“I wouldn’t mind going outside,” I admit. “But maybe the patio so I can sit?”
“Good idea. There’s a bit of sun today. We could read, if you like?”
My heart gives a small flutter. “I’d like that.”
It’s chilly in the garden, but a large patch of sunlight hits the old wicker chairs. Brandon helps me outside with the crutches before ducking back in to fetch the book. Mum appears next, wordlessly arranging cushions and a blanket. Ellenor follows with tea and snacks, leaning in to whisper, “Working that damsel-in-distress angle, huh?”
I feel a bit embarrassed as I sit uselessly in my chair, wrapped in my cardigan and blankets with my foot propped on a stool. My passing whim has somehow turned into an expedition everyone has to rally around.
At least Brandon doesn’t mention my fall. I’m silently grateful for that.
And I’m glad to be outside. The fresh air carries the scent of damp soil, and the autumn leaves have turned gold around us. Scattered light drifts over the grass, and I settle back as Brandon reads to me.
His voice is as smooth and rich as ever, loosening the tightness in mychest. I think he knew without asking that I wasn’t in the mood to read.
I peek over at him. He’s still wearing his work clothes—sans overalls. I kind of dig the socks and sandals.
***
The days slip by in a gentle rhythm. I’m getting more confident moving around the house, managing the crutches with fewer close calls. Mum and Ellenor coax me into board games at the kitchen table, and sometimes I even forget I’m meant to be convalescing.
Little ideas for songs drift through my mind at all hours of the day. They’re not quite melodies yet, more the faint urge tomakesomething again. It’s nothing concrete, but the sheer desire sparks a little thrill. It’s proof that music hasn’t left me; that there’ll still be something waiting for me when all of this is over.
Most of all, I look forward to my afternoons with Brandon. The timing shifts with the tide, and sometimes the weather forces us indoors by the heater, but he never misses a session. I never ask if there’s something else he’d rather be doing; I’m starting to realise he enjoys our reading hours just as much as I do.
On the seventh day since I came home, we’re sitting in the garden, soaking up the last rays of the sun.
“I think this chapter has bloodstains on it,” he observes, holding up the book to show me the splattered pages.
“Oh, those are from Ellenor,” I say. “She always eats Coco Pops when she reads.”
“Is that like Cocoa Krispies?”
I stare at him, scandalised. “YouhaveCoco Pops in Britain!”
He squints. “Do we? I spent some time in the States. I think it’s the same thing.”
I shake my head in mock disappointment. “Look at how they’ve turned you.”
He inspects the book, voice dry. “Yes, it’s the…writing on the wall, I’m afraid.”
I snort, because I’ve just noticed the chapter titleiscalledThe Writing on the Wall.
He starts reading, and we fall into the story together, page after page. At some point, I edge a little closer, and—maybe it’s just foolish, wishful thinking—but his knee seems to drift towards mine.
A few minutes later, the sun disappears beneath a cloud, I draw my cardigan closer, and it seems only logical to shift just that tiniest bit closer. Enough that our knees almost touch. Enough to feel the warmth of him like a secret I won’t admit.
When the chapter ends, our knees finally touch. His or mine, I’m not sure, but the contact sends a small, startled jolt through me.
“I’ll read the next one,” I say quickly, tucking my good leg beneath me and wishing I could do the same with the one in the cast. I clear my throat, feeling my face warm. “The Rogue Bludger.”
I begin strong, but then I remember what happens next, and my voice wavers.
When Harry falls from his broom, plummeting towards the ground, I tense, the book pages creasing beneath my thumbnails as wind rushes past me. I try to shake the feeling, but I stumble mid-sentence, and suddenly I’m no longer on a Quidditch pitch. I’m somewhere equally dark and wet, the sky splitting open as I fall, spiralling, my bones cracking like lightning on impact.
The slipway flashes in my mind as a dull ache throbs in my foot.
I force myself to keep reading, but my chest is tight, the words strained as air becomes scarce.
