“I knew it,” I gasp, wincing with pain as I put my weight onto the foot I’ve just released from the pavement. “I knew it was you outsidethe cafe this morning. And yesterday, in the square! I thought I was going mad at first, but I wasn’t. You’re … you’re really here.”
The look on Elliot’s face confirms that I’m babbling. I close my mouth quickly, before I can depart any further from the imaginary script in which Elliot and I meet for the first time in a decade, and I pretend not to recognize him.
“Whyare you here, though?” I burst out, instantly failing in my resolve to be cool and distant, and not to say anything else. “Why now?”
Elliot looks down at me, as if I’m a problem he’s trying to figure out how to solve. The lights of the Christmas tree illuminate his face, which is sharper and more angular than I remember. He’s not wearing his glasses. His hair is shorter and neater, although still with that slight curl to it that suggests it might spring back into its familiar, slightly disheveled state at any second.
He looks older, of course — I expect I do too — but the biggest difference is in his eyes.
There’s no twinkle in those dark navy eyes now; just wariness and distrust — two emotions I can’t help but think he has absolutely no right to direct atme, when he’s the one who’s well and truly proven he can’t be trusted.
Howdarehe act likehe’sthe one who got ghosted, when we both know it wasme?
“My publishers asked me to come,” he says in a ‘stating the obvious tone’. “It wasn’t my choice, trust me.”
Trust me.
Famous last words.
“Right,” I say, with as much dignity as I can muster, given that my ankle feels like it’s on fire, and my most significant ex is looking at me as if he only barely recognizes me. “Your publisher. Of course.”
I’m not going to askwhyhis publishers wanted him to come to Bramblebury.
I’mdefinitelynot going to ask if it’s got anything to do with the sequel toThe Snow Globehe’s permanently rumored to be writing.
I’m not going to ask him anything at all, actually. This is the new Holly Hart he’s looking at. The one with the fresh new start, and a publishing deal of her own, albeit as a ghostwriter, rather than a ‘real’ author, like Elliot.
“So, why’s that, then?” I blurt out, proving once again that my willpower is less than stellar. “Why’d your publisher want you to come here? You’re not writing another book, are you?”
Elliot’s cheeks darken slightly, as if he’s embarrassed .
Well, good. Heshouldbe embarrassed if he really has come to my hometown to celebrate the publication of the book he wrote about our relationship; the one that broke my heart all over again. Heshouldbe begging my forgiveness, just like he does in my imagination.
Instead, he just shuffles his feet awkwardly, then reaches up to adjust his glasses, remembering at the last second that he’s not actually wearing them anymore.
“I’m here for the book festival, actually,” he replies at last. “The publishers have booked a stall at it. Like I say, it wasn’t my idea, I promise.”
My eyes narrow with suspicion. We have the book festival in Bramblebury every year; it’s been more popular than ever sinceThe Snow Globeput the village on the literary map. Elliot’s never felt the needto come to it before, though; which makes it strange that he’d decide to rock up here after all this time, even if his publisher was putting pressure on him. Unless…
“I’m not just here for the festival,” he adds, confirming my suspicions. “There’s… well, some other stuff, too.”
“Right,” I say, biting back the urge to ask what the ‘other stuff’ might be, and if it has anything to do with me. I feel like I’ve used up my daily quota of stupid questions now — and some of tomorrow’s too, for good measure. “Well. I guess I’ll be going, then.”
I can’t quite figure out how to end this interaction gracefully. I’m not going to lie and say it was nice to see him, and I really hope Idon’tsee him around, so I stand there for a moment, before turning on my heel in an attempt at walking away, with my head held high; the way Ishouldhave walked away from him years ago, when we met.
Instead, though, I find myself stumbling yet again, the ankle of the foot that got trapped between the cobblestones buckling under me, and almost tripping me up for a second time.
Shit. This is the last thing I need when I’m trying to pull off a suitably dramatic exit.
“Holly, wait.”
Before I can figure out what to do, Elliot’s beside me, his arm around my waist this time, a whiff of the cologne he always used to wear sending me whizzing back through the years, like some kind of lovelorn time-traveler.
“Is it your ankle?” he asks, apparently oblivious to the cocktail of conflicting emotions that’s making me feel dizzy. “Can you stand on it?”
“Yup,” I reply brightly, almost shrieking in pain when I put my weight on my foot to test this theory. “I’ll be absolutely fine. You can let me go now.”
I look pointedly down at his arm, and he springs back as if he’s been stung. I immediately wobble dangerously on my one reliable leg, like an Edwardian lady having an attack of the vapors. Or a very drunk person.
