No, this isdefinitelynot how I pictured our first meeting going.
Elliot looks at me doubtfully.
“Look,” he says, after what appears to be a short but spirited internal tussle. “I’ll just help you into the shop. We’re almost there, anyway. I can’t leave you like this.”
He looks over my shoulder, to where the light above the door is illuminating the Hart Books sign just across the square. The shop itself, though, is in darkness; everyone’s gone home for the night, and now a new problem has just occurred to me.
“I don’t live above the shop anymore,” I tell him, wishing briefly that I did; it would be much easier to hobble across the square on one leg than to make it all the way to the cottage, on the very outskirts of the village.
“You don’t?” His tone is surprised, and a tiny jolt of indignation joins the other ingredients of my emotion cocktail.
“No, Elliot,” I reply shortly. “I haven’t lived there for years. Dad doesn’t, either. Did you seriously think nothing would’ve changed since you were last here? That I’d still be living with my dad and working in a shop, while you were off being a famous author, and … whatever else you’ve been doing. I wouldn’t know, obviously. You didn’t exactly stay in touch.”
“No. No, of course I didn’t think everything would be the same,” he’s saying now, a small crease of annoyance appearing between his lowered brows. “Of course I didn’t.”
He doesn’t bother trying to explain what hedidthink, though. Or if he even thought about meat all. Instead, he just stands there, as if he doesn’t know what to do next.
Well, I guess that makes two of us.
“Holly?”
Another voice suddenly breaks the strained silence that’s fallen between me and Elliot, and I look up to see my ex-boyfriend — myotherex-boyfriend, I mean — Martin coming towards us through the crowd, clutching a particularly large churro he’s just bought from one of the food trucks.
I’ve never been so pleased to see him in my life.
“Everything okay here?” Martin asks, stopping next to me, and looking at Elliot with suspicion. “Oh.” His face falls as he recognizes the man beside me. “It’s you.”
Elliot and I both visibly flinch at this casual use ofthatline. Martin, however, appears to be completely unaware of the significance of what he’s just said. I’m sure he’s heard the line — it’s too ingrained in popular culture at this point for himnotto have heard it. But, then again, Martin takes great pride in being one of the few people in Bramblebury never to have read or watchedThe Snow Globe. It’s like a badge of honor for him; and one of the main reasons I finally agreed to go out with him, after years of turning him down. (The fact that not likingThe Snow Globeis the most interesting thing about him, meanwhile, is one of the main reasons we broke up…)
Elliot nods stiffly in Martin’s direction, in a manner that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s recognized him or not. To be fair, Martin has gained some weight and lost some hair since they last met; plus, there’s a thin crust of sugar around his lips from the churro he’s been eating. But his sandy hair and affable expression are unchanged, so I’m certain he must know he’s face-to-face with his onetime rival.
I’m just not sure he cares.
“Um, Elliot was just leaving,” I say, somehow managing to resist adding the wordshe’s good at that,even though I desperately want to. “Martin, I don’t suppose you’d walk me home, would you? I’ve hurt my ankle.”
I hold it aloft to show him, regretting this morning’s decision to wear the high-heeled leather boots which looked fabulous in the mirror, but which just seem frivolous and silly now they’ve quite literally been my downfall. You can’t evenseemy ankle underneath them, obviously, but Martin makes some appropriately concerned noises, before straightening up and offering me his arm, which is reassuringly steady. Leaning on it feels a bit like pulling on a favorite old sweater, and makes me feel briefly guilty for having spent the last few weeks desperately trying to avoid him.
He might not be the most exciting man I’ve ever dated, but at least he’s always been there when I needed him. And he’s never tried to write a book about me, either.
There’s that, too.
“Come on,” he says, clearly relishing the opportunity to take charge of a situation. Martin is very good at taking charge of situations.. “Let’s get you home. I left the car parked just around the corner. You knowthat place on Morrison Street? It was the closest I could get it; I can’t believe how many people turned out to see the lights.”
I squeeze his arm gently to get him to stop talking; the difficulty of finding a parking space in Bramblebury at Christmas time is one of Martin’s favorite topics, and once he gets started on it, we could be here all night.
“Well, nice seeing you again,” he says politely, turning to Elliot, who hasn’t spoken since Martin arrived on the scene, like a churro-weilding knight in a shining puffer coat. “We’d, er, best be getting off home, then.”
He says this in a way that strongly implies that the ‘home’ we’re going to belongs to both of us, and I don’t bother to correct him. Whyshouldn’tElliot think I’ve moved on? I mean, I have,haven’t I? And, okay, it’s not actually with Martin — right now it’s not withanyone— but that doesn’t mean I’m some kind of modern-day Miss Havisham, still sitting among the ruins of my youth, in my Dad’s dusty old bookshop, does it? There have been other men since Elliot. I’ve done things with my life. I’ve even written books; and, okay, they might not be bestsellers, likehisbook, but at least they’re true. (Well, most of them are. I still have doubts about the usefulness ofHow to Manifest Your Dreams Using Your Moon Sign, but that doesn’t mean the information in it wasn’t meticulously researched, to the best of my ability.)
“What’s he doing here, then?” Martin asks, as I hobble on his arm towards the street he’s parked his car in (“A real gift of a space, Holly; I couldn’t believe it when I saw it was empty!”). “It’s not something to do with this book he’s supposed to be writing, is it?”
I glance up at him, surprised. Martin is one of the few non-bookish people in my life. In fact, other thanLord of the Rings (Which is a given, really), andA Game of Thrones(Which he claims to have read, having only seen the TV show), I’m not sure he’s finished an entire book in his life. He’s the last person in the world to have his finger on the pulse of the publishing industry; which means he’s either been talking to the Poole sisters, or this rumor about Elliot and a new book really has grown legs.
“Where did you hear about that?” I ask casually. “Did Elsie tell you?”
“No, Levi did,” Martin replies, holding onto me a little tighter than is necessary. “When I popped into the bookstore earlier, looking for you. He was all excited about it — more than usual, I mean. Said he’d seen something about it on TikTok, so he was sure it must be really happening this time.”
“Oh. Right.”
