Chapter 12

12

My phone pings good and early the next morning, and I’ve never grabbed it faster or been happier to read a one-word message.

Reece: Hungry?

I don’t need a thesaurus for this answer.

Jack: Starving.

I am. Only not for Coco Pops or for a green and lumpy smoothie. I’ve woken hungry for someone who made me feel like Christmas came early and then let me choose my own present.

I’m not talking about us getting naked.

He made himself bare first, didn’t he, in a store full of toys and baubles.

Now that I think about it, he’s been busy showing me who he is for way longer than this sole working week together. He’s done it for years, every morning, and he did it last night too by giving me choices outside this bedroom. I guess that’s because someone crowded me once. Reece isn’t that person, so I didn’t take him up on his offer to sleep in Pat’s room or to go back to Rex’s. We spent the whole night sharing my pillow, and I slept like a fucking baby.

Now I can’t wait to see him.

If there’s a world record for rolling out of bed in a hurry, I break it, and so what if I brush my teeth even faster, and bypass my comb and hair gel. I can get neat and tidy later. Right now, the only firm hold I want is from the man I find reading his brother’s affirmations in my kitchen.

Reece turns to see me in the doorway, and something inside me rises, so maybe Patrick wasn’t wrong to chalk you can fly on that blackboard. Even if his you get to choose your own direction was optimistic, it’s Patrick who I mention while I’m still in the doorway. “You really asked your brother if I was seeing anyone?”

Reece sounds extra Cornish this morning. His voice is a reminder of seawater shushing against pebbles. “I needed to know, and Pat’s incapable of lying. I just forgot that he also doesn’t do nuance.” His smile turns sheepish, and that, coupled with his arms opening, is a hell of a way to start my morning.

I have myself a warm and cosy cuddle that comes with another gravelly confession. “Couldn’t stop thinking I’d missed my chance, so I asked him again in September.” He lets me go to chalk an affirmation of his own to the board.

omg hurry tf up why r u so slow

I snort. “That’s really what Patrick told you?”

“Came from Pat’s phone. Pretty sure he didn’t write it. Or this.” He chalks again.

Fuck no. I was saving Jack for my great big bi reveal. Keep your hands off.

“Calum.”

It isn’t every day I start off with a cuddle and a cackle, but I’m not complaining. I also don’t complain when our elbows knock during a shared breakfast.

I’m the one who pushed my stool too close to his, but right now, too close and Reece don’t fit in the same sentence. Maybe that’s what comes from all the space he offered last night. I do manage to form a question around a mouthful of toast. “You really think they’d be okay with?—”

“What we did last night?” Reece swivels to face me, no avoiding this warm eye contact. “I’m not about to tell those nosy fuckers the details, but I do know they love you.” He studies me so closely that I wonder if I dribbled in my sleep, and he noticed.

ha ha ? —

“They’re right to,” he murmurs. “Last night meant so much to me.”

I nod. It did to me as well, only he doesn’t mean what we did together as tree lights flickered and we were naked. I guess he’s talking about sharing a childhood worry with me that only angels witnessed. He’s quiet all over again now, with no one but me to hear another bittersweet confession.

“The best part of my work is when kids share their worries, you know? The ones they hide because they’ve seen their family hurting and don’t want to be the cause of more. I had no idea I’d…”

“Slid a worry of your own away in a desk drawer?”

“Exactly. It’s wild what brains hang onto, isn’t it? I could buy Mum any tree ornament under the sun and she’d love it.” He huffs gently. “You wouldn’t believe how many of my kids believe they’re to blame for their family situations. That warfare didn’t blow up their lives. They did somehow.”

I should be getting ready for work. Nudging this drawer further open for him feels more important. “Go on. I’m listening.”

Reece sips tea before saying, “Those little-kid beliefs turn into shadows that get darker each time they feel like they can’t mention what upsets them.” His gaze drifts to the blackboard. “To start with, letting in light can hurt. Can make you blink. Covering your eyes to protect them makes sense, right?”

I nod. There’s plenty I haven’t wanted to examine under a spotlight lately.

“That’s textbook avoidance. You know what the sun can actually do to shadows when it’s at its highest?” He demonstrates by closing a gap between his thumb and forefinger. “It can shrink them. Doesn’t matter how it happens. Whether you play those shadows away or draw them. Or whether you play a game of see-word-say-feeling. That’s how life stories can get rewritten.”

I nod as if I know that.

