Page 23 of I Know How This Ends

I make my incredibly earnest, boring apology.

While the video is being uploaded—to a slightly mollified public response—Polly takes to my inbox to deal with sponsors, brands,

advertisers. When I ask if there’s anything else I can do to help, she looks faintly surprised: why would there be? That’s

her job.

Except it was my job, and now I don’t know what else to do.

At a total loss—I haven’t had spare time in over half a year—I hit Google. I’ve been ringing my grandfather regularly, just to check in, but he essentially told me—as

gently as possible—to get a life. (“I’m fine , Margot. Surely you have better things to do than call me every seven minutes.”) So I leave the poor man alone and start on

The Plan instead: booking a cleaner and a delivery of food thrice-weekly, along with a variety of gadgets for the visually

impaired. When that’s all done, I leave a short, guilty voicemail for my parents, apologizing for not calling them (again).

I order flowers for Eve to cheer her up, sent directly to her school, and a large bar of chocolate for Jules so she doesn’t

feel left out.

I buy a few random cushions, to match Polly’s loaned painting.

Finally—feeling lighter than I have in months—I don my stripes, sort out my hair and make-up and try to suppress what I now realize is fast becoming a bit of a crush on Henry.

It feels as though it’s come out of nowhere: a giddy sensation, much like I had on James Bollard in Year Ten.

One I’m going to have to hide as vigilantly as possible, because I’m not sure that I’ve had random visions of us in the future and it’s making me fancy you like crazy is completely suitable for this stage of our relationship.

“You look lovely,” Polly says as I lurk by the clock on the wall, watching the minutes count down. “Going somewhere nice?”

She’s packing up her stuff: folders, children, all impeccably neat.

I stare at her for a few seconds.

“I don’t know,” I admit, still processing this question. Months of controlling, analyzing, collecting, examining. Months of

knowing everything. “Henry hasn’t told me.”

I don’t know where I’m going, or what’s going to happen, or what the plan is.

I don’t know anything.

And I have to be honest—it feels absolutely amazing.

Henry is waiting for me on the bench on Brandon Hill. He doesn’t see me approaching from behind, so I take the opportunity

to assess him again. He’s wearing black jeans and a different coat—large, gray, almost army-like—and his hair is almost entirely

silver from the back, like a wolf. His shoes are old neon trainers, battered, wrong for his outfit. They’re shoes that Margot

of the Seventeen Dates would probably judge, immediately. Do I really like him? Are these simply fabricated endorphins, created

by visions I shouldn’t have actually had? Have I been tricked by the future? Shouldn’t I be starting from the beginning of

love: chronologically, the way everyone else does?

As I walk toward him, I note that Henry’s hands are resting on his thighs, and every few seconds he wipes them almost imperceptibly.

He sits up a little straighter and tilts his chin upward, preparing himself for my arrival in the opposite direction.

I see him take a few deep, conscious breaths.

Just like in the restaurant, there’s such a sweetness to his nervousness.

It doesn’t seem to fit him properly—he seems so confident, so assured—but these flashes of anxiety, of disquiet, are beautiful to me.

Delicate, vulnerable, raw. Human. Weirdly sexy as hell.

Then I step on a twig: it snaps, he turns, his face lights up.

I feel mine light up straight back.

Fuck.

Yes. I do, one hundred percent, have a big crush on this man.

“Sneaking up on me, huh?” Henry is very clearly trying not to grin too hard. “Good thing I wasn’t picking my nose.”

I laugh. “Is this where you come to do that?”

“Yup.” He meets my gaze briefly and then grins at the floor again. “This is my nose-picking bench, Margot. Each bench in this

park is allocated to a different disgusting habit. Just be glad we didn’t meet on the one down by the small pond.”

He stands up to kiss my cheek just as I try to sit down next to him.

We bump into each other and laugh again.

“We’re not staying here,” Henry explains quickly, grabbing a large bag. “I just wanted to kind of... undo the other night.

The stomping and so on. I thought we could rewrite that memory, in this place.”

“Consider it rewritten,” I say quickly. “Nose-picking bench it now is.”

“Well, that backfired horribly,” Henry grins. We can’t seem to stop smiling at each other, like two people with a secret.

“I’m not sure if this was the right thing to do, but I brought you a little something.”

As we begin walking down the hill, he reaches into his pocket and I feel a tiny twist of fear: Aaron and his extravagant gifts .

What did Jules say, repeatedly? Beware the Love-Bombing, Margot.

