I still don’t like red, though these days, it reminds me of Lily-Anne’s dress more than it does of anything else.
And she deserves to be courted properly.
My ostentatious choice of red roses also gives me no room to retreat should I get cold feet. It’s a little insurance against any last-minute lapses in courage, from a presently optimistic Yours Truly.
There’s a strange lift in my chest as I walk home with the paper-wrapped bouquet in hand, a giddy elation I haven’t felt in years. Not until she entered my life.
It isn’t just her laughter I’ll miss, or the sound of her guitar drifting down from the upstairs flat.
It’s her. Here, with me.
Over the summer, she’s become more than a houseguest, and the thought of her simply vanishing from my life as though she were only ever passing through is almost intolerable. I don’t want her to go.
I think of our near-kiss by the harbour when we stood toe to toe, our fingers brushing as we held my hat, a low pulse thudding beneath my ribs. If only I hadn’t broken the moment.
The memory unsettles me now, but it does something else too—it strengthens my resolve. Whatever comes next, I won’t regret what I’m about to do.
I catch myself walking faster.
I can picture it too easily: coffee shared in the mornings, her voice carrying from the next room, clothes tangled in the wash. Her legs tangled with mine as she sleeps, my arm around her through the hush of night. Fantasies I’ve given life to even as I deny them.
I turn onto my street, the cottage coming into view.
We’ll be departing for Whitstable Castle soon, but there’s no great hurry. I’ll steal a private moment with her before the day begins.
Hope and dread rise in equal measure, driving me forward, each step thrumming with the risk of it; with the thrill of what might be.
I’m nearly at the cottage when doubt catches up.
Could someone like me, a reclusive oyster farmer with an unremarkable life, make her happy? Without even trying to, she’s mademeimmeasurably happy in a way I never expected. She’s slipped into the rhythm of my days, and I’ve moved to match hers.
Not changing. Just syncing.
I tighten my grip on the flowers, pulse surging beneath my skin.
No rehearsed speech, no grand gesture. Only the truth I’ve kept secret for too long.
Resolve blazes through me like fire as I stride up the path to the front door, the cellophane wrapping rustling in my arms.
I can’t contain it any longer.
My feet tap up the steps. Keys jangle. A shaky breath.
I’ll admit it to her—and I’ll finally admit it to myself.
Because when I’m with her…
The lock clicks.
It’s almost like being—
The door swings open. Light spills into the hall.
Not quite like being…
But it’s almost like being…
Hopelessly…
