I made coffee, willing the machine to be quiet so it didn’t wake her. Oats, protein yoghurt, fruit, a smoothie that Seph had made which was mainly greens and tasted rank.
I wanted to go into her, wake her up and confess how she made my heart beat, how being with her, whether it was by the Thames or in Africa, was home.
The words weren’t there.
There was a fine line between telling the truth and decanting feelings so fast the other person drowned. Telling her how I felt was maybe too much too soon, but if I didn’t I worried I’d risk her thinking what I felt and wanted was superficial.
I sat down at the table with my coffee and tablet and opened my email.
FROM:[email protected]
RE: No rush
DATE: 29 June
Wren,
Read this when you’re ready. It’s an information dump and you might not want to know. I hope it’s good; I hope it’s what you want to hear, but in case it’s not, I’m sorry.
You’re currently sleeping in my bed, your arms tucked around the pillow and I’m hoping that you’re dreaming of me. I think that I once dreamed of you, before I met you maybe. This lost boy who needed a Wendy.
Eleven years ago, you were right to walk away because you weren’t ready for me and the baggage I had. Eleven years ago, I had no idea what baggage I was actually carrying just that it was there and I had it.
I’m not saying I’m any further on now. No one can ever abandon our childhood demons because they become our friends, the bad influences, the ones we talk to when we don’t want to take responsibility. But I know what’s inside that baggage now. I’ve started to unload it and I can look at the contents because what’s in there won’t change me. And I don’t need you to carry that shit because you have your own.
Things make more sense now. You make more sense. You’re the girl in the lecture hall who became my friend, the girl who I knew better than I knew myself. You’re now the woman who makes the world seem colourful even when there’s a monsoon outside, the stars shine brighter because they make you smile. I could carry on but you’re probably laughing at me at the moment – hopefully not running away – and words aren’t my strong point.
You make me a better person. You make me want to live more.
I love you.
I’ve never said those words to anyone.
I’m sorry if that makes you feel pressured and it shouldn’t. If you don’t feel the same, things will still be okay. As long as you’re happy.
I love you.
One day I’ll say them out loud.
If you want me to.
I love you,
Callum.
Wren
Ihadn’t read the email. It sat in my inbox and felt rather like a spot that you knew was there but it wasn’t ready to be squeezed. I tried to forget about it, concentrating instead on the farm, stables and what felt like two dozen outbuildings that Callum was buying.
This was no longer a dream; it was fast becoming a reality. The farmhouse was huge and old, needing a lot done to make it anywhere near the same standard as his apartment in Southwark. The acreage was huge, room enough for paddocks, a ménage, training facilities and multiple stables. There was a building at the far side that could be used as a vets’ practice and planning permission would be granted. It sat three miles from Oxford, five miles from his parents’ house and it was beyond my wildest dreams.
“Four stables have said they’re happy to sign a contract. Rehabilitation, general health, emergencies.” Grant Callaghan was wearing wellington boots as despite it being June, the rain was torrential. “Both practices in town are open to being bought but you’d need to retain one of the premises for general vet stuff.” He was recapping what he’d already told us, having gone through Callum’s business plan earlier.
“What do you think?” Callum turned to me. “Of the house?”
I should be having a word with myself. This was at least the next two years of my life. A Master’s degree, carried out while setting up here, working with a range of animals. A few trips to Marrakesh with Callum which we’d discussed last night after two other vets he knew confirmed they’d been interested in sabbaticals with us.
