Before I could spiral into the place where the worst of my memories lurked, a splash sounded from the bathroom. Moving with inhuman speed, I raced across my bedroom.
‘Are you alright?’ I called through the door. I wanted to storm in, but it had been impossible to miss the guy’s discomfort as I’d undressed him. I’d do anything to avoid him cringing away from me again.
‘Oh, yeah. Absolutely fine. I certainly did not fall asleep. Totally did not disregard your sensible warning and almost drown myself.’
I blinked at the barrage of words. They were tinged with an accent I’d last heard when two men from a pub in North London came to the island to investigate the brewery before stocking our whisky.
Maybe he was talking so much because he was nervous. I pressed my forehead into the door. I never wanted anyone to be scared of me.
‘I’m going to get out. Do you mind if I use the towels in here?’
‘That’s fine.’ I closed my eyes. Soon, everything in my home would smell like this man. Hopefully I’d develop immunity to his scent by then. ‘I’ll bring your bags through to the bedroom.’
I listened in to what was happening in the bathroom as I walked to the living room and grabbed his suitcase and backpack. This man might not be comfortable undressing around me, but I’d endure his embarrassment if that meant he wouldn’t hurt himself.
But he extracted himself from the bath without incident, groaning as he wrapped my towels around his body.
I laid his bags on the bed, but paused before leaving my bedroom. Or, his bedroom for the duration of his stay. I’d relegate myself to the sofa.
I didn’t want to be caught listening or have to resist drawing close to him when he emerged from the bathroom, but there was something important I needed to know.
‘What’s your name?’ I called.
‘Aster.’ A laugh joined the rustling of towels in the bathroom. ‘Yeah, I know. Not an actual name. Or, at least not a people one. I’ll give you my dad’s number so you can make a complaint to the appropriate person.’
‘Aster,’ I whispered. It was ridiculous to like the shape of it on my tongue.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Callum.’ I snapped from rolling his name in circles around my mind.
The door handle creaked, and I shot from the room. Wincing when the bedroom door slammed behind me, I hurried over to the kitchen. I grabbed a Tupperwarefilled with leftover stew from the fridge and lit up the gas hob.
The gravy bubbled and the spoon clanged against the pan, but nothing could drag my attention from the soft sounds Aster made as he opened his suitcase and dressed. If his speed was any indication, then the bath hadn’t eradicated the muscle-deep ache from the cold.
I shook out my arm. A bit stiff, but if I could distract him then I would draw more of his pain away. I couldn’t do it as effectively as Bonnie, but it would give him some relief.
‘Is that a goat?’ Aster asked as he opened the bedroom door.
I glanced over my shoulder. ‘Yes.’ In my haste to get Aster warm as soon as possible, I must not have securely closed the cabin door.
‘Oh, alright then.’ I didn’t look as Aster walked over to the rug before the fire. ‘Hello there, little friend.’ Behind me, I heard his knees hit the rug. ‘Hey, does he have a name?’
I sidestepped to the cupboard to grab bowls. ‘No.’
The goat was a wild animal. They didn’t have names. Apparently, Aster disagreed.
He hummed. ‘You look like an old man, so you need an old man name. George?’
The bowls fell from my hands and smashed on the flagstones. I stared at the broken shards of pottery, my brain juddering. Dark images threatened to flood me. Long-suppressed shouts echoed in my ears.
Aster leapt up and knelt on the sofa. He looked over the back at me. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ I choked out. Mentally shaking the past away, I tore my gaze from the ruined bowls. ‘Not that name.’
Aster blinked, like he didn’t quite follow. He’d changedinto a worn jumper with blue and green stripes and a pair of soft-looking pyjama bottoms patterned with a cartoon character. More than ever, I wanted to press into him, to let his ever-changing scent sweep me away from the haunting memories.
‘You don’t like the name George?’