But did I listen? No, I did not. I took the romance—the flowers and the jewelry—and I twirled with it in a giddy circle, like

Rose and Jack downstairs in the Titanic , unaware the ship was about to sink and one of us was going to drown.

Bewildered, I stare at the small blue glass ball Henry’s holding out.

“Wow,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve been offered a marble by a human male over the age of seven before.”

Henry, I realize with another bolt of affection, is a massive dork.

“It’s a reject.” He smiles with a small wrinkle of his nose. “Wrong color, apparently. Not purple. And look...” He points

at the little swirl of white inside it, looking inordinately proud of himself. “It looks a bit like a cloud, doesn’t it? I

thought you might like that. Kind of... weathery.”

I take the marble and hold it up to the light. I’m pretty sure it was supposed to be a white flower—it’s just not particularly

well executed—but if Henry says it’s weather, then weather it shall be.

“Lenticular.” I peer at it. “Altocumulus lenticularis, to be specific. It’s a cloud caused by mountain waves in the air, and

it looks like a saucer. A lot of people think that’s where many UFO sightings come from.”

“All my hopes and dreams of aliens shattered in one go,” he says with a sigh. “Thanks very much, Margot.”

I wink at him. “Consider this just the beginning.”

We both laugh, Henry’s wide shoulder grazing my upper arm. I’m still quite a lot taller than him—a good three inches, even

in flats—but suddenly I’m not sure why I ever cared. Why was it on my list in the first place? Do I really need to see up

a man’s nostrils to find him attractive? Can’t he just look up mine for a change?

All I know is that the second we touched, I felt... something.

I’m just not sure what .

“So.” Henry’s voice is light, but there’s a slightly ridged texture to it: an undercurrent of anxiety, like a thin thread

of silver in the sky. “I know you wanted all that jazz , but I also didn’t want to give you too much jazz. More of a three-piece, rather than an orchestra. It’s a very fine tightrope to walk, knowing almost nothing about you.”

I glance at Henry’s face and feel a sudden swell of pity for him.

This is what happens when you constantly blow up at random for no apparent reason: everyone around you starts acting like they’re playing Statues.

One wrong move and boom— they’re out. Then you wonder why they’re all edging their way across the room, staring at you with wide, terrified eyes.

“I’m not sure orchestras play jazz,” I point out in amusement.

“Valid objection.” Henry looks at me more carefully. “What I mean is—just say the word and I’ll rein it in. I don’t want you

to feel overwhelmed, that’s all. You’ve been through quite enough this past year already.”

I abruptly stop walking and put my hand gently on his arm.

This man is amazing. He lost his wife five years ago, he hasn’t dated since, yet all his focus now is on making sure that I feel comfortable. No wonder Other Margot adores him: she clearly has great taste in men. Much better than this Margot has

had historically.

I feel weirdly grateful to her: Well chosen, girl.

I mean, fully grown woman.

“Henry,” I say quietly, “I am very happy to be here, whatever it is we’re doing.”

He visibly relaxes. “Excellent. Because I may have screwed up again.”

Around the corner, I can now hear faint music and a lot of people laughing and shushing and whispering, “They’re coming.” It’s dark now, and there’s a glow of light coming from behind a rather large bush.

“Did you throw me an enormous surprise First Date party?” I ask. “Is everyone I know going to jump out of a cake?”

“Not quite.” Henry laughs. “It’s just... well, Frank had tickets, but Mary’s back is too bad, so I grabbed them this morning.

I thought it was... fitting.”

As we turn the corner, I see hundreds of fairy lights strung everywhere, and people sitting on blankets on the grass, angled toward a small empty stage in the center.

Henry swings his large backpack off his shoulder, pulls out a purple blanket with pink hearts on it and a couple of mismatched glasses.

It is sweetly, earnestly disorganized, and I feel another wave of warmth toward him.

With an elaborate flourish, Henry flicks the blanket onto the ground and gestures.

“Your seat, madam. I borrowed this too. Obviously.”

“Lies. It’s your favorite blanket and you know it.” Laughing, I take my position on the ground. “What are we watching?”

“Your surname is Wayward, right?” Henry plonks down next to me and pulls a dusty bottle of Prosecco out of his bag, along

with what are clearly the remains of last night’s restaurant shift: cold lasagna, some mozzarella and tomatoes, slightly stale

garlic bread. “So...”

I stare at him blankly. “So...”

There’s the sound of a trumpet, the music dies down and floodlights hit the stage. From behind us, through the crowds, tiptoe

three women in long velvet cloaks, hunched and claw-handed.