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I smile at the paintwork of my truck. ‘You worried about me, Luce?’
She snorts, trying to win back some hardness. ‘I know you, Ryan. If there’s trouble around, you can’t help getting yourself into it.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ I assure her. ‘Call you tomorrow.’ I click off and realign my focus on Hannah and how I’m going to put right what went wrong last night.
The high street looks like a party shop has crapped all over it when I get back to Hampton, bunting crisscrossing the street, stalls and stands erected, lining the road. I slow to a crawl, mindful of the kids all out in force to help set up for tomorrow. I’m relieved Hannah is out helping, too, though past her smile I see the torment weighing her down.
She looks up when she hears my truck, and I hate that she looks washed out. The evidence of her tears is apparent in the slight puffiness around her eyes. Did she cry the whole way home from Grange?
I let my window down when I reach her, slowing my truck to a stop. Her hands are full of bunting, the length of her arm lined with pieces of sticky tape. ‘Hey,’ I say softly.
‘Hey,’ she parrots, glancing down at her feet briefly before looking back up at me.
‘You okay?’ I feel like a prize twat for asking such a lame question, especially after seeing what I’ve seen this morning.
‘Yeah.’ She lifts her hands and presents the tangles of bunting. ‘Whoever took this down last year made it as difficult as possible for me to put up this year.’
All I see is small talk in our imminent future, both of us awkward and unsure. It’s not us. ‘Want some help?’ I ask, getting out of my truck before she answers. I look down at the mess of string and colourful fabric triangles piled in her grasp, my brow furrowed deeply.
‘I think it’s completely broken,’ she says softly, and I peek up to find a small smile.
‘There’s nothing I can’t fix.’ There’s a deeper meaning to my statement, and Hannah doesn’t miss it, blinking slowly as she breathes in deeply.
‘Then fix it,’ she practically whispers, making a point of maintaining our eye contact. The atmosphere shifts, an understanding between us seeming to settle. Problem is, I’m really not sure if I’m understanding. Should I tell her where I’ve been? What I saw? How I feel?
I lift my hands to hers and start to unravel the string, feeling her regarding me while I pick at knots and pull bits of fabric through loops. I make quick progress, lengths of bunting starting to pool on the ground at our feet, and a few minutes later Hannah’s hands are free. I take them both in mine and lace our fingers together. ‘See,’ I murmur, searching out her eyes again. ‘The bunting is fixed.’ I step in a little until our hands are trapped between her chest and mine. ‘And now you are free.’
She bites on her bottom lip, and I know it’s because she’s trying to stop me seeing it wobble. I feel helpless right now. Powerless. I’m a man on the edge of doing what comes instinctively to me, but being too afraid to do it for risk of losing her.
Hannah forces our hands down and breaks our hold, bringing her arms around my waist and crushing herself to my chest. And suddenly I’m not feeling powerless anymore. I wrap her up in my arms and hold her like I know she needs to be held, my chin resting on top of her head. I let her have as long as she needs, happy to hold her up, happy for everyone to stare, happy not to give a fuck.
‘How much more is there to be done?’ I ask, looking up and down the street, thinking it’s looking pretty complete to me. At least, as much as can be done the day before the fete. At the crack of dawn, everyone will be out stocking carts, setting up tables and chairs, cooking, brewing, baking.
She turns her face into my throat and I feel her blinking, her lashes tickling me there. ‘I just need to get this bunting up.’ Her words vibrate against my Adam’s apple.
‘I’ll help you.’ I have to detach her from me before I put her in my truck and head back to the cabin to quench my rapid onslaught of lust. ‘Tell me what to do.’
She smirks to herself, aware of my issue. She probably felt it, too. I can’t even bring myself to feel remorseful. At this moment, I need her in every way, that way the most. Our connection. Our closeness. Her peace.
She points to the nearby stepladder and bends to collect up the bunting. ‘You can pass me this and I’ll stick it to the sign above the pub.’ She turns and points across the street to Mr Chaps’s shop. ‘Then we tape the other end over there.’
