Page 153 of Pretty Mess

He shoots me a glance before focusing back on the curve of the road. “I didn’t always think so. Now it’s up for debate.”

He clicks the indicator and takes a left onto a drive. It’s so narrow that I could touch the walls on either side, and the trees form a leafy green canopy above us. I look on with interest as he pulls up outside a small, detached cottage. It looks a bit like a child’s drawing of a fairytale cottage.

“Is this where we’re staying?” He nods. “It’s lovely,” I say.

“It’s made of brick and flint like many of the houses around here.”

“Have you rented it for the weekend?”

“I own it.”

I smile. “Of course you do,” I say, shaking my head in mock despair and hearing his chuckle.

He switches off the engine and turns to me, and I swallow as the silence stretches between us, filled with birdsong and curiously heavy with meaning. “This is the first thing I bought when I returned to England. This is where I can be most me.”

I lick my lips, loving the way he can’t seem to help watching them. “And why am I here?”

“Because I find myself wanting to be me with you.”

“Why?”

He considers me for a long few seconds and then runs one of his long fingers down my face. The touch seems to trace fire over my skin. “Because you’re never intimidated by me. You go toe to toe with me over anything.”

“Not in the bedroom,” I whisper.

His smile turns affectionate. “Ah, but what we do in bed isn’t the sum of our lives.”

“It has been so far.”

“Has it?” he asks with a mocking edge that seems to be directed at himself. “All I know is that you’re the only person who seems to really see me, and I want to let you in.” We stare at each other, and nerves fill his face. “Is that okay? I’m so sorry. Maybe I’ve misjudged this and?—”

I put my hand over his mouth. One eyebrow rises rather dangerously, and I can’t stop my grin. It feels like it’s taking over my face. This is everything I wanted, and the happiness must be radiating out of me because he suddenly relaxes.

“I would like that very much,” I say solemnly.

I stand by the window, looking down onto a wild little garden, but the attraction here isn’t the grass and wildflowers. It’s the sea beyond. Mac’s house is literally on the edge of a beach, and the roar of the surf is loud in the room.

I look around. The room is small but charming, with whitewashed brick walls, a cast iron bed, and an old wardrobe that looks like it was last pressed into service as an entry to Narnia. Nevertheless, it has the expensive simplicity that Mac favours. Undoubtedly, he sought out these furnishings, and the effect is precisely what he wanted. However, it bears all the signs of previous occupation. There are clothes in the wardrobe and books in a pile on the bedside table. The clothes smell like him, and I wonder if this is his room. If it is, he’s definitely not staying in here on this trip.

He led me here and told me to unpack, and then he left, saying he needed to unpack, too. The realisation that we aren’t sharing a room is a bit mindboggling, even though we’ve never done that before.

Maybe it’s because of my graduation day but everything feels shiny and new to me right now. I actually feel hopeful for the first time in ages. Maybe in this new-to-us space I can build something different with Mac. A friendship perhaps. But god, my heart wantssomuch more.

As if I’ve conjured Mac up by my thoughts a door opens downstairs, and I look out of the window to see him walk into the garden. He’s changed, and my eyes eat him up in his jeans and light navy jumper. The jeans are old, faded in places, and cling to his long legs and narrow hips like they were made for him. The sweater shows off his broad shoulders, and his hair is messy from the wind.

He paces down to the edge of the garden, hands in pockets, and rocking back on his heels slightly, he stares out over the beach. Something tells me that he always does this when he’s here.

As if sensing my thoughts, he turns suddenly, and his eyes catch mine. We look seriously at each other for a few seconds, and then his smile appears—the one that tugs out a very unexpected dimple—and he gestures to me to join him.

And suddenly, I’ve had enough of this room and the thoughts that have been going around in my head like a hamster on a wheel since I met him. Waving at him, I turn and grab my hoodie from the bed and make my way out of the room and downstairs.

I look around curiously as I go because Mac whisked me straight upstairs when we got here, and I didn’t get a chance to see the place.

It’s definitely not a show home. It’s light and bright with colourful artwork hanging on the stone walls. Old rugs line thewooden plank flooring, and books are everywhere—on shelves lining the stairs and landing and filling one lounge wall. I stop and peek in. Another wall is filled with shelves of vinyl and CDs and a very expensive-looking stereo system. A large sectional sofa is positioned in front of an inglenook fireplace housing a log burner and a big basket of logs, and a newspaper lies open on the coffee table.

I hesitate in the hallway, not sure where to go, and then spy a door at the end of the narrow corridor. Opening it, I find myself in a small kitchen with honey-coloured wooden units and a door that leads onto the garden.

I step out onto the patio. It’s twilight now, and the first stars are appearing in the lavender-coloured sky. The sea roars in the background and the wind has got up. I lick my lips and taste the salt.