“Isn’t that karma? The idea that your luck is influenced by your good and bad decisions in the past?”
We made our way to the table. Outside it was already dark—theevenings are drawing in now, and we’d closed the curtains on the long windows that line one side of the stables, to keep it cozy.
“I guess I like to think I’m not just the decisions I’ve made. That maybe even when I was making bad ones, I was still a good person.”
One of the things I love about talking to Jones is that he never sidesteps or tries to laugh things off. He absorbs what I’m saying and really thinks about it, every time, no matter what it is.
“I wish I had your faith in yourself.”
This took me aback. He saw my expression.
“I know you say you don’t know who you are these days. But you do believe you’re a good person,” he said.
“I guess…I do. Actually. Deep down. I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and my brain does annoying stuff that I hate, but I think generally, my intentions are kind.”
I watched how this landed with him.
“Your intentions,” he repeated.
“Right. I mean, whatisgood and bad? Everyone has different ideas of it, don’t they?” I shrugged, reaching for a paratha, hot from the frying pan. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. I spend a huge amount of time trying to work out what other people think of what I’ve said and done, but really, that’s not a sensible way to work out if those things are ‘good’ or ‘bad,’ because you’d never get the same answer. Galoshes thinks I did the wrong thing suggesting Toby run the farm shop solo on the morning when we were helping out on the farm; Toby’s mum thinks I did the right thing.”
“You definitely did the right thing.”
“Well, that’s your opinion, too, but thanks. What I’m saying is, I know my intentions were to help Toby see his potential, and push him—gently—into building his confidence. My intentions were kind. I won’t get everything right, obviously, and if it had gone wrong I’dhave felt really sorry about it, but I wouldn’t think that decision made me a bad person.”
After a long silence, Jones turned his face away.
“Are you OK?” I asked.
He wiped his eyes.
“Oh, God, sorry—did I make youcry?”
He shook his head and then, laughing at himself, nodded. And I just fuckingmelted. This man. I never knew it could be sexy to see a guy cry, but it was. Something about the combination of hard muscle and the way he turned his face away, the vulnerability in someone so strong…It made me want to crawl into his lap and hold him, get closer, get as close as can be.
“I just needed to hear that,” he said hoarsely. “Thank you. It made me feel…”
“Sad, apparently,” I said, pointing to his tears. Trying to break the tension. Anything to stop me reaching for him.
“No,” he said. “It made me feel like I could let something go.”
Jones and I have both very pointedly left our pasts in the past. That’s fine when you’re being rivals, or frenemies, or coworkers, or even friends, which I think is where we’ve got to, now. And it’s fine in a crush, too—I fancy Jones, but I don’t need to know what he was like when he was growing up.
But as he scrubbed the tears from his cheeks, I realized Ireallywanted to know what he needed to let go. I wanted to knoweverything. Past, present, future.
And that…that’s a major worry.
From:Charlie Jones
To:Charlie Jones
Subject:Day forty-seven sober
Acknowledging the Charlie obsession has not helped with the Charlie obsession.
She’s in the bath right now. “I’m just going to chill and read,” she said, drifting by with a paperback, and then she undressed on the other side of the door and slipped into the water with a long, soft sigh.
We won’t live together, soon. Whatever happens, come October 6th, one of us will move out—if we’re both staying, it’ll be easy to find accommodation elsewhere by then, with tourist season ending. A bit of space between us should be a good thing. It’ll help with the obsession, surely. But it doesn’t feel like a good thing.
