Page 41 of A Secret Escape

Lila

A fter losing ourselves in each other for what feels like hours, tangled in the sheets, our bodies humming with the aftermath of however many orgasms we’ve both had, Marcus and I finally pull ourselves from the warmth of the bed.

With no other food in the cottage other than the leftovers from breakfast, venturing out to stock up on groceries (and extra condoms!) is an unfortunate necessity.

Climbing back into the car brings with it a shadow of the fear that had been completely forgotten about in the heat of the bedroom and the shower this morning.

The fact that we hadn’t been followed overnight is comforting, but the underlying fear still lingers in the back of my mind, along with the memory of my ruined apartment.

The town is a fair bit busier than it had been early in the morning.

We drive past a church, where a stream of people files out of the front doors towards a gravel car park, the rich swell of organ music filtering in through the car windows.

The echoing tone of it brings a smile to my face, stirring a memory from what seems like a lifetime ago.

“What’s up?” Marcus asks, glancing over at me with a soft grin .

“The organ music,” I say, pointing out the window. “Reminded me of going to church when I was little.”

“Do you still go?”

“No. Dad used to take me sometimes when I was younger. But then he stopped. My grandma goes every Sunday, though I only tend to go with her for the big holiday services. But I’ve always loved the sound of the organ.”

We merge onto what appears to be the main road of the town, with shops lining the streets, cars parked along both sides and pedestrians milling about.

Marcus parks the car in an open spot and we climb out, looking around.

The air is thick, glittering as though shimmers of ice hang suspended in mid-air, but the winter sun is bright and there isn’t much wind.

I look at the selection of shops along the village street. There’s an old-school chemist, a book shop, a small boutique clothing shop, a pet shop and a café.

“Coffee?” I suggest.

“Definitely,” Marcus says, taking my hand as we head to the café.

The door closes behind us and I smile, instantly deciding I like this place.

It has an all-white decor with white wood floors, white wood tables and chairs and white walls, and it’s beautifully accented with twinkly lights and pastel bunting.

My content creator brain kicks into gear, already picturing the ways this place would make a perfect backdrop for dreamy latte shots and seasonal themed promo posts, with pops of pink for Valentine’s Day, brighter pastels for Easter, or even a beach theme in the summer. There’s so much you can do with white.

Approaching the counter, I scan the chalkboard menu on the back wall as a friendly girl in a black T-shirt and grey cap greets us.

“Hiya,” she chirps. “What can I get for you today?”

“Can I have a black Americano, and a caramel latte with oat milk?” Marcus says, and I smile, my heart doing a happy little skip inside my chest.

“That’ll be ￡6.50.”

I already had my phone ready in my hand, quickly holding it up to the reader to pay as Marcus reaches into his pocket.

“Thank you,” he says. “You didn’t have to do that. I would have got it.”

“I know, but I feel bad. You’ve already paid for the cottage and the petrol to get up here and everything. Least I can do is buy you a coffee.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I can think of a good few other things you could do,” he says teasingly, and my jaw hits the fucking floor as I turn to look at him. He has the cheekiest bloody smirk on his face that makes me smile so fucking wide, my face physically hurts.

“Here you go,” the girl behind the counter says, handing us two large cups before I can respond, and I can’t help but notice her gaze is fixed firmly on Marcus, her teeth ever so slightly tugging at her lower lip in a smile.

I grin, more than happy to comply with those terms of payment, and cross one leg tightly over the other as we sit down at one of the tables.

I lift the cup to my mouth, but the motion halts mid-air. My fingers go numb, heart seizing as something outside the window catches my eye. Across the street, a black car with tinted windows sits parked – silent and still. I’m almost certain it wasn’t there when we parked a minute ago .

I stare at it for a long moment before shaking my head, telling myself I’m being paranoid. There’s no one in it, and I’m pretty sure it’s a different make of car than the one I’d seen following me before.

Don’t be ridiculous, I tell myself. If they had followed us, they would have come to the house last night. Lots of people have a black car with tinted windows.

“You alright?” Marcus asks.

I nod, shifting my attention back to him.

“Yea, sorry,” I say. “So, what about you? Do you go to church?”

