“Come on,” Tash says. “We love gory details.”
I shake my head. “I’ve known him—what—two weeks?”
“But you like him, right?”
I can’t help smiling. “Yeah, I do. But...” I trail off, unsure as to whether my fears are even real at this stage.
Tash leans forward. “But what?”
“I’m not sure... I mean, he said the reason he and his wife broke up was because they were different people, by the end.”
“Okay...”
“And, there’s a lot about him I like, but... he wants to go traveling, and he’s just... very different to anyone I’ve dated before.”
In the past, I’ve mostly been drawn to guys who were very driven and focused and goal-oriented. That’s not to say Caleb isn’t any of those things—but it’s certainly not what would spring to mind if I were asked to describe him. Still, him not being my usual type actually feels like a good thing.
But I still can’t figure out if we’re holding back on the physical front because Caleb’s not planning to hang around. We’ve lost hours over the past couple of weeks to getting cozy on his sofa. But we’ve not taken it beyond that yet, and maybe it’s because we both know that this is something that can’t last.
“Him being different isn’t bad, though, is it?” Simon says. “I mean, those relationships ended, so—”
“Yeah, definitely. No, it’s more that... I really like him, and I don’t want to get too involved if—”
“He’s going to up and disappear?” guesses Tash.
I nod.
“You could just ask him,” Simon says, with a shrug.
“It’s early days.” I smile. “I don’t want to scare him off.”
“You want to know what I think you should do?” Tash says.
“No, what?”
“Have fun. Just go with it. Who says you have to get serious?”
I swallow, and nod. “No, I know.” But what I don’t say to either ofthem—because how can I possibly know this yet?—is that I have a feeling, deep down, that I already feel serious about Caleb.
I already know that I don’t want to let him go.
—
The next day, Caleb invites me to his place for supper. I head over to the cottage at six o’clock, my mind gently rippling with anticipation.
I already love Spyglass Cottage and its two hundred years of history, its tiny winding staircase, the bijou bathroom. Yes, it’s shabby—the paint is peeling on the window frames, the electrics are temperamental, and some of the floorboards are warping—but it’s got character, a personality. There are past lives and memories buried within its walls.
“Something smells good,” I say, after he’s let me in and I’m following him through to the kitchen.
He’s wearing faded jeans and a lightly crumpled T-shirt, his feet bare and hair fluffed up like it’s freshly washed. “Thanks, but... you should definitely reserve your judgment till you’ve tried it.”
I smile and pass him the dish containing the apple crumble I’ve knocked up, dessert being my standard dinner party gift in lieu of wine. “Ditto. So, what’s on the menu?” I peer over at the bubbling contents of the Le Creuset on top of the Aga, the pot’s orange enamel stained brown from years of use.
“Well, it started out as a veggie curry, but all my spices were out of date, so... I think we’d better just call it a stew.” His expression is halfway between a grimace and a smile. “But all the veg is from the garden, so I’m hoping you’ll give me points for that.”
I smile. “Don’t worry. My crumble was going to be a pie until I realized I can’t actually make pastry. The apples are from my sister’s tree, though.”
“I really don’t fancy our chances if the apocalypse comes, Lambert.”
