Page 54 of Tribute Act

I gave a short laugh. “You needn’t worry, I don’t think this is going anywhere.”

She looked relieved. “It’s not serious then?”

“Not on his part.”

My feelings about that must’ve shown, because her face fell. “Oh, love,” she said, eyes soft with sympathy. “Maybe he just can’t tell you how he feels?”

I shook my head. “He’s planning on heading off. Soon. Once he goes, I reckon it’ll be the last any of us see of him.” My voice broke a little on the last part, and she reached for me, hugging me hard.

“Have you told him how you feel?” she whispered into my ear, and I shook my head weakly.

She pushed back from me, hands on my upper arms, gaze searching mine. “You should tell him,” she said. “I think he’s more like his dad than he’d ever want to admit. He’s aching to be loved, that boy. And you’re so lucky—you got so much love growing up, from me and your dad and your nanny and grandad. And from Derek and Rosie. That gives you a core of strength, you know.”

Chest aching, I admitted the painful truth: “I don’t think he feels the same way.”

“I don’t believe that,” she said fiercely. “But even if he doesn’t, if you let him go without saying anything, you’ll regret it one day. I know it’s hard to face the possibility of rejection, and I know you find it hard to tell people what you want sometimes, love.” She let me go but her gaze was still intent on mine. “But if you don’t do that—don’t speak up—you might find your chance is gone.”

When I got back up to the flat, Mack had his jacket on and his guitar case in hand.

“I’m going to the pub,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “I told Don I’d pop down today to chat through the playlist.”

Tonight was Mack’s debut—and maybe only—gig at the Sea Bell.

“It’s only half eleven.” Did I sound desperate? More casually, I added, “Will they even be open yet?”

Mack shrugged. “Don asked me to come before the lunchtime rush.”

Yeah, I bet he did, I thought, remembering the guy’s hand on Mack’s biceps in the café and his ready smile.

Mack brushed past me on his way to the door, and I considered stopping him, asking him to wait a minute.

I need to tell you something.

In the end, though, I bottled it. If I was going to tell him how I felt, I needed to think about what I was going to say.

“I’ll see you later then,” I said instead.

“Yeah, later.”

After he left, I stood there, in the middle of the living room, wondering if I’d made a mistake. If I should’ve grasped the nettle, right then. But it was too late for that now.

I showered and changed out of my running gear, made coffee, pottered round the flat. I was waiting for Mack to come back, turning over what I might say to him in my mind. Except he didn’t come back.

It was nearly five when he texted me:

Eating dinner at pub. C u at gig later. M

Less than a minute later, my phone pinged again:

If ur coming that is. U don’t have to. M

I read those texts about ten times before I finally texted him back:

Of course I’m coming. Idiot. N x

Once I’d sent it, I started fretting that he didn’t actually want me there. A couple of minutes later, I got back:

Ok. I’m on at 9.