“I have, now and then,” he says with a small shrug. “My parents weren’t particularly religious. Though I have always liked the idea of having faith in something bigger than myself.”

I smile at him, completely mesmerised. I love the way he speaks. It’s like everything he says is poetic in some way.

And I’ve noticed his tone has softened around me. He seems more relaxed, more comfortable, more himself, without the authoritative voice he uses at work that sends a chill down my spine every freaking time. But here, with me, his voice is like warm caramel - it’s safe, it’s comfortable. It’s right.

“To be honest, the library was a sort of church for me, in a way. I basically grew up there. I would spend entire days reading everything I could when I was a kid.”

A slight giggle escapes me as I picture a child version of Marcus cooped up in the library all day. For some reason, I can’t picture him as anything other than what he looks like now – tall, strong, handsome. Perfect.

His mouth widens into that charming grin that makes my cheeks instantly flush red, blushing as though I’m just a schoolgirl with a silly crush .

“I bet that makes me sound so old, right? Reading in a library,” he jokes.

“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything,” I tease him as his laugh fills the air.

It seems hard to believe, but I don’t feel the age difference between us at all. I guess he must be in his forties, and yet when I’m with him, it feels like I’m with one of my closest friends.

But I also realise that my heart is completely jumping to conclusions and that this is the first chance we’ve had in all the time we’ve been together since the actual date at the restaurant to properly talk, and there is so much I want to know.

“What about you?” he asks, his voice bringing my focus back to the present.

“Me?”

“Yea. What did you like to do as a kid?”

“I don’t know,” I say, thinking out loud. “I guess, just normal, kid things. I had a lot of Barbies, and, oh, I did do a lot of drawing.”

“Yea?” His eyebrows raise up with curiosity.

“Not anything of any real talent,” I quickly clarify, “but yea, I like to draw.”

“I see.” He smiles, taking a sip of his coffee.

A silence falls between us for a moment as I will myself not to look out the window again.

“What about relationships?” he asks, and my eyes jump to his, wide with surprise.

Where is he going with this?

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I told you about mine the other night, it’s only fair you tell me about yours,” he says casually. “Any great love in your life? ”

I briefly wonder if he actually wants to know, or if he’s just asking because I asked him first.

“No,” I say. “Not really.”

I don’t dare admit that I think the greatest love of my life is potentially sitting right across from me.

“What about…uh… what’s his name…?” he asks, his tone shifting.

A shiver runs down my spine, the question reminding me of the reason we’re in this situation in the first place.

My eyes drift nervously to the window. The black car is still there.

“Chris,” I whisper, not wanting to say it too loud in case it manifests him in some ghostly way.

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Did you love him?”

My eyes snap back to his. There’s a cold edge to his voice – something restrained and sharp, like he’s bracing for an answer he doesn’t want to hear. But there’s something softer there too. Sadness, maybe regret. I search his eyes, trying to see past the mask, to figure out what he’s thinking.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Maybe I thought I did when I was younger, but I didn’t know any better back then.”

I hesitate, not sure if I should tell him more, but when he doesn’t respond, I decide to continue.

“When I was in school, he… had a reputation for being the one you went to if… you wanted to… buy… stuff.” I hesitate, watching Marcus’s expression.

Admitting this to him is one of the biggest things I was afraid of, and I’ve barely had a day to think about it.

During the drive here, I’d rehearsed in my head how I would tell him when it eventually came up, and in every version, he looked at me like I was damaged.

Like I was someone he could never want. And the thought of him looking at me like that absolutely destroys me.

From what little I know about him, he seems to be really clean-cut, someone who always does things the right way. And people like that – they usually have a clear line when it comes to drugs. I keep thinking that once he’s heard what I used to be like, he’ll see me differently.

But his expression remains open, watching me, listening, his eyes soft and caring – so I continue.

“After my dad died, I was in a real bad place, so, I found him. We started hanging out, smoking together at first, and it sort of grew from there. I think he felt bad for me, but it was nice to just feel as though someone was on my side, you know? It was like… any attention felt like safety, like I wasn’t alone in a world that was completely falling apart.

He helped me get through Year 11. I mean, I don’t know if I would have dropped out or what, but, just… having someone… helped me keep coming to school.