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“You’re living on The Frederick? Is your dad . . . I hope he’s okay.”
A long pause followed. “He’s fine. He and Jane moved into a house down south; Dad sold the boat to me.” Wentworth continued through the doorway. “Guess I’ll be seeing you there.”
“The invite included me?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t purposely exclude anyone.”
“That’s not the same as welcoming them.”
Wentworth continued down the hall. “You’re welcome to come.”
But Elliot knew that tone. The lack of eye contact. He wasn’t coming.
He was late the next morning. He’d overdone walking on his foot the night before and was feeling it today. He acknowledged Wentworth with a stiff nod, and carried on to his side of the room in silence.
After settling Honey into his spot, Elliot collapsed onto his chair, hissing when his foot banged against a wheel.
His phone dinged and Elliot would have ignored it, but it dinged again, stirring Honey.
Elliot checked. Email chat.
Wentworth: What’s the matter? Are you in pain?
* * *
Wentworth: Is it your foot?
Elliot glanced through the leaves of the pot plant to Wentworth at his desk, eyes narrowed on his screen.
He wanted to roll over there and hold his gaze and talk but . . . if this was the only mode of communication that worked for Wentworth, Elliot would respect that.
He opened his laptop and replied in the private chat box.
Elliot: I’m fine. I mean, I won’t be running any marathons, but fine.
* * *
Wentworth: Are you sure?
* * *
Elliot: I’m sure.
* * *
Wentworth: You looked like you were in pain.
* * *
Elliot: Nothing to worry about.
Elliot stared at the chat box, willing it to pop up with a new message. A continuation. Perhaps he should continue himself? Or get up and move over to Wentworth? Or . . . no, letting Wentworth dictate the pace was best.
He busied himself with the dozens of mails in his inbox—
Wentworth: Do you run marathons?
Elliot: Sorry?
Wentworth: You said you won’t be running one.
Elliot: Metaphorically. I don’t run. I swim.
Elliot felt Wentworth’s head lifting to glance at him.
Elliot: Never know when I may need to rescue a drunken admirer from a pool.
Wentworth didn’t reply. Not that he could have. Brandon entered the room and they talked music and the meanings behind each lyric, workshopping a song symbolising the death of a relationship, and Wentworth’s deep voice—the boat sails away, water the colour of tears—followed Elliot on set.
And followed him the rest of the day. And to after-work drinks without Wentworth.
Elliot kept looking at his phone, those shared messages. But he read nothing new until Saturday night.
Wentworth: I said you were welcome. Why aren’t you here?
* * *
Elliot: Look, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable in your own space.
Yet Wentworth had reached out to him. Something a person wouldn’t do if they thought they’d dodged a bullet. Elliot’s pulse ticked up as he watched the dots bounce.
Wentworth: People will ask questions if you’re not here. Louisa is already. And your ex Ginny—who is clearly still besotted with you—is curious, because apparently you’d been keen to go to Lake’s BBQ. It doesn’t cast a good light on our relationship. On top of that, a reporter is here.
* * *
Elliot: What do you want from me?
* * *
Wentworth: To be here. Can you help me out?
* * *
Elliot: Just be there?
* * *
Wentworth: And chat with me and my friends. Maintain our façade of tolerance.
* * *
Elliot: Just tolerance?
* * *
Wentworth: Friendliness, Elliot. Unless that’s too difficult for you.
* * *
Elliot: Not for me, Wentworth. I’d welcome the opportunity to be friendly with you. Even if you’re faking it.
* * *
Wentworth: I’ll see you soon.
Elliot frowned as he reread the messages. He’d hoped Wentworth’s reaching out had been a sign of development between them.
Should he go? He didn’t think a reporter would care whether or not Elliot showed up to an Ask Austen party, but it mattered to Wentworth that they act friendly, and . . . whatever excuse got them there, Elliot was glad for it.
He parked where he used to, where he’d parked the day he broke up with Wentworth, and took a few long moments to get his emotions under control. The water was calm, the late evening bright, kissing sparkles on the surface. Moored houseboats bobbed along the pier and there was Wentworth’s. The same old trawler, though perhaps recently painted, and currently adorned with his colleagues.
On board, Louisa found him first, immediately filling his hand with an orange juice. “Isn’t this amazing?”
Elliot felt like he’d gone back in time. The sense memories . . . the layout of the boat, the smell of the wood, the feel of it underfoot. He tried to remember to breathe.
Ginny sipped a cocktail at the rail a few feet from him and waved her fingers. He smiled. One step in her direction, though, and Louisa halted him. “She asked me to keep you away. She’s trying to move on.”
