Page 33 of Always Be My Pumpkin

He stretches again, still sound asleep, and it hits me that I could stand here all morning and look at him. I want to curl my fingers through that ruffled sandy fringe and drop my lips to every freckle along those cheekbones. I close my eyes and picture his face as he leaned over me last night, and I wonder if I imagined that flash of longing in his gaze before he pulled away.

But he did pull away, and he did fall asleep chastely by my side, still wearing his T-shirt and trackpants. I’m not sure which of us moved closer, but it felt like the most natural thing in the world when I woke, like this is how we sleep now, and not only in my dreams. But of course, it’s not. We’re going to need a bigger pillow mountain. And I need to get dressed and get out of here before I do something I regret.

I sneak to the bathroom with my clothes, and ten minutes later, I’m on my way to the front door when I spot a small blue notebook on the coffee table, resting on a well-worn copy of Seamus Heaney’s Opened Ground. It’s not the notebook that makes my heart skip, it’s the pen lying diagonally across the cover, the slim silver Parker I gave Flynn the day before he went away. I had it engraved, To Flynn, from Gracie. Always.

I know that notebook is where he writes the thoughts he doesn’t share with anyone. He always kept one private journal, back at school, and that’s why I gave him the pen as a leaving gift. Something of me to hold on to and keep close, and I love that he brought it with him. He has scrapbooks and jotters all over the place, with sketches of plants, notes, and poems, and funny cartoons. But he carries that notebook in his pocket, and when I asked him about it, he smiled shyly and said Maybe I’ll show you one day. I love that he trusts me enough to leave it lying out, and I would never betray that. But what gets me even more is that it’s my pen he’s using to document his most private thoughts. He must have kept it, tucked away, all this time.

I should write him a note before I head out. He’d like that. Something brief and easy-going, to show that last night was really no big deal. I tear a loose page from a jotter, and my skin sparks as I pick up his pen. I scrawl:

Gone to meet Sarah for a walk and brunch after. See you later, x.

Perfect. That sounds friendly and breezy and not at all like a woman who can’t stop drooling over her platonic male friend. I lay the pen gently on his notebook, then I pad back upstairs, drop my note onto the pillow next to Flynn, and take my leave again. I need a long walk and a good chat with Sarah to help gather my thoughts and all my crazy muddled feelings before I face him awake.

‘You like him. You really like him.’ Sarah grips her mug of black coffee as she leans across, eyes wide, like she’s trying to drag confirmation out of me through sheer force of will. No wonder she makes such good money as a lawyer. Any minute now she’ll shine a light in my face.

I push my French toast to one side and rest my chin on one hand. ‘Of course I like him.’ I shrug, deliberately avoiding her point. ‘He was my best friend.’ I backtrack fast as her eyebrows soar. ‘As well as you. You’re my best friend now, you know that.’

‘But you don’t fancy the arse off me.’

‘Shush.’ I cringe as a woman at the next table, who I’m fairly sure is Olivia’s cousin, swings her head around and stares. Sarah gives her a withering glare, and she jerks back and starts zipping up her jacket. But I can feel her ears burning as she whispers to her friend, and both of them shoot another furtive glance in my direction. Thank God, they’d already paid and were getting up to leave when Sarah decided to share my unrequited lust with the room.

I wait until they’re gone before I say another word, and Sarah sits across from me with a smug smile and a gleam in her eyes.

‘Okay, all right, I may have certain feelings.’

I told her about Flynn moving in. And I gave her a blow-by-blow account of last night as we walked around the lake, so she knows Flynn and I shared a bed. Platonically.

‘But that’s all they are,’ I insist. ‘Feelings. And that’s all they can ever be.’

‘Why?’ She stares at me open-mouthed. ‘You just spent the last hour telling me that you have no intention of getting back with Jamie. And I promise Scott hasn’t said a word to him about Hazel Cottage, even though he knew before I did.’ She fake scowls at me now.

‘Sorry, yeah, I forgot he had to talk to Maeve about it. My head’s been a bit all over the place.’ I huff out a sigh. ‘And I don’t have any intention of getting back with Jamie. I don’t even care if Scott does tell him about Hazel Cottage. I need to get the message through to him anyway that we’re well and truly over.’

Jamie hasn’t come near me since Olivia’s meltdown in the Corner Bar. But from everything Sarah’s told me, he’s been working on her and Scott since he got back, and he’s planning some sort of grand gesture, although he hasn’t shared any details, just that he’s absolutely determined to win me back.

‘So, you keep having thoughts about Flynn.’ Sarah wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. ‘And you had a moment.’

‘I only said we might have had a moment.’ I sigh. ‘It was probably wishful thinking on my part.’

Sarah narrows her eyes. ‘I don’t know. I always wondered if he fancied you. At school. Remember that night at my party. He kept staring at you with that soppy look.’

‘Flynn’s not soppy.’

‘I know that.’ She smiles. ‘I mean the way he used to look at you sometimes.’

‘He was tipsy that night, Sarah. We were always just friends. We still are.’

I swallow as the memory floats across my mind. Flynn singing, soft eyes searching mine. I push it back to the dark corner where it belongs. He was tipsy, that’s all.

‘Well, all I’m saying is maybe you could be more.’ She shrugs. ‘What’s the harm in thinking about it?’

‘The harm is I could lose him.’ I try to keep my voice steady. ‘Don’t you remember what happened when you told him to ask me to the Halloween Ball? How he laughed and barely spoke to me for the whole week before he left.’

I shake my head slowly. ‘He says he was in shock then about having to go to America and everything, but sometimes I wonder if the idea of me liking him that way freaked him even more. He never came to talk to me, not properly, not like we always used to talk about things. And he barely said a word when I gave him his leaving gift. It almost feels like he expected me to seek him out, wanted me to be the one to open up. But he was the one leaving. I thought he’d at least write me a letter, or even a note.’

I stare at the paper napkin I’ve been tearing to shreds, and I gulp hard to swallow down the hurt. ‘That’s what he always did when he wanted to talk about anything serious. He’d write it all in a letter, and leave it in my locker, and I’d read it and come and find him, and we’d talk.’

I squeeze my eyes tight as if that might shut down the memory, and the pain. ‘But he didn’t. And I felt like I lost him forever then.’ My throat feels like it’s closing as I choke out the words. ‘I can’t risk losing him again.’