“I’ll tell him,” Bo promised, blushing scarlet, even though she was a bundle of nerves at the thought. “I’ll tell him today,” she decided. “After work.”
“Good,” Ida replied. “And remember what I said: if he doesn’t think you’re good enough for him, he’s not worth breaking your heart over.”
* * *
She tried calling Willa on her way home, but Willa’s phone rang out and out, until it went to voicemail. Bo was no idiot; she knew Willa screened her calls, and she knew Willa was deliberately ignoring her. Sitting on a bench by the heath, Bo took a deep breath, waiting for Willa’s voicemail message to end and the beep to sound so that she could leave a message.
“Hey, Wills,” she began lightly, watching a family play with a kite in the distance. “So, I’ve been thinking a lot recently about what I said during our last call, and I was completely out of line. But it’s been weeks now, and this isn’t the first message I’ve left where I’ve apologized for what I said, and I don’t know what elseyou want me to do or say. I do know that I miss you though. Like, I really, really miss you. And I want to know about you, how you are. I want to know how the film is going and how things are with Scarrow and, umm, even how things are with Berg. Look, I’m going to pop over to your place this weekend. If you’re in, great, and if you’re not—”
Bo bit back a swear when her message timed out, cutting her off mid-sentence. She considered calling Willa back, before deciding to leave it. She’d said what she needed to say, more than once now too. Over the last month, Willa hadn’t returned any of Bo’s calls, and nor had she responded to any of Bo’s pleading iMessages, Snapchats or WhatsApps. Short of going through Willa’s agent like a common everyday fangirl, Bo wasn’t sure what else she could do. With a sigh, she popped her phone back in her bag, watching the family play with the kite for another few minutes, the afternoon sun warm on her back. Briefly, she thought about calling Lisa, but after a quick mental calculation to work out the time difference, realized it would be 2 a.m. for her sister. She knew Lisa loved her, but she also knew from Lisa that menopause was a bitch who cut into sleep like a knife cut through butter, so understood her sister might not appreciate the early wake-up call.
You’re just trying to distract yourself though, aren’t you?Bo thought.You know that you have to go home and tell Max how you feel, and you’re trying to delay it.
She knew exactly why she was trying to delay her talk with Max too. She was terrified. Terrified to confess the truth to him and terrified to see his response to it. She wasn’t an idiot. She knew that Max couldn’t possibly feel the same way about her that she felt about him. Their arrangement was meant to be just a bit of harmless fun while they waited out the summer, and not something serious with feelings involved. Even now, the temptation for Bo to pretend she didn’t love Max, to pretend shehadn’t spoken with Ida and to keep pretending she was entirely okay with their arrangement as it stood was strong. She was fairly certain Max knew how she felt anyway, just as she was fairly certain he’d be just as happy to keep pretending otherwise. That was the easy option, wasn’t it? That was the safe option. That was, she had to admit, the sensible option for both of them.
But it wasn’t the right option. Not anymore. Not for her.
Swallowing hard, Bo knew she had to tell Max how she felt. She had to tell him, and then, when he admitted he wasn’t in the same place, she would have to accept that response. That would be hard, she knew, but then continuing to pretend everything was still as it was would be even harder. Pretending was no longer fair, not on him, and certainly not on her.
I’m not a good enough actress to carry out this charade much longer anyway,Bo reminded herself.Besides, Max knows already how I feel; he saw it in my eyes this morning. If I don’t say something soon, he’ll probably say something for me. Or he’ll just up and leave. He’ll go back to Berlin or find somewhere else to live in London and I’ll never see him again.
That thought hurt more than any of the others. The idea of not seeing Max ever again, of not having him in her life, made her stomach knot with pain and the breath feel tight in her lungs. Bo could accept his not loving her. She could accept that, she really could. But Max not being in her life? No, that thought was intolerable. That thought made her skin crawl and her stomach rebel and her heart hurt. How could she live without Max? How could she live without him and his arguments and his music and his awful — his truly, fucking awful — fashion sense? How could she live without his whispered endearments? How could she live in a world where she couldn’t reach out and brush his too long hair out of his eyes? How could she live without him, and everything that she loved about him?
The simple truth was that she couldn’t. She just couldn’t.
So, she had to tell him how she felt, had to work this out on her own terms and in her own way, before Max figured everything out and did it for her.