I also squirm on my stool and rub away goose bumps which shouldn’t rise when I’m sitting this close to a Trelawney-shaped radiator, but I shiver again when he adds this.

“I should have done some of that with Mum much sooner.” Here’s a soft snort, which is more forgiving than dismissive. It’s wild how easily he does that—how he lets go and doesn’t blame his past self for not being perfect. He even chuckles.

“I tucked two bad Christmases away somewhere dark where no one else could see them. Kinda explains why this time of year always makes me uneasy.” He rubs away goose bumps of his own. “And it explains how come I always hesitate before walking through my own family’s front door each December. And why I can’t stop hearing a mental clock ticking towards Friday evening.”

His family celebration.

I blurt, “Patrick will be there. And Sebastian.”

I won’t be. I’ll be busy telling Arthur that I’m leaving.

Christ, I don’t want to.

He keeps going so softly I have to listen. “I don’t need protecting, Jack. Anyone who loves me enough to decorate my old bedroom with more tinsel than could fill a whole castle isn’t someone to be scared of. I’m only worried about hurting her feelings by asking her not to.” Even his frown is gentle. “But me protecting her by saying nothing isn’t helping. Something needs to break that pattern.”

He touches my phone on the table, and maybe I should feel heat climb when the lock screen shows that pic of us together. The only warmth I feel this morning comes from my chest the moment he says, “But I’m going to remember how much better I felt sharing that with you, and that’s what I want for her. To let it go, because loving people means you want the best for them, yeah?”

I nod slowly at first, then faster.

He nods back. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to that conversation, but it’s what I’ll do this weekend. I just need to think of a way to get it started.”

I don’t expect his next question.

“Your gran doesn’t get out much, right?” Before I can answer, he adds. “You said she won’t, not that she physically can’t. Grief does that to people sometimes. Feels like an actual barrier to life continuing.” He lifts his hand from my phone to touch the centre of my chest, fingertips pressing where my heart hammers. “You’ve been showing her light and sparkle she’s been missing for years. Been her window into the world, Jack. Maybe think about whether that’s only keeping a different drawer closed with both of you stuck inside it.”

That’s a lot to process this early on a Thursday morning.

Perhaps he sees so.

Reece changes the subject. At least that’s what I assume when he says, “I checked our schedule for today. You booked in another reunion for me while you prep for your interview?”

I take another bite of toast rather than admit I want that NYC spot so little it might as well be coal from Santa.

He must guess. His gaze drifts to the top of the blackboard where Patrick must have added a last-minute title to his affirmations before leaving for Cornwall.

Remember These At Your Meeting.

Reece meets my eyes next, and I almost do feel braver than I believe when he murmurs, “You’re an incredible person. A powerhouse of a PA. A gift to the foundation and to your family. You listened to my worries, Jack. Just know that I’d listen to yours if…”

A clock wasn’t ticking.

More than toast clogs my throat, so I settle for nodding again.

I do the same later after Reece leaves for another reunion that seemed like a last gift I could give him, and who cares if anyone on the Tube sees me jerking my head this firmly—London isn’t only life, it’s also anonymous, so no one looks twice.

I do have to take a second look when I get to Kensington where a neat and tidy PA doesn’t stare back from the entranceway mirror. It reflects someone as windswept as if I’d manned a lifeboat. Someone as determined as every Heligan looking out from portraits in the study where I revisit our planning template instead of doing any interview preparation.

Reece told me I let in light for him, so you better believe I’ll leave him set up for success.

Without me.

I power through making this template foolproof, and if my tongue gets busy making another attempt to reach my nose, fuck anyone who pokes fun or takes issue with my concentration. This is more important, and by the time my phone pings, I haven’t only planned a party, I’ve outlined the bones of a strategy to stagger events over twelve months instead of making each Christmas stressful for someone who isn’t fond of tinsel.

My phone pings again, twice in quick succession, and I break off, smiling at the thought of Reece sending me message after message.

That sunshine dims when I see who has actually contacted me from an unknown number.

Got some headshots of Timothy Smallbone for you, Jack Frost. How about you come get them? Now you’ve loosened up a little, you can finally pay back my investment in you.

Thank fuck the fierce version of me still has the wheel and is steering. He makes me stab a terse fuck no, then unprofessionally block Lito’s number.

Very satisfying.

I can’t block who sent the next pair of messages.

I never would. They’ve been sent with nothing but love on behalf of someone as fragile as Reece treated that bauble he’d cradled.

