Page 73 of The Time of My Afterlife

She shakes her head. ‘It’s not. It’s a huge sign that you and Chris are meant to be. This is fate.’

Right on cue, a train screeches into the station. Metal shrieks, the café windows rattle, and a peculiar feeling takes hold of me. I look at the back of the notebook. Clark went to Pixie Cove the other day. How weird is it that Chris has sent me a notebook from the same place? Hang on – I was wondering how Clark knows about my book reviewing and yesterday I discovered he knew about my Instagram.

Chris, my mystery, book-loving crush, has something to do with Clark Fielding.

Is Clark secretly Chris?

An odd sensation in my gut answers that question for me.

If he is Chris, why is he doing this?

My heart begins to bang against my ribcage. Is this a sick joke of his? Has he been doing this to give me false hope about dating?

Hot, lava-like anger bubbles up inside of me. Clark has been catfishing me.

Laura is staring. ‘Your face is reddening, Florence. Are you okay?’

‘I’ll be in the kitchen,’ I say with gritted teeth.

Once in the privacy of the kitchen and with my back to the café, I feel a giant wave of emotion rise and crash over me.

I should have known Chris was too good to be true.

This is Clark’s attempt at a funny prank. I bet he and his friend, the one who looks like a walking loaf, have been laughing at me in the pub.

Anger courses through my body.

My mind kindly reminds me that I have a two-hour car journey with Clark this afternoon, and we’d agreed not to argue. That will not be happening. It will be hard to control my temper once I get in that car.

He’s so annoying.

Tears prick my eyes.

How could he do this to me? Does he hate me that much? I must be the laughingstock of the pub.

I wipe my wet cheeks.

28

CLARK

She’s quiet. In fact, she hasn’t said a word since I picked her up. This is unsettling. I have also noted she won’t look me in the eye.

My heart is pounding against my ribcage. Something is wrong.

We have a two-hour car journey together, and I am riddled with fear.

When Florence is angry about something, I always run and hide. Like when Mr White Socks has done his business in her garden, and I catch sight of her storming across the road carrying her poo bags. I don’t answer the door.

I can’t work out what she’s upset about. Chris’s parcel would have arrived this morning, which would have made her happy. We sorted out things with Molly last night as well.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask, with a wavering voice.

‘Fine,’ she snaps.

Oh, God, I am in trouble.

Do I pull the car over and talk to her?