Page 25 of I Know How This Ends

The stage empties, but we stay where we are.

It feels effortless, and it slowly dawns on me that it never really has before. With Aaron, I always had to try . I tried so hard, I didn’t even realize how much effort I was making until it slowly wore me out. Or perhaps wore me down:

smoothing the edges of who I was like water over rocks, until I only realized I’d become a different shape when I finally

emerged, totally unrecognizable.

Henry is witty, erudite, sharp—all attractive qualities, big tick—but it’s his kindness I am blown away by. Compassion seeps from him: not in labored anecdotes about what a “hero” he is, but in the way he grins

when I get excited about a cloud and subtly pulls the blanket over my toes when it gets cold and asks questions he can’t possibly

want the answer to (why, yes, the first thermometer was designed by Santorio, thank you for checking). His brown eyes soften when I talk about my grandfather; they shine like light

bulbs when he talks about Winter.

And as night falls and we keep talking, I realize I’m not studying Henry’s face for subtle shifts—the tightening of a jaw

muscle, a dark flicker in the eyes. Signs I grew so used to reading because they signaled danger. One wrong word and the ground

would rumble: Aaron’s mood would shift, and everything would tilt with it.

With Henry, the world is still and calm but slightly giddy.

Admittedly I’m also pretty tipsy now, but for that I’m blaming the Prosecco.

“Damn.” Henry glances at his watch. “It’s nearly eleven.”

I look around in surprise: the park is dark and cool, and we’ve now been sitting on the ground for four hours.

“You need to go?” I sound tangibly disappointed. “Already?”

“It’s the last train back to Bath in half an hour, so I really need to get to the station.” He grins at me. “Logistics only,

and no shade at all on your company, which is delightful.”

I grin back and glance down, cheeks glowing with pleasure.

“I could...” don’t be too keen, don’t be too keen “...walk you to the station? You know, like I offered to last time?”

“Ah, before I stomped off like a hormonal teenager.” Henry grimaces. “That would be lovely and extremely gentlewomanly of

you. Thank you, Margot.”

His formality is so sweet, a little archaic: Jimmy Stewart vibes.

Beaming, I help tidy up. It’s embarrassing how eager I am to squeeze out my time with him. I feel like a small kid who knows

it’s way past bedtime but is attempting to quietly disappear between the sofa cushions so that nobody notices.

We start wandering back toward the lights of the city.

“You’re working this weekend?” I can’t figure out why I’m not slightly out of breath, and then I realize it’s because Henry

isn’t walking three paces ahead of me, rolling his eyes, pointedly urging me to catch up. “At the restaurant?”

“Tomorrow night.” He nods. “My parents have Winnie. They adopted a new puppy and I suspect she’ll be putting in an application

to move in permanently. She spends enough time there as it is. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without them. You?”

I think briefly about the sheer mess I’ve made of my career.

“Actually,” I admit, slightly evasively, “I think I’ll be taking some time off.”

“You run an Instagram account, right?” When I look questioningly at him—I’ve deliberately avoided this topic—Henry laughs. “I’m just basing this information off what Fireman Henry was yelling in the restaurant.”

“Ah.” I nod. “Yes. It’s...” I take a deep breath and decide to tell the humiliating truth. “I was happy where I was, at

the Met Office, but... I couldn’t stay. Not after everything. Exeter is too small, Aaron still works in the same building,

and I couldn’t risk running into him daily. Lily has a very successful Instagram account, and... some dark, obsessive part

of me felt a need to compete with her. How humiliating is that?”

“It sounds pretty human to me,” Henry says calmly.

“That’s only the start of it.” I feel a sudden need to unburden myself, as if I’m testing fate: prodding at it, to see if

it buckles. “I have a fake online profile, and I’ve been leaving comments. Nice ones, but still. I’m a nearly forty-year-old

woman, trolling my ex–best friend with compliments under the guise of a squirrel.”

Henry laughs. “It’s not working, Margot.”

“What’s not working?”

“Trying to put me off you. We all do weird shit when nobody’s looking. For instance, I’m a bit of a hypochondriac.”

I grin at him in surprise. “Aren’t you, like, a doctor-in-waiting?”

“That’s the problem. Every time I read about a rare condition in a textbook, I convince myself I have it. Last year, I spent

half an hour absolutely positive I had acquired methemoglobinemia because I’d woken up short of breath, with a blue tint to

my hands and chocolate-colored blood on the bedsheets. I was so certain, I panic-ordered a blood count kit so I could test

myself in the living room.”

