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I shrug. ‘Not sure.’ I consider and add, ‘I think I’ve convinced myself that reading is a waste of time. That it’s unproductive. For a while I couldn’t concentrate. I just wasn’t feeling it. I struggled to absorb myself in a book, so in the end I just… gave up.’
I scrolled through so many Bookstagram posts about the latest hot releases, and I felt so behind in the book world. Most novels I wanted to read have already been gushed over, so I’d be stupid to read them now.
Chase stares at me for a long, silent moment. And then he says, softly, ‘Maybe you just haven’t found the right book.’
I snort. ‘Since when are you a literary expert?’
He doesn’t look at me, but a faint blush reddens his cheeks. ‘I like to read at night. I used to read to make myself sleepy, but now I do it for pleasure.’
I can’t help but gape.
He smiles, noting my stupefied expression. ‘I know, I know. Who’d believe a good-looking guy like me reads romance novels?’ He stuffs his hands in his pockets and cranes his neck to look at the stars on my ceiling. ‘Believe me, Frankie Fart Fringe, I had no intention of loving books as much as I do, but there was this one book that just…’ He shakes his head. ‘That made me feel. It made me want to fall in love. And for the life of me, even though I hated myself for loving it, I couldn’t put it down. Mad world.’
I find my voice enough to say, ‘What’s it called? The book.’
He hesitates. I roll my eyes. ‘Is it the crabby-patty formula? A secret recipe for your nan’s legendary muesli bites?’
He flashes a vibrant grin, the morning sun gilding his hair. ‘Great Expectations,’ he says at last, as if I’d wrenched the words from him. ‘I know it’s weird—‘
‘It’s not.’ He goes still as the words hang between us. ‘It’s not weird. Anything you love doing is worth doing.’
Something pulls taut between us. He just stares at me with that same open vulnerability I’d seen when we sat on that tree trunk and he looked down at the shot of ustogether. Like a thousand words flash through his mind but he can’t grasp a single one of them.
I don’t know why my heart thunders. I feel like I’m on the precipice of a glass tower, and one wrong move will send it splintering and crashing down. This moment, with him… It feels so fragile. So delicate.
I wonder what words he hesitates on. What pops into his head and is discarded. At last, he settles on, ‘Do you want to borrow it?’
And it’s such a normal question I feel myself deflate with relief. ‘I can just buy—‘
‘I won’t be rereading it anytime soon. I’ll drop it round later tonight when I come to work on your dad’s car.’
I start. ‘You’ve had a tiring weekend, Chase. I really don’t think my dad expects you to—‘
But he shakes his head before I finish. ‘I want to. I’ve enjoyed working on it. It’s a bitch, but it’ll be rewarding, in the end, when I polish her up and watch her gleam on that field.’
And I can tell from the passion in his voice that he’s not lying.
‘I should be heading off,’ he says, but makes no move to leave.
‘Don’t you want one of your minging coffees before going? It’s an eight-hour trip there and back.’
Since Archer decided to abandon the group, it left little room in Chase’s Audi. Cassie, Demi, and Greg are in the car outside. Chase will drive them home before going back to the Peak District to collect Brian and Dave.
We stand there, saying nothing, not surewhatto say. After this weekend, something’s altered between us. I don’t know what, exactly, but I suddenly feel at ease around him. Like I can say anything, do anything, and he won’t shy away from it. He’s seen me in my ugliest state when I woke up in his tent—one lash hanging down my cheek by a strip of glue, my eyes puffy with sleep, prints marking my face from the zip of the sleeping bag, my hair a crazy, disarrayed mess. I bet he thought I was a swamp witch—I certainly smelled like it—and yet I didn’t care what I looked like in his presence. He didn’t make a deal out of it, or comment on anything, and I still felt as pretty as I did the night before with a face full of makeup in a green mini dress I’d borrowed from Cassie.
I shove my hands into the pocket of my hoodie. ‘Thank you,’ I say quietly. ‘For this weekend. For not leaving me when those guys…’ I fumble over the words, but his darkening expression shows his understanding. ‘And for bringing me home. Despite what happened, I had fun with you, Chase.’
I hold still as he closes the distance between us. His cologne wraps around me, and thenhewraps around me, his arms tightening around my shoulders and pulling me close. I close my eyes, because this is everything and nothing, too much and not enough, too close yet too far away—all at once.
His chest is solid and warm beneath my cheek. He presses a kiss to my hair, and murmurs against my head, ‘I’ve had fun with you, too. You made me forget about my temptations. So, thankyou, Frankie. For being you.’
He pulls away and leaves, but I’m too confused by his words to say anything.
It’s not until I hear his car purr down my street that I realise:You made me forget about my temptations.
I’m trying,he said the morning after Archer’s party, when I pointed out that smoking weed isn’t any better than doing hard drugs. And I realise belatedly that he’s been sober, all weekend.
He hasn’t smoked at all. Hasn’t touched a single drink—which is a given. But he hasn’t smoked. Not even a joint.
