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‘No, Owen—’
‘It’s dark. Nobody’s even out here.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘No buts. Just – dance with me.’ And in the moonlight, his eyes glint, and something passes through me, like an electric shock. I remember being at a wedding, trying to find Owen, seeing him laughing with a woman I’d told him made me feel insecure. He wouldn’t dance with me. He was ‘busy’. Rolled his eyes to the woman about me. And—
I stand up. And, as his hands loop around my waist, I push him away.
‘Not tonight,’ I say, my tone, terse. ‘I’m going inside.’
Owen’s face screws up; switches under the dark sky, like a lever, pulled. ‘Right,’ he says, his head, shaking slowly. ‘O-K?’
And as I move away, he puts his hand back on my arm.
‘I asked you. But you never asked me,’ he says, quietly. ‘But if you had, the answer would have been yes. Yes, I do still think about you, Millie. And yes, a part of me does still love you.’
I say nothing, and turn away, walking across the wet grass, long strands seeping rainwater through to my ankles, and when I look up, I see Jack. He stands beside a group of men I don’t recognise, Jess, at his side. He meets my eyes, but continues talking, and I decide then and there: I am going home.
*
I walk briskly down the corridors, music booming from behind the walls, meandering my way around the hotel, on the hunt for somewhere to hide while I wait for my taxi. I stop where there’s an alcove of bare coat-hangers, a wooden engraved sign above it, hanging from two hooks, saying, ‘cloakroom’. It’s like something from a nineties community hall; a few coats hang inside, a small wooden stool behind a small pillar of a wooden counter. I assume a cloakroom attendant sits behind it, when it’s in proper use. But tonight, it’s quiet, nobody’s around, so I take the seat myself, in perfect view of the corridor, watching people stumble out of the party, and turn away from me, heading to the exit, or to the toilets.
I take a deep breath.
Ugh.
I feel like everything is upside down. Like I’m sinking. The only man I’ve ever loved, the only man I’veeverplanned a whole, entire life and future with wants to dance with me, and standing there, in front of him,finally, felt – frightening. Like I wanted to sprint. Race away. Like I wanted to run and run until I found .?.?. Jack.Jack.Because, I like Jack. I really do. Because I like how safe Jack makes me feel. And the thing is, that is a problem, isn’t it? Another problem is my sea of A.E. problems. Not only is Jack technically my boss, but he is alsoleaving.For a whole entire year, at the very least. What can even happen? I can’t fall for someone and have them leave again. Plus,doesJack even like me? Is this just Jack being Jack? All cool and laid-back, without a plan to his name. He was like this at the Christmas party. And: Jess. He was hanging out in the darkness with bloody perfect Good Girl Jess who he seemed to flirt like a pro with that afternoon in reception, so, here I am – what? Sitting in a darkened cloakroom waiting for a taxi because I don’t want to interrupt Cate’s evening and I also don’t know what else to do.
The door swings open. My heart suspends. Barry Hendrie stumbles out. An evening in reverse. He holds onto the wall, swallows, as if fighting against a stream of vomit, then wobbles off down the corridor, the door bumping gently closed behind him.
I stand up. Should I go to the lobby? The taxi will be here soon. The guy at reception said half an hour. ‘Or thereabouts.’
The door squeaks open again and again, a cycle of people leaving, people taking phone calls. And then .?.?. he appears. He’s without his Jack Dawson door, but still in the outfit, one more shirt button unfastened, than earlier. For a split second, I watch him, knowing he can’t see me. And I realise I really, really do like him. My heart is banging against my chest, like a small rhythmic fist. A hard, undeniable beat of,I do, I do, I do, I do.
Jack looks both ways, and then – he sees me. Fixes me with those beautiful, playful eyes. And they do something to me, those eyes.Meltme. Spark something that sweeps down my body, lighting me up, inch by inch.
‘Hey,’ he says, striding down the corridor towards me, and butterflies – butterfliesimmediately.And I find myself wanting to run towards him, throw my arms around him, hold onto him, tightly, freeze time. Instead, I stay glued to the spot.
‘What’re we .?.?. trying on a new job?’ His eyes lift to the cloakroom sign as he arrives at the little counter and then drop to meet mine. The corner of his mouth twitches.
‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Does Jack Dawson need me to hang up his .?.?.braces?’
Jack laughs. ‘You do realise if I take these braces off, Millie,’ he says hoarsely, ‘my trousers will fall down.’
‘Ha. Yes. Well. I see.’ Butterflies. I am now solely made of butterflies.
‘Part of the plan, was it?’
I stand, say nothing, give a big, breathy flustered smile.
Jack circles the counter, joins me, in the alcove of the cloakroom. I find myself slowly moving backwards, putting space between us, even though I don’t want to. I want to .?.?. be close to him. So close. The back of my head meets the fabric of someone’s jacket and I let out a mad fake giggle and an ‘oops’, and he smiles, leaves the gap between us. ‘What’re you doing hiding out here, then, Millie dot Chandler?’
‘I’m, um, I’m .?.?. going home,’ I say. ‘In about ten minutes or so. Ordered a taxi.’
Jack’s brow creases, his lips meeting together softly and thoughtfully. ‘Well, that sucks,’ he says. ‘Was it Paul Foot’s dancing? Triggering stuff.’
I smile weakly. ‘Maybe.’