“And it wasn’t, I’m assuming?”

“No, Margot. I did not have methemoglobinemia. I finally looked in the mirror and realized Winter had decorated me with blue

face paints while I was asleep. And the chocolate-colored blood? Chocolate. She’d been eating Christmas pennies next to me

while watching cartoons. And leaning on my chest.”

I laugh loudly. Under the streetlamps, his face radiates with pride.

“You won’t be laughing when I’m convinced a shaving rash is shingles.” Henry grimaces. “I’m a grown man who checks his own

temperature every night, just in case he has sudden-onset hyperthyroidism.”

I feel another wave of warmth toward him. Is it really so surprising that a man whose young wife abruptly died is a little

vigilant about health conditions? I feel a strange flicker of surprise. And is it totally irrational and crazy that a woman whose fiancé ran off with her best friend on the night before her wedding is a little hung

up on (OK, obsessed with) both of them for a bit while she processes the situation? I think that’s the first time I’ve given

myself some compassion for the way I’ve reacted. Somehow, Henry’s kindness is making me be kinder to myself too. His total

lack of judgment toward everyone is making me judge myself less as well.

I stop walking: we’ve reached the train station without me noticing.

Damn it. That was way too fast.

“So...” I awkwardly stick my hands in my jacket pockets and realize the marble is in there, cold and reassuring. I roll

it around between my fingers. “I’ve had a really nice night, Henry. Thank you so much.”

When what I mean is: kiss me. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me .

“I have too.” He takes a step forward, then pauses awkwardly. “Shall we do it again? At some point? Maybe next week?”

“Yes.” I feel punctured: next week is too long. “I’d love that. Or...”

I open my mouth, shut it again, frown. Fuck it.

“You know, there’s a walking path along the railway line. From Bristol to Bath. It’s about twelve miles. I looked it up. When

I was... casually researching local routes.”

Henry lifts his eyebrows. “Twelve miles? That’s about three hours to walk.”

“Just over three hours.” I nod. “Which would take us to... past two a.m. I’ve actually been meaning to stay more active. You know, get the blood pumping.”

He laughs. “Pumping blood is good. Important. Living-wise.”

“This is purely an opportunity for some impulsive exercise,” I say as we both start beaming at each other conspiratorially.

“That’s all. Just a casual midnight stroll to improve my cardio levels and get my steps up.”

“Well.” Henry pretends to think about it. “As a doctor-in-training, I think that sounds extremely sensible. Necessary, even.

For your health.”

I laugh. “So, shall we do it? You don’t think I’m being too keen?”

“I think you’re being embarrassingly keen.” Henry holds his hand out and smiles. “And I absolutely bloody love it. Let’s go.”

Henry and I walk all the way to Bath.

Holding hands the whole way, we stroll along the dark railway line, chatting the entire time. I find out that he comes from

a town just outside Manchester—hence the delicious accent—and that he has an English degree and worked as a teacher until

his early thirties.

“Fifteen years of medical training just seemed way too long when I was younger,” he explained. “Too much of my life to invest.

Then I turned round one day and realized I was the age I would have been if I’d just done what I really loved in the first

place. Time was going to happen with or without my input, so I might as well spend it wisely.”

Just like that: as if he understands the answer to a question the rest of us don’t even know how to ask.

“And you wouldn’t go back to teaching, just temporarily?”

Henry shakes his head. “I can’t risk giving myself an alternative route in case I get stuck in it by accident.”

Every layer of Henry just makes him more extraordinary. I want to know everything about him: what food he likes, what makes him laugh, what sets his world on fire, what makes him anxious, and it feels like I’ll never run out of questions to ask.

And Henry wants to know all about me: about my unplaceable accent (a strange hybrid of Bristolian and Australian), my relationship

with my grandfather and how I feel now my parents live so far away, about Eve’s baby journey and the articles Jules writes

and the way my friends feel part of me in some integral way, like organs.

By the time we arrive in Bath, Henry feels like somebody I have always known.

Somebody I will always want to know.

But mainly what I feel is gratitude to my visions, for forcing me to give Henry a chance. Because if that’s all they’ve done,

I’ll take it. If they don’t come true? It’s still enough. I can take it from here, Universe. Signs acknowledged, I’ve got

it.

“So.” Henry stops outside a regal, decaying period property. “This is me.”

“You’re very old,” I observe, looking up. “With extremely big windows and ornate moldings.”