‘You don’t have an overnight bag.’I bury myself under a sofa cushion, emailing Jess Luc’s Instagram handle alongside a few photographs from pottery painting to post to my Story and one for the feed. Luc had the last glass from a Pinot Gris in the fridge, while I opted for a new red burgundy from the wine rack. I swill my wine around the glass.
Luc sits in his jeans and shirt, while I’ve changed out of mine for some leggings and a huge t-shirt. I’ve removed my make-up and put on one of those invisible pimple patches over a small whitehead which has started forming between my nose and my top lip. I try not to care what Luc thinks while I’m sitting in front of him like this. That pricklingfeeling over my skin when he looks at me like that, even while I look like this… I’m in dangerous territory.
He shrugs. ‘I’ll know for next time that I have to bring stuff with me.’
‘I’m really sorry about Mimi,’ I apologise. ‘She’s really dragged you into this.’
‘Sie.’ Luc puts his hand on my ankle and my body instinctively moves closer to him, heat spreading from my chest down through my back. ‘You don’t need to apologise. I’m happy to help.’
I smile and lean back, my head resting on the top edge of the sofa for a few seconds before realising I can’t drink my wine from this angle and sit back up again. I yawn, trying to silence the air escaping my body.
‘I’ve emailed Jess the photos. Are you going to post on your account tomorrow?’
Luc nods. ‘I’ll do it in the morning.’
‘A word of advice for social media,’ I start, and my eyes flutter closed. I force them open. ‘Never post a photo when you’re out. Someone always figures out your location.’ My eyes flutter closed again, and I let them stay like that, my body slipping down the sofa until my head lands on Luc’s shoulder. ‘It’s for your safety that you always post later.’
Luc laughs. ‘I don’t really use social media, but that’s good advice.’ A beat passes and then he rests his head on mine.
‘I’m really worried about my voice.’ About how it still hasn’t improved, about how the doctor could tell me in two days that I’ve damaged my vocal cords forever. And who am I without music? ‘Maybe my life is about to become a whole lot more normal,’ I sigh.
‘Let’s not worry until the doctor has given us something to worry about.’ Luc gives me that classic advice that only someone who has never lived a day with anxiety could give. The steady answer.
‘I guess if I end up not being able to go on tour, you don’t have to do this whole arrangement anymore,’ I say quietly.
‘I’ll be around for however long you let me,’ Luc whispers and kisses the top of my head. ‘Whether part of this arrangement or not.’
The alarm bells I usually need are now dulled. The wine and the normalcy of the date washes over me in a warm haze. Our faces are inches apart in the same way they were in the pottery studio, and I search his eyes, following his gaze when it brushes over my lips.
It would be so easy to fall back into old patterns. To reach up now and press my lips against his, that coffee scent and the sea breeze washing powder cloaking me in a cloud of comfort.
Will either of us be brave enough to close the gap?
‘We’re friends now, aren’t we?’ I say quietly.
‘Of course,’ he smiles. ‘I think you should go to sleep, Sienna.’
I shake the feeling, coming back to my thirty-year-old self and leaving behind the desires leftover from my early twenties. Harmful memories rising the acid in my throat.
‘Where are you going to go?’ I ask, my eyes wide. ‘There’s no bedding in the second spare room. You could take Jess’s room but I’m not sure when I last changed the bedding.’ I shake my head.
‘I’ll stay on the sofa, don’t worry about me.’
I open my mouth to protest.
‘You’re not taking the sofa,’ Luc warns. ‘Go on, go up to bed.’ A gentle push on my shoulder. ‘This sofa is bigger than my bed, I’m fine.’
I reluctantly agree, fetching him a glass of water, the shame of reverting back to my previous life drowning me. I tell him to text me if he needs anything before saying goodnight.
In bed, I close my eyes and imagine Luc doing the same thing on my sofa downstairs.
He’s so close and so far, all at the same time.
The following morning, I lean against the kitchen island, watching the comments on my Instagram photos rush in as soon as Jess has posted them. A text pops up on the top of my phone from Mauve.
MAUVE
Why lemons?