Mum: This year’s photos have been such a tonic, love.

Mum: Now she can’t wait for next Christmas!

I shove my phone deep in my pocket. More than that, I leave work before it’s even lunchtime, and if that breaks a rule in the PA handbook, I might as well rip out the page and shred it.

Can’t wait for next Christmas?

I’m not ready for this one to be over.

I could message Reece to let him know I’m on my way to gate-crash his reunion. I even pull out my phone when I’m on the Tube, only that lock-screen selfie stops me.

Reece smiles out.

I don’t.

My lock screen shows me making heart-eyes at him the same way I saw in a photo of Reece taken across a breakfast table in a castle.

He told me he regretted not making his move after that meal. Valentin got between us down in Cornwall. Lito Dixon did for a while here in London, if only in my head. Now New York looms, and I…

Don’t want it.

That truth spins in circles all the way to Hackney. So does the revolving door letting me into a library building where I roam the children’s section, looking for someone I’m not ready to say goodbye to yet.

Yet?

I won’t be any closer on Friday morning.

Reece isn’t in any of the areas with child-height shelves and seating. I can’t hear him either, which I should be able to if he’s still here telling stories.

Shit.

I missed him.

I pull out my phone to send a where are you message, hoping against hope that we haven’t passed each other, because that countdown clock he mentioned?

It ticks even louder for me.

I can’t stand the thought of missing any more of his too-brief visit, and that’s what I need to tell him.

“Can I help you?”

I whip around to see someone a Kensington mirror already showed me—this young librarian is just as fierce and protective as me, and I guess I don’t blame his suspicion. I’m even less neat and tidy now than when I got to work this morning, and prowling this children’s section can’t have done me any first-impression favours.

“I- I’m looking for someone.” I dodge a toddler to approach him. “Reece Trelawney, from the Safe Harbour Foundation? He should be here for a storytelling session, but I can’t find him.”

He glances at another area of the library where blinds block the view into glass-walled meeting rooms. There’s no way to see inside them, and something also shutters in this librarian’s eyes when I head in that direction. He steps between me and gets even fiercer. “Stop. I can’t let just anyone in. Anyway, they don’t have long left.”

I don’t imagine many people want to gate-crash a refugee reunion, but I spy the title assistant written below Isaac on this mistrustful librarian’s name badge, so I get it. I share the same job title, which involves guarding time as well as people. “It’s okay. I’m with him.” I fish out my phone to prove I work for the foundation and that I made this booking.

This assistant doesn’t look. He still blocks my way, his chin lifting. “Anyone could say that. I can’t let anyone interrupt. Especially after Mr. Trelawney got here late.”

Late?

He left in plenty of time.

The librarian isn’t finished. “He only has another half hour booked. These kids…” His fierceness melts. “They don’t ask for much, or get it. Let them have the rest of their story, yeah?” Isaac’s gaze lands on my phone, and his whole demeanour changes. “Oh. You meant you’re with him. Sorry.” He’s wistful when he adds, “Nice pic.”

He means on my lock screen.

It is. I could look at it for even longer, but Isaac holds a finger to his lips and inches a door open for me to enter.

Reece doesn’t notice. He can’t with his back to me while curled in a ball.

One of the foundation kids tries to shove him over, and it takes a moment to see why—a translator holds open a storybook so all the children can see an image of a little boy trying to hold back a huge boulder. Whoever drew that kid conveyed real effort. And fear, which the translator interprets before repeating herself in English. “Can he hold back something that heavy all by himself?”

These most recent arrivals have already picked up enough English to answer.

“No!”

I didn’t have this on my Christmas wish list, but getting to witness kids working together to shove Reece over so he ends up flat on his back and laughing now tops it. My phone is still in my hand, so I take a photo, and that’s when he sees me.

Reece smiles, and fuck Lito for ever suggesting I was frosty. Thawing is so easy for the right man for me.

That assistant librarian must also notice. Isaac whispers, “How long have you two been together?”

“Me and Reece?”

I should say less than a week.

This doesn’t feel like lying.

“Three years this Christmas.”

He’s wistful again. “And you still look at him like that?”

I almost confess to stretching the truth about our daily texting, but Isaac points to a whiteboard where emotions are listed, his finger aimed at a word Reece must have written.

After less than a week of working together, I know his handwriting. And after thirty-six months of practice, I can say this with zero hesitation.

See word, say feeling, right?

“Loving him is really easy.”