Seeing inside Daisy in ‘real life’ stuns me. My breath hitches in my throat as I stand and stare. It’s as if everything has been frozen in time. The bunting on the back wall, Reeni’s red and blue striped cushions on the scruffy cream-painted benches, our rag rug which I’m guessing still hides the two broken floorboards, and the red bean bag Jackson bought me is still sitting in the far corner. The only addition is a blue corduroy dog bed, tucked under one of the benches.
Our little metal foldaway table has been set up in the middle of the hut and it has a single cream envelope sitting on it.
Jackson steps up beside me, close enough that I can smell the fabric softener on his clothes and that familiar hint of aftershave, and my heart stumbles in my chest.
‘Mum has been writing that for over a week. I offered to scribe it for her, but she insisted on doing it herself and could only manage a bit a day,’ says Milo.
I blink hard, a lump already forming in my throat.
‘What does it say?’ Jackson asks his brother, his voice gruff.
‘No idea,’ says Milo. ‘I haven’t read it.’
Jackson is still staring into the hut. I can see his chest moving under his T-shirt, his breathing quick and shallow.
‘This is where I bow out,’ says Milo patting his brother on the arm. ‘Don’t fuck it up this time, bro.’ And he raises his eyebrows at Jackson as if to hammer home the point.
As he walks past me, he squeezes me on the arm. ‘Catch you later, Ellie. Don’t be too hard on him, yeah? It’s not his fault he’s an idiot.’ And with a wink, he’s gone, leaving the two of us standing side by side in front of a hut full of memories and a letter that might just change everything.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Anxiety is spreading through me like searching tentacles worming their way to my very extremities. I can’t stand immobile and silent next to Jackson any longer and I walk into the hut, careful to not touch him. He stays hovering by the door. The letter sitting like a time bomb on the small table is addressed to Miss Ellie Pittens and Mr Jackson Meers in the same spidery handwriting as the brown A4 envelope I’m still clinging to.
I half think he’s going to leave, but he shoves his hands into his shorts pockets, his frame filling the doorway, blocking out the light.
I sit down on one of the benches. ‘Are you coming in?’
He shrugs as if he couldn’t care less, but comes in and sits opposite me. There’s an ache expanding in my chest at being so close to him again, yet so far away, and it’s impossible to ignore. I want to shake a reaction out of him instead of the cripplingindifference coming off him in waves. I roll my thighs from one side to the other to sit on my hands. My eyes flick between him and the letter and then settle on him. I’m sure he’d prefer it if I wasn’t staring at him, but I need a reaction. Anything has to be better than this stony silence.
‘How do you have a key?’ I ask. ‘Is Daisy yours?’
He won’t look at me. ‘I suppose.’
‘You suppose, or she is?’
He shifts uncomfortably on the bench. ‘Yes. The hut’s mine.’
‘How did you end up with her?’
His eyes flit to me, but then dart away. ‘She came up for sale a few years ago.’
I blink at him. ‘These things cost a fortune. Why the hell would you do that? You don’t even live around here.’
He shrugs.
I sigh, exasperated. Trying to get information out of him is like trying to get blood out of a stone.
The hut descends back into an uncomfortable silence.
I’m still trying to work out what to say when Jackson speaks. ‘We should open the letter. Do you want to or should I?’ He nods towards the table.
‘You can.’ I want to get it over with. I know Milo and Sophie think they are doing us a favour, but being so close that I could reach out and touch him when he obviously wants nothing to do with me is torture. I can’t wait to get out of here.
He picks up the envelope. It’s not sealed and is easy to open. He pulls out two sheets of writing paper filled with lines of handwritten text. His eyes scan the writing for several seconds and I expect him to read through the whole thing and then hand it over to me. He shifts on the bench and runs his hand through his hair, pushing it away from his eyes. Then he tilts his head to study me and his look lingers a beat too long before lookingdown at the page again. The noise of him clearing his throat startles me.
To my darling Ellie and Jackson.
Firstly, I really should apologise. This is something I would have always wanted to say in person, but I don’t know if I have the energy to get it right. So a letter will have to suffice.
