Instead, though, I find myself stumbling yet again, the ankle of the foot that got trapped between the cobblestones buckling under me, and almost tripping me up for a second time.
Shit. This is the last thing I need when I’m trying to pull off a suitably dramatic exit.
“Holly, wait.”
Before I can figure out what to do, Elliot’s beside me, his arm around my waist this time, a whiff of the cologne he always used to wear sending me whizzing back through the years, like some kind of lovelorn time-traveler.
“Is it your ankle?” he asks, apparently oblivious to the cocktail of conflicting emotions that’s making me feel dizzy. “Can you stand on it?”
“Yup,” I reply brightly, almost shrieking in pain when I put my weight on my foot to test this theory. “I’ll be absolutely fine. You can let me go now.”
I look pointedly down at his arm, and he springs back as if he’s been stung. I immediately wobble dangerously on my one reliable leg, like an Edwardian lady having an attack of the vapors. Or a very drunk person.
No, this isdefinitelynot how I pictured our first meeting going.
Elliot looks at me doubtfully.
“Look,” he says, after what appears to be a short but spirited internal tussle. “I’ll just help you into the shop. We’re almost there, anyway. I can’t leave you like this.”
He looks over my shoulder, to where the light above the door is illuminating the Hart Books sign just across the square. The shop itself, though, is in darkness; everyone’s gone home for the night, and now a new problem has just occurred to me.
“I don’t live above the shop anymore,” I tell him, wishing briefly that I did; it would be much easier to hobble across the square on one leg than to make it all the way to the cottage, on the very outskirts of the village.
“You don’t?” His tone is surprised, and a tiny jolt of indignation joins the other ingredients of my emotion cocktail.
“No, Elliot,” I reply shortly. “I haven’t lived there for years. Dad doesn’t, either. Did you seriously think nothing would’ve changed since you were last here? That I’d still be living with my dad and working in a shop, while you were off being a famous author, and … whatever else you’ve been doing. I wouldn’t know, obviously. You didn’t exactly stay in touch.”
“No. No, of course I didn’t think everything would be the same,” he’s saying now, a small crease of annoyance appearing between his lowered brows. “Of course I didn’t.”
He doesn’t bother trying to explain what hedidthink, though. Or if he even thought about meat all. Instead, he just stands there, as if he doesn’t know what to do next.
Well, I guess that makes two of us.
“Holly?”
Another voice suddenly breaks the strained silence that’s fallen between me and Elliot, and I look up to see my ex-boyfriend — myotherex-boyfriend, I mean — Martin comingtowards us through the crowd, clutching a particularly large churro he’s just bought from one of the food trucks.
I’ve never been so pleased to see him in my life.
“Everything okay here?” Martin asks, stopping next to me, and looking at Elliot with suspicion. “Oh.” His face falls as he recognizes the man beside me. “It’s you.”
Elliot and I both visibly flinch at this casual use ofthatline. Martin, however, appears to be completely unaware of the significance of what he’s just said. I’m sure he’s heard the line — it’s too ingrained in popular culture at this point for himnotto have heard it. But, then again, Martin takes great pride in being one of the few people in Bramblebury never to have read or watchedThe Snow Globe. It’s like a badge of honor for him; and one of the main reasons I finally agreed to go out with him, after years of turning him down. (The fact that not likingThe Snow Globeis the most interesting thing about him, meanwhile, is one of the main reasons we broke up…)
Elliot nods stiffly in Martin’s direction, in a manner that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s recognized him or not. To be fair, Martin has gained some weight and lost some hair since they last met; plus, there’s a thin crust of sugar around his lips from the churro he’s been eating. But his sandy hair and affable expression are unchanged, so I’m certain he must know he’s face-to-face with his onetime rival.
I’m just not sure he cares.
“Um, Elliot was just leaving,” I say, somehow managing to resist adding the wordshe’s good at that,even though I desperately want to. “Martin, I don’t suppose you’d walk me home, would you? I’ve hurt my ankle.”
I hold it aloft to show him, regretting this morning’s decision to wear the high-heeled leather boots which looked fabulous in the mirror, but which just seem frivolous and silly now they’ve quite literally been my downfall. You can’t evenseemy ankle underneath them, obviously, but Martin makes some appropriately concerned noises, before straightening up and offering me his arm, which is reassuringly steady. Leaning on it feels a bit like pulling on a favorite old sweater, and makes me feel briefly guilty for having spent the last few weeks desperately trying to avoid him.
He might not be the most exciting man I’ve ever dated, but at least he’s always been there when I needed him. And he’s never tried to write a book about me, either.
There’s that, too.
“Come on,” he says, clearly relishing the opportunity to take charge of a situation. Martin is very good at taking charge of situations.. “Let’s get you home. I left the car parked just around the corner. You know that place on Morrison Street? It was the closest I could get it; I can’t believe how many people turned out to see the lights.”
I squeeze his arm gently to get him to stop talking; the difficulty of finding a parking space in Bramblebury at Christmas time is one of Martin’s favorite topics, and once he gets started on it, we could be here all night.
