way I’ve acted towards him.
“Life’s too short to hold grudges over petty neighbourly squabbles.” He shrugs with a reassuring smile. “I also raised mysixteen-year-old sister when our mam died, so I’m well aware how stubborn women can be.”
“Heeey.” I nudge him with my shoulder. Although I shouldn’t complain when he’s right.
Over the past week, after watching him interact with the other girls at the club and taking an interest in what we do, it’s clear I got the wrong impression of him. And I don’t buy his excuse that he’s putting this much effort into this game only for the paycheck. I can see he cares about it deeply. I just can’t work out why.
“I’m sorry to hear you lost your mam.”
“Thanks, it’s been ten years now. I was eighteen when she had a heart attack.”
“That must have been tough,” I say, seeing him in a completely new light. “What about your dad?”
“He passed when I was two,” he explains.
