I smiled at that little x for longer than I should have, picturing the lips that might form that kiss. Then I realised how pathetic I was being and looked up, where I saw Phil squinting at the window behind me.
“There’s no way you could make that out,” I said, squinting at him sceptically.
“I’ve got incredible eyesight,” he said with an obnoxious wink. “By the way, mate, you’re not looking too well … maybe we should head home in the morning?”
I sighed at him, but I was biting back a smile. “Yeah, I think you’re right,” I said. “I’d better turn in.”
“Good for you,” he said as we both stood up. He put a hand on my shoulder for a moment and squeezed, then dropped it. “Yeah. Good for you.”
* * *
By the timeI dropped Phil off and pulled up to Morgan’s house the next day, my duffel bag still in the back seat, it was a quarter to one. I was planning to sit in my car for five or ten minutes before showing up helpfully early, but a minute or so after I parked, I got a text:
You can just come in now. I’ve been at the window for like twenty minutes.
I couldn’t help but laugh – we were actually quite alike sometimes, weren’t we? I hadn’t been past the gate before, and as I came through it, I saw the curtains in the bay window twitch slightly.
As I walked up the front path, I admired some of the species that had taken over the front garden. Mum would have loved it. There was red clover, Yorkshire fog, and even some spotted orchids, one of which was currently hosting a marbled white butterfly. Sure, there was some burdock, which would be a nightmare to pick out of Pablo’s fur if Morgan ever got to bring him home. But it was a pollinator’s dream, and it had an unkempt beauty about it.
As I reached the door – a sage green Edwardian with leaded glass insets – I saw a patch of colour on the step. I bent down and picked it up; it was a postcard from Los Angeles, a stylised print of the Hollywood sign. It must have missed the letterbox.
Before I could read the message on the back, Morgan opened the door dressed in a pair of denim cutoff shorts and a retro Charlie’s Angels t-shirt. Her curly hair was piled on top of her head, and I could tell she’d put on a small amount of make-up. Something tensed in me, not unpleasantly, at the thought of her putting in effort for me. The sun shone in on her through the door, making her skin, which was tanned from our summer adventures and dewy from the heat, shimmer slightly. I had the overwhelming urge to hug her: to wrap my arms around her waist and pull her in close to me.
But I didn’t get the chance, because she hugged me instead, opting for the single-armed side hug, which created painfully little contact.
“This was on the step,” I said as she stepped back, handing her the postcard. She took it from me and frowned down at it.
“Thanks,” she said, setting it down behind her without reading it.
She invited me inside and thanked me for coming, then started rambling about everything we needed to do, but I wasn’t listening, because I was too busy looking around at the inside of Morgan’s mind. At least, that was the impression I got from looking at her home; it was a bit chaotic, with books and knick-knacks everywhere, and it had a pitiful amount of light coming through the big front window; the whole street was appallingly positioned. But it was also warm, and cosy, and vibrant, and full. It made me feel exactly the way she made me feel – like I wanted to stay a while. Settle in. Look around and see what I could discover.
As my eyes scanned the room, I saw a window seat, where I imagined from the indent in the cushion she spent a lot of time. It looked like a great place to draw, or to read. And I pictured her sitting there last night, texting me, whilst I sat in a different bay window over a hundred miles away.
Then I saw the bookshelves, which looked to be double-stacked with books, some of which I recognised from her Hay-on-Wye haul. I’d known she liked to read, but I hadn’t realised just how much. And as my eyes passed over the fireplace and to the other set of bookshelves, I saw the book I’d bought her only a week ago turned outward, different to any other book. Like she’d been looking at it, the way I’d been looking at the one she got for me. Like it meant as much to her as it apparently did to me.
I felt a weight form in my stomach, and I recognised it instantly; it was the same thing that had happened when we’d been hiking. The thing that had made me shut down; made me lash out. And after all the time I’d spent with Morgan, after she’d played riverside therapist, I could finally tell what it was. It was fear.
But there’s nothing to be afraid of, I told myself.It’s just Morgan.And when that didn’t work, when my breathing started to get shallower and faster, I decided to try a different approach.Just take it one step at a time, I thought.You’re just doing a bit of DIY. That’s all. You can panic later if you need to.
Surprisingly, that seemed to work, and I was able to calm myself down. Morgan was now over by the shelf, clearly having realised that she’d left the book on display, apologising.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’ve been reading mine, too.”
I didn’t know why I’d told her that, but it seemed to appease her, or even thrill her; she grinned, and her cheeks went even more pink.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, and she bent down to grab it. She clearly enjoyed what she saw, smiling as she stared down at it.
“Good news?” I asked.
“Oh yeah,” she said, turning it towards me. “Phil and I have been texting about my second Ren Faire look. He’s just sent a picture of the progress.”
I scoffed; he’d been home for all of twenty minutes, and he was already back into the projects. Then I processed what she’d said.
“Sorry, he’s making both of your costumes?”
She smiled innocently, putting a hand under her chin to add to the cherubic image. “Yeah, but honestly the chain mail is so expensive I’m beginning to regret it.”
I beckoned for her phone. “Show me what you’ve got.”
