Page 70 of The F*ck-It List

That happy feeling stays with me throughout dinner of spaghetti bolognese, August and I chat and laugh.

“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing to a picture of an older lady hung on the wall for her to look over the kitchen.

“That’s Aunt Jemma,” he says, looking up at the glamorous woman with sparkling brown eyes and dark brown hair that must be dyed,given her approximate age. “This was her house, she left it to Joanie and me when she died. Joanie already owned her place and didn’t want to move into something bigger because she can’t keep her tiny bungalow tidy as it is.” I laugh a little, digging into my pasta. “Darcy was hers too, got him as a puppy and then died when he was only two.” I pout sadly and look at the snoozing dog in the corner. “So he became mine along with the house.”

“Were you guys close?”

He nods. “She was great. We spent a lot of time here growing up. She would cook a lot, loved the kitchen. Sunday dinner was always here, even when she was too frail to do it herself, we’d come and cook in here.”

I smile up at the picture and notice the rock on her hand, rather prominent in the portrait. “That’s a Turner Jewel,” I say, pointing my fork at the picture. It’s a beautiful yellow diamond surrounded by white ones, set in a platinum band, the design typical of my grandfather’s legacy.

August nods but doesn’t say anything more, looking at his bowl as he pushes pasta around. I feel like I might have said something wrong and I’m trying to find a way to back track, but he looks up at me with a warm smile. “You want some wine?”

He has a bottle of malbec he opens, and we drink with our meal. The house is warm and cosy, the dishes are done within moments, and when he takes me to bed, we cuddle without it leading to anything more. His hands touch my skin under the t-shirt he gave me to sleep in, his lips kiss sweetly at the back of my neck as he spoons me, and his words are soft. He praises me for coming to him when I needed him, thanks me for staying, and tells me he cares about me. My heart is sofull by the time my eyes drift closed, I know, without doubt, I’ve fallen in love with August.

twenty-two

No. 23: Butt stuff

August

“Idon’t think getting attacked by a bear was on my list.” Bea gnaws nervously on her bottom lip as she looks out the windscreen of my truck, where I’ve parked up at the rest stop at the edge of the woods.

“We’re in Somerset, sunshine. There are no bears around,” I tell her, amusement lacing my words, and because I just can’t help myself, I add, “You’re more likely to get bitten by an adder.”

Her head snaps to the side to stare at me in wide-eyed panic.

“They’re not toilet snakes though, so you’re not afraid, right?” I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling, because this woman seems to keep me smiling all the livelong day. Who even am I? My attempts to control my lips don’t work and her fear turns into relieved annoyance as she throws her empty water bottle at me.

“You’re an arsehole.” Then with another worried glance out the window she adds, “There aren’t really snakes out there are there?”

“Probably,” I say. When she nibbles on her lips again, I take her chin between my thumb and fingers and turn her to look at me. “I promise no snakes will be anywhere near us, sunshine. I’ll protect you from snakes and bears and wild boar.”

“There are boar?”

I lean in and kiss her lips. “No. Now come on, there aremanyitems on your list to cross off tonight.”

I don’t wait for her to reply, jumping out of the cab and grabbing the supplies I brought, waiting for her to join me. It’s been two weeks since the village fete and the start of tourist season has kept both of us busy, but we’ve spent every night together, switching between her place and mine.

It was last Wednesday when she was laid out on my couch while I played video games with Connor and Eli online and she suddenly sat bolt upright with a gasp that damn near had my heart jumping out of my throat when I realised I was in love with Bea. Her eyes were still glued to her kindle, shiny with tears as she read whatever it was in her book that had her so thrown. Me and my house, Port Doone and the rest of the world had melted away, and she was caught in her imagination, feeling everything and loving every moment. I don’t know why this was the moment of realisation, but it hit me like a spear to my chest, and I’ve been struggling to keep the words to myself for days.

It’s not that I’m afraid. I’m fucking terrified. I thought I knew what love is, thought I’d felt it before, but whatever is happening to me right now is as alien as anal probing. Bea is the light to my dark, the softness to my hard edges, and the joy to my sombre. She makes me laugh andcrave fun and carefree enjoyment, which are things I’ve been actively avoiding for so long I can hardly remember why.

There’s been so much going on in my life I had to complain about, so much I felt was weighing me down. But in the weeks Bea and I have been exploring what’s between us, she’s cut the strings tethering me to my bad mood. I’m in love with her and I’m going to tell her tonight, after I’ve fucked her silly and introduced her to ‘butt stuff’ as her list so poetically calls it. My dick is throbbing in anticipation.

When Bea rounds the truck, I hold my hand out for her, and we start walking along the trail hikers like to take up to the steep incline of the hills. We won’t be going that far, which is just as well as Bea is wearing white canvas trainers, despite me telling her to wear walking shoes. Before we reach rougher terrain, I steer us off the well-trodden path bringing us to the stream. It’s early evening which means the sun is still warm and bright, but most people have headed back to the village or their hotels outside the village for the evening, eating their dinners and probably heading to the pub for drinks that will carry them through the night.

We find a flat enough area for me to pull the picnic blanket out of the backpack I brought with me, laying it out and gesturing for Bea to sit. We ate before we left, and I told Bea to shower as we were staying out overnight and there was nowhere to wash up properly until we get back tomorrow morning. Pulling a bottle of the wine I know she likes out from my bag with two plastic glasses, I pour us both a glass, hers bigger than mine as I want her relaxed for what I have planned. Not drunk, I’m not that kind of arsehole.

“Thank you.” She beams at me, taking the offered glass. “It’s really beautiful here.” She takes in the surrounding forest and the streambabbling in front of us. We’re secluded here, if anyone was taking a late evening stroll along the hiking path, they wouldn’t see us tucked away among the brush. “Are we really sleeping out here?” She looks around worried, clearly wondering about the lack of sleeping bags and a tent.

I pull the folded paper from my pocket and make a show of flapping it about until it unravels, and I can see the list written on the lined page. Clearing my throat, I squint down at it even though I can see it perfectly. “Let me see.”

“You stole my list?” She feigns annoyance.

“I commandeered it, for reference,” I correct her. “Number fifteen, sleep under the stars. That’s what we’re doing tonight.”

She looks up, where the sun is still keeping the sky bright blue. “Here? Literally nothing but us and the stars?”