Page 63 of The Ghost of Exes Past

He opens one eye, checks mine are open, then opens the other one. We sit smiling at one another, awkwardly, still holding hands. I feel a flutter of butterflies that feels both incredible and devastating at the same time. The same ones I had before my first kiss: the particular apprehension of not knowing what comes next. Nothing like the ones I wanted but didn’t feel with Timothy under the fireworks this evening.

‘I just have one question,’ Jake says, hands still in mine. A knot ties itself in my stomach. I brace myself for it.

‘I couldn’t tell, just wanted you to clarify …’ He looks deep into my eyes, very serious. ‘When you dumped Joe … Was he wearing a silk robe, or a towelling one? I feel like that changes things.’

I blink at him. It takes a second to land.

‘Towelling,’ I say. ‘With a hood.’

He nods slowly, as if this is significant, critical information.

He exhales through his nose. ‘Okay.’ A pause. ‘Okay.’

Something releases in my chest that I didn’t realise I’d been holding. I start laughing, properly laughing – the type that bubbles up seemingly out of nowhere – and then he starts too. For a moment, we’re just two people in a hotel room laughing late one evening at nothing and everything, wiping tears from our eyes, slapping our knees, and clutching our chests.

My body seems to buzz.

We did it. I did it. I got through reliving the bad ones.

‘Thank God that’s over,’ I say. We both slump back onto the sofa in sync.

‘Hmm, you’re not getting off that easy, darling,’ he says, eyes to the ceiling, ‘We still have to see the start of your and Timothy’s journey.’

I nod slowly, then shuffle and stretch my legs out from under me. Almost without thinking, as if acting on reflex or muscle memory, Jake picks up my legs and places them across his lap. His thumb strokes my thigh. My stomach flutters.

A soft curl of his dark hair falls to his brows and, all of a sudden, it feels like we’re in our early twenties again and I’m here getting lost in the way his blue eyes are skimming my legs, still jealous at the unfair length of his lashes. I’d spent ten years avoiding pictures of him, knowing that looking at his face properly – those eyes, that jaw, the dimples embedded in his cheeks –would, simply, break me. Knowing that those lips, soft and pink and always on the verge of a joke or a kiss, would never skim confidently across my skin again. I cross my legs to stop myself throbbing.

Except, I’m not twenty now. And I know better. I shuffle forward to sink deeper into the sofa, my head resting on a tassel-covered cushion propped up on the armrest, and make a conscious decision to look at the ceiling instead of him.

It’s very plain up there. Painted a shade of wispy white probably called something like Chantilly Cloud. The lampshade looks like it’s made from antler horns, which is the ceiling’s single contribution to the room’s otherwise fussy enthusiasm. It’s like the ceiling was an afterthought. Like whoever decorated this room ran out of ideas the moment they looked up.

Jake pulls my dress down over my thigh. I hadn’t realised it had ridden up. He does it without comment, without being asked; he just smooths it down and fixes it the way he used to. I’d forgotten he used to do things like that, I missed it more than I realised.

I bring a hand to my forehead and scan the room. Maybe it’s time to tell him the truth. What I’ve been holding back all evening for fear that he’ll judge me, that he’ll look at me differently. This evening has taught me that in some strange, impossible way, I can still trust him. He’s still here, by my side, taking care of me after everything he’s seen today. And despite seeing me throw myself at his best friend … at his own funeral.

I rub my eyes. ‘Honestly, it’s not the fairy-tale romance you’re probably imagining.’

Jake looks from my thigh to me.

‘You’re telling me Timothy didn’t pull up with a horse and carriage for your first date?’

I give him evils, chin to my chest.

‘That he doesn’t have a parade of tiny mice and birds following him around, smoothing his hair down, ironing his shirts?’

‘You and your Disney films.’

‘You’re telling me he doesn’t have a little rat under that chef’s hat of his.’

A snort escapes my nose, but I don’t attempt to cover it this time. It makes me laugh harder. Jake hits my leg as he throws his head back. I wipe a tear from my eye, unable to breathe. Our laughter dies down, and we smile, gazing at the window, Whitby Abbey in the distance. Jake massages his cheeks, the way he used to after one of our old laughing fits.

‘In all honesty, I don’t really know how we ended up here. Or, rather, I do, but it’s hard to admit.’

‘That sounds really cryptic,’ he says, frowning.

‘I think we’re both … Timothy and I are just practical people.’

‘What do you mean?’