Chapter 11

11

RAE

That’s who I track down the minute we get back to Glynn Harber, and if Luke comments about me taking off running, I don’t hear him. I’m already halfway across the car park where I pass a Land Rover suggesting that Hayden is here instead of on a tractor somewhere.

No wonder he looked tired, because here’s what else I witnessed on those tors I climbed with students every evening: Work never seems to stop in the farms bordering the moorland. Even after the sun lowered, headlights lit fields, and now that it’s almost evening, I more than half expected Hayden to already be working in one.

If that’s his plan for today, I want to see him before he leaves, and I’m the perfect person for this mission, a guided missile locked and loaded on my target. I even engage what Sol used to call my deadline tunnel vision, and today there’s an element of truth to that descriptor. I do enter a tunnel, only this one is leafy and leads from the car park to the woods, where I can see that Hayden has worked his arse off.

I pass brand-new benches built from logs and positioned for quiet moments. Handrails are also dotted wherever the ground is uneven, carved as if they grew here. There isn’t anywhere left on the way to the clearing that someone shaky can’t access, and shaking is the first thing I notice when I find him.

He’s silhouetted, his back to me, and I have a clear view of where his hammer fits on his tool belt. That loop on his hip isn’t out of reach. It’s right there, but I guess he’s been really busy with his chainsaw to fumble that simple manoeuvre.

I’m not the only person to notice. Charles takes the hammer from him, which proves that if you want something done, you should always ask a busy person. He slides that hammer into its spot just fine, even with two babies clutched to his chest. Then he passes one to Hayden, and all but shouts, “Got her?” over the sound of wailing.

I see Hayden nod.

“Fabulous,” Charles yodels. “And everything here is fabulous too. I promise you don’t have a single thing to worry about for your first session with the children.” He jiggles a second squawking baby on his hip while trying to herd his toddler, and I step forward.

“Can I help?”

They both turn, and who the fuck knows what I look like with my arms open like this or with my jaw dropping, but Charles just says, “Perfect timing,” and passes me that second baby while I can’t take my eyes off…

“You shaved.”

I won’t have to guess about Hayden’s jawline the next time I draw him. It’s right there, each sharp angle uncovered, until Hayden ducks his head, lifting it again as soon as I tell him, “Looks good.” He was the one with the shakes. Now I’m the twat who stutters. “I-I mean, you looked good anyway?—”

“After you tidied me up? I didn’t recognise myself after you did that.” He shrugs. “Looked like myself. Or closer to myself, at least.” I think this is meant to sound like a joke. “Felt like I could handle seeing even more of myself in the mirror.” He says something else that I can hardly hear over wailing—not from the baby he holds, but from my own unhappy, wriggling armful. I have to come closer to hear him repeat, “You’re out of breath, Rae. You okay?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Just wanted to catch up with you.”

The baby wails as if that’s the worst news ever. Hayden doesn’t. Here’s a repeat of the tired smile on my phone, only in real life?

He’s gorgeous.

He also says, “Pass her here so you can tell me.”

Perhaps I shouldn’t after seeing him fumble with that hammer, but he told me once that those tremors don’t last, and here’s proof—he holds out a steady hand and both babies coo once he smiles down at them.

I know the feeling. I’d coo as well if I had all of his attention focussed on me.

Charles has a different reaction. “Alleluia,” he yodels again from across the clearing. “Please, for the love of mud, share your baby-taming secret.”

“Years of practice,” Hayden murmurs. He meets my gaze, and it’s cool here where trees shade us from lowering sunlight. I still heat at this second slow smile, but that’s only fair. I’ve got a photo on my phone that Luke sent me, which I feel a correspondingly intense need to show him.

I also want to kiss him, which explains why I don’t notice that Charles has come closer until he asks, “Seriously, how did you do that, Hayden?”

“Stop them both from crying? I had plenty of practice with three sisters. Triplets,” Hayden says while the last of the afternoon’s sunbeams find him. He’s dappled with green and gold light, and so are these twins who he one-ups by admitting, “Or triplet half sisters, I suppose.” He bounces slightly and that cooing continues. “I never think of them as that.”

This quick look my way holds a hint of something. Not bruising exactly. It’s something else I don’t have a word for that deepens as he tells me, “I can’t have been much older than these cuties when we lost my mother. Dad met my stepmum a few years later, and then we were a team of three for what felt like my whole life until the IVF worked. Final round. They were about to give up. Went all out, and—” He repeats a word I’ve thought recently too. “Boom. There they were.”

“Triplets,” Charles breathes with what could be awe or horror.

“Triplets,” Hayden confirms. “The only time they were quiet was when all three of us were there to rock them. I had to learn to rock two at a time pretty quickly after Dad?—”

That smile slips.

Hayden doesn’t.

He’s rock solid, even if his next smile is smaller. “I didn’t mind doing double duty. They grew out of this stage fast.” He flashes a quick glance my way. “Now they’re almost teens, getting piled on by them for a cuddle feels like getting tackled by a whole team.”

“I bet it does.” Charles cuddles his own wriggling armful before setting his son down, who instantly legs it. Charles watches before saying, “Look what he headed straight for. He loves that you’ve left tools out here.”

Tools?

That seems like an accident waiting to happen, only Adam stops by a tree stump that Hayden must have hollowed out and that now holds a collection of sticks.

