‘Maybe,’ I lie, willing away the image of her tear-streaked face. It hurts to even picture it.
The slight lift of his left eyebrow tells me he’s not buying it.
‘Ok, no,’ I grumble, and he nods.
‘That’s what I thought.’
He grabs the cue out of my hands and strides back towards the rack, slotting it into place.
‘You know, sacrifice is your love language,’ he says, turning back to face me. His fingers splay on the table, pale against the dark green felt.
I look at him, confused. Sacrifice is mywhatnow?
‘Shut up,’ he says, even though I definitely didn’t say anything aloud. ‘I’ve been on TikTok. How do you think your average ancient being keeps up with the youths these days?’
I shrug. I’m not sure what’s happening.
Elias points an accusatory finger at me. ‘You’ve given up so much for the people you love. And it’s nice, man. I’m not saying it’s not. But it can be too much sometimes. You’re not a saint, so don’t be a martyr.’
My instinct is to tell him he’s wrong, but is he? I’ve certainly sacrificed a lot over the years. From my chance of success with the band to, well, mylife. I’ve done what I thought was best for the people that I love.
Was it too much?
Elias’s hand lands on my shoulder. ‘You’re a good guy, Bram. But it’s ok to be a little selfish sometimes. What doyouwant?’
Lucy, my mind whispers, but it’s not that simple. I’m hoping like hell she comes back. Of course I am. But I need to know that she’s in. I need to know that she’s sure.
‘Don’t let Lucy become just another thing you give up,’ Elias says when I don’t answer. ‘Because if you’re going to be like this for the next few hundred years, I’m gonna stakemyselfin the heart.’
I smile despite myself. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Ok, good.’ He claps me firmly on the shoulder before walking off towards the door. ‘Now come on,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘Let’s go annoy the others with how good I look after two hours’ sleep on this pool table.’
Chapter Thirty-One
LUCY
‘Come in.’
My heart is in my throat as I push through the toughened glass door to Jon’s office. It’s the first time I’ve been into work since my weekend in Whitby, and even though it’s only Wednesday morning, it feels like a lifetime since then. Other than the couple of hours I spent debriefing at Mina’s on Monday evening, I’ve been holed up in my flat since, writing my article.
And crying. There’s been a lot of that too.
It came back in flashes: his leather jacket hung by the door; his tall frame perched at my breakfast bar; the window he kissed me by. Even my bed still held his scent. I had to wash my bedding twice before I felt like I couldn’t smell him anymore. And with every flash came a fresh wave of tears.
After a while, I welcomed them. It felt like I should be crying– like I’d lost something significant. Like I was somewhere other than where I was supposed to be. Don’t get me wrong, I love my flat. It’s always felt like home to me– bright and warm and safe. But now it feels different. Incomplete.
I think it’s going to take a while for that feeling to go away.
Still, despite battling through my first ever bout of real heartbreak, I finished the article, and it was everything I hoped it would be. It was quirky and joyous– a real celebration of Whitby’s unique charm and the events, businesses and people who make that up. So whatever comments Jon has on it, I feel certain I can bat them away.
I’m ready.
‘Fluff,’ he says, as I pull out a chair opposite him and smooth out my skirt as I sit. ‘It’s good to see you.’
I force a smile and hope it looks genuine. ‘Good morning,’ I say. I can’t quite manage to reciprocate his greeting. Honestly, it isn’t good to see him, and I haven’t got the strength to lie.
‘Well, let’s get right to it.’ He drops something in front of me– a few sheets of A4 stapled together. It takes me a while to realise that it’s my article, pictures and all. It’s a bit odd that he printed it out– we always deal with digital files these days– but I don’t think too much about it. Then he speaks.