I’ll tell him that I love him but that I can get over him,she promised herself.I’ll tell him that I know this is my problem and not his. I’ll tell him that nothing has to change, that nothing has to stop. I’ll tell him that I can get over him . . . he just can’t leave. Not yet.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bo had never really been a decisive human being. She’d always been a kind of drifter, happy to be pulled along by others or pushed into making some kind of plan. She’d blindly followed the will of her mother before settling into a nomad-like existence, where everything was temporary and the future simply something to worry about another day. That she had no education, no solid plans, no money and no home of her own bothered her, but not enough for her to make any real changes to her life. For a woman who got attached as easily as she did, there were surprisingly few shackles in her existence.
So, it was incredibly ironic that when she’d finally made an adult, grown-up decision all on her own, life decided to derail her plans. AKA, when she finally decided to acknowledge her feelings for Max, finally decided to tell him how she felt and face the consequences like the newly emerging adult she was finally becoming, there was one small issue, a fly in her grown-up ointment.
Max wasn’t fucking home.
She used her key to get into the house, calling out his name with a trepidation that was entirely down to her tightly wound nerves. The place was silent however, the only sound her own footsteps echoing back to her as she trekked up and down stairs and in and out of rooms searching for Max. There was, of course, the possibility that he was still asleep, and so Bo pushed on the door of the room she knew to be his quietly. She wanted to tell Max she loved him, not wake him suddenly from his slumber or give him a small stroke. The room was empty though, his bed unmade, clothes strewn across the floor.
He really is an untidy sloth,Bo thought fondly. She didn’t even care that he was messy. Didn’t care that he lacked any sort of house pride. She loved him still anyway. For Max, she wouldtolerate mess and disorder. For Max, she would overlook clothes on the floor and crumpled linen.
With interest, she gazed around Max’s bedroom. She’d never been in this room before — well, not since it became Max’s room, anyway. For a man who made such a mess, he owned surprisingly little. There were clothes, and next to his bed a pile of books, each well-thumbed with cracked spines. Shoes were piled in a corner, and a selection of empty coffee cups stacked on a dresser, but that was about it. The space was impersonal and empty, and very much looked like a place where a man would sleep and dress and not much else.
It reminds me of a hotel room,Bo suddenly realized.The temporary quarters of a man in his temporary house while he works his temporary job. And,her mind added unhelpfully,while he fucks a temporary girlfriend.
Her stomach sank a little as she closed the door. What did she think was going to happen here? She would tell Max that she loved him and then what? Regardless of what she said or did, he was always going to go back to Berlin. That had been his plan from the beginning, and he’d never altered from it.
With a worried sigh, Bo glanced at the walls around her, still bedecked with Geoffrey’s art and photographs. With a sinking feeling, she realized that this might be Max’s house now, but he’d never made it into his home. It really was just somewhere he was waiting out time, and by default, she was just someone he was entertaining himself with while waiting for that time to pass. She was as temporary and fleeting to him as he’d grown important and necessary to her.
Bo sank to the floor, despondently clutching her knees. She couldn’t tell Max she loved him. Not now. Not when the proof of his intention to leave was staring her so obviously in the face. Rubbing her face tiredly, Bo wondered what the hell she’d been thinking? Max didn’t want her love. He just wanted a warmbody in his bed so he could release his post-work tension (and honestly, had he even tried Yoga or Sudoku or something?). He didn’t want that warm body to suddenly demand affection from him, and nor did he want affection from it either. He just wanted to get laid.
If she’d told him she loved him, what would happen?
You know what would happen,her mind argued.He’d get awkward. He’d be uncomfortable. He’d stop having sex with you and we’d never recover from it and everything would change.
Maybe telling Max she loved him was the right thing to do. Maybe it would put her out of her misery, just as Ida had said. But then, maybe continuing to pretend was the better option. If she carried on pretending, and Max carried on pretending, they’d get through to the end of summer. At this point, she was going to get hurt anyway. So, what did it matter if she let herself enjoy it while it lasted? For a few more weeks at least, she could have him. Have those stolen mornings and half-sleeping smiles. Have those moments where his hand brushed hers without thinking. She’d have those extra few precious weeks with him, and he . . . well, he’d get everything he wanted until he returned to Berlin. He’d look back on her fondly, and maybe that was all Bo could ask for. Maybe that was all she should expect; should ever have expected.
Standing on shaky legs, Bo made her way downstairs. It was obvious even to her by now that Max wasn’t home, and she was glad he wasn’t. If he’d been home, she might’ve made a terrible error. Might have confessed everything and had to live with the consequences.