“For mark making.” Charles follows his son, grabs a stick of his own, and makes marks in a sandpit that wasn’t here on my last visit. “Of course, you’ll know how important that is. Getting to leave your mark, I mean. Communicating? Especially for children who can’t write yet? Practice doesn’t always make perfect, but it does mark progress, and I love to see it.” He repeats what I thought on the way here. “Honestly, Hayden. You won’t have to sell staying on full time to Luke. I’ve been talking about us having more outdoor learning for ages. It’s top-tier for unlocking potential, and you’ve included everything that I would have.”

Hayden can’t hide a flush under a beard now. I like seeing him this pink with pleasure. “Thanks.” He huffs out a huge breath. “And thanks for mentoring me. I seriously don’t know how you’ll find the time.”

“Oh.” Charles stops sketching in the sand. “I won’t. Find the time, I mean. Not while I have the twins. But I’ve found the perfect person for you.”

“Who?” Hayden asks, still swaying gently, and maybe he says something else to Charles. I’m deaf to conversation while picturing him on paper, only I’d draw him with his feet rooted in this woodland, the breeze adding to that oh-so gentle rocking motion. In my mind’s eye, his arms are thick branches that support a trio of wide-eyed babies.

That vision clears as soon as Hayden goes still, and I tune into Charles saying, “Yes, Mitch. From the Haven. You know, the care home on the other side of the woods? The other teachers will help when he isn’t available, but he’s who I’d choose for you any day of the week.” He points in the opposite direction to the school. “He’s already run plenty of nature sessions here for years, only for adults, but play is play, and he’s so fabulous at it. We could pop in and see him now, if you like?” he asks brightly, seemingly unaware of what I can’t ignore now I’ve seen it.

Hayden hasn’t only stopped that rhythmic swaying. He’s stopped breathing.

“You okay?” I ask quietly while Charles follows his son and crouches to dig through leaf matter with him. I dig too, only through memories of a wedding. The only Mitch I’ve met lately was at the chapel. Nice guy. Friendly. So why does Hayden look like Charles just punched him?

It has been years since I could have protected an adult but didn’t.

Almost a week since I last tried to do the same for children in boats and couldn’t.

Those boats were already close to sinking before I could wade after them.

I can’t let Hayden drown now.

“Hey, Charles?” I waggle my phone. “I need to take Hayden somewhere while it’s still light. To show him something important.”

I recognise Hayden’s next look, saw it plenty after wading out behind those boats with Reece Trelawney. Now Hayden grabs my lifeline the same way parents grabbed life vests printed with the Safe Harbour logo for their kids before the current tore between us. Today, a current of relief draws Hayden closer to me.

“Y-yeah,” he grits out. “Sorry, Charles. We have to go.”

Charles blinks. He also smiles just as easily as ever. “You’re going out together this evening? Lovely! Well, don’t let me keep you.” He takes back those content babies and gives Hayden one last piece of advice. “You’re a natural with the little ones. Just follow their lead and let them make their mark. You won’t go wrong if you do that.”

Hayden follows my lead first.

He’s one step behind me all the way to where the woods meet the car park. He grinds to a halt beside a weeping willow to scrub at his face, and with no beard left to hide what his face shows me the moment his hands drop, I have to steer him backwards, because this look?

It’s too raw to share.

A curtain of narrow branches closes around us, green leaves shielding him from view, and he says, “Thanks for the save.” This comes out on a sigh. “Just wish I didn’t need it.”

“Need what?”

“For you to make an excuse for me.” Hayden straightens his shoulders, although that looks to be a challenge. “If I will be working with Mitch, I’m not gonna be able to swerve him forever. Especially if he brings Justin with him. Might as well go find him right now and face it. It’s just…” He scrubs at his face again, nothing hidden once his hands drop.

What the fuck does he have to look ashamed about?

I’ve seen that look on him once already. Now I remember where, and a different conversation floods back.

Shame had stained his cheeks when he’d told a bride and groom about crashing and burning out of soccer stardom. No wonder he doesn’t want to repeat it with someone who sounds fixated. Because that’s what I overheard on a pew in a chapel. This Justin person has a footy scrapbook he wants to show him.

Seeing Hayden start to turn on his heel to go do just that does something to me.

I don’t have a lifeline to throw him. Hayden doesn’t need that or a life vest from me. He’s more than strong enough to wade through repeating that soccer story, only I don’t want that for him.

I really don’t.

Don’t ask me why. All I know is that I blurt, “It wasn’t an excuse. I do want to show you something.” I blurt this even faster. “For my book.”

“For your book?” His head dips. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

I’m fucking this up, which is what happens, I guess, when your life doesn’t lend itself to dating. Or when you rush into banging someone’s brains out as a one-off only to find out that you can’t stop thinking about them, even after he told me straight that anything long-term wasn’t on his agenda.

It isn’t on mine either.

I still try harder.

“I mean, yes, what I want to show you will be good for my book, but you were the first person I thought of when I saw it. I wanted to show you right away. Came looking for you the minute we got back.”

His head rises, and man, I’ve seen some epic sunsets in the last few days. This sunrise of a smile is the best yet.

I part willow branches to point at his Land Rover. “You got your keys?”

He nods while looking tired enough that I hold out a hand to take the keys for him, only Hayden takes my hand instead, and squeezes. And yeah, I’m shit at anything close to being boyfriend material, but I squeeze his hand back, because maybe Charles was right.

Practice doesn’t have to make perfect, but I do kinda love this progress.