Page 58 of The F*ck-It List

“Sure, sure, sure.” I nod and take an obnoxiously loud slurp of coffee.

“Anyway,” he chuckles. “What I’m trying to ask, is if you would mind me helping out with some of the items on your list? I don’t wantto overstep or insert myself into something that’s not for me to be a part of.” The hand not on the back of the couch comes to my thigh, squeezing gently in a way that seems to say he really wants to help but won’t be offended if I don’t want it.

The fact he’s asking me and not just jumping in to make plans for me gives me the warm and gooeys. I lean in, pursing my lips for a kiss and he bends to meet me, kissing me with a smile over Darcy’s head. When we part, Heathcliff meows and jumps up to join this little nest, climbing up to wrap himself around the back of August’s neck. I feel it again, butterflies rising in my stomach.

“I would love your help.”

eighteen

No. 18: Swim in the sea

August

It’s been a week, a really fucking busy week. Bea’s been opening the café every day with limited food and drinks options, and of course, the whole village has been showing their support and probably falling in love with Bea as they do. I’ve had a packed work week, travelling out of the village every day to take on good paying jobs that have kept me out until late. Bea and I have seen each other, I’ve eaten dinner with her, we went to the pub for a drink, and Mum insisted Bea join us for Sunday dinner again. But I’ve spent each of the last seven nights alone in my own bed—apart from that one night Darcy decided he was going to try his luck and sleep with me and I was too exhausted to argue with the stubborn mutt.

Eli has been ribbing me all week, jokes about me having an extra pep in my step, not recognising me with a smile on my face, that kind of thing. He’s a dick. But I love him. I didn’t need to tell him what had happened between Bea and I, he knew the moment I saw him the next day. Joanie took longer to figure out I was apparently acting differently but made a comment yesterday that leads me to believe she suspects something. When I popped in the café to get a coffee on Tuesday and Bea and I got trapped in a smiling stare off, Connor made a comment that earnt him a smack upside the head, but suffice to say, word has got around that Bea and I have passed the line of friendship and, of course, the gossip has been rife. Even that hasn’t wiped the smile from my face.

“How is dear Bea?” Ruth asks with a smug smirk over the rim of her steaming mug as I rig up the new laundry hanger she bought; it’s one that suspends from the ceiling, and she can lower it to put the clothes on and pull it up and out of the way while they dry. It’s old fashioned and vintage looking, and I really like it; I might have to get one.

“How would I know?” I grumble even though the cat was let out the bag days ago and pretending is pointless.

“Because you’ve been spending a lot of time with her.”

“Not a lot,” I lie. “Just a normal amount.”

“Are you being purposefully obtuse, August?” Ruth sighs.

“Yes,” I admit. “It serves you right for partaking in gossip.”

“I’m eighty-two years old, dear boy, gossip is the only hobby that doesn’t risk a broken hip.” She flicks an imaginary crumb from the countertop and gives me a pointed look.

“Try knitting,” I gripe, screwing in the last screw and giving the pulley a little tug to demonstrate it does work.

Ruth claps once. “Excellent, thank you, dear.”

I throw my screwdriver back into my toolbox and take my own mug, wincing at the taste of Ruth’s high quality but still instant coffee. A week of Bea making me the proper thing with that fancy machine of hers and I’m now a snob. Ruth, not missing a thing and seeming to understand the nuance of that one micro expression, grins smugly.

“Ruth,” I groan. “Stop.”

“I didn’t say anything,” she hums, trying to hide her smile behind her mug again.

“And you’re not saying it very loudly,” I complain.

“August, you are beaming,” she says seriously. “People are happy for you, we want to see you happy, dear. After what happened with—”

“No,” I say sharply. “We’re not talking about that.”

“Have you told Bea aboutthat?”

“Christ,” I groan. “We’ve only been…spending time together for a week.”

“Oh, you’ve been spending time together for longer than that. I assume you mean you’ve been screwing for a week.”

“Jesus,” I bury my face in my hands.

“It might not have been long, but it takes mere moments to know when someone is going to be special to you. Bea is special.” She says it so matter of fact, like she has decided for me.

“I’d like to come to that conclusion myself,” I say, wearily. “I don’t want whispers around us determining what we are. I don’t want to feel like I’ve let everyone down when I do something to mess things up.”