“So, I think it’s best for the both of us if we cut our arrangement off now,” Max carried on heartlessly, and Bo chewed on her lip hard. “We don’t want to drag anything out unnecessarily, do we?”
Bo made no response, still stunned to her core.
“And no post-mortem of our . . .” Max paused, “. . . our relationship will be necessary. I don’t think it would be of help to either of us.”
Finally, Bo found her voice. “Is that all you’ve got to say?” she asked him, and she couldn’t help the indignation from creeping into her words.
Max gave an ugly laugh. “I think I’ve said enough, don’t you? Unlike you, who hasn’t said anything at all.”
“Max—” she went to protest again, but he hadn’t finished talking. Not yet.
“Not that you needed to say anything,” Max carried on. “Not when your silence says everything. You’re so obvious. So obvious, and I’m an idiot for ever thinking—” he stopped, shaking his head abruptly. “It doesn’t matter.”
“So, that’s it then?” Bo asked, and she wrapped her arms around her stomach, mirroring his stance.
“Yes. That’s it then.”
Once again, Bo was too stunned, too heartsick and sore, to reply. So, she simply stared up at him again, still bewildered and hurt, trying to process what he was telling her. She was obvious, he’d said. Well, yes, she was, and she knew she was too. Her love for him had been in her eyes, and it was probably still written all over her face now. Not that it mattered. He didn’t want her love, did he? He didn’t want her love, and he didn’t want her, and now he was finished with both of them.
Max cleared his throat. “By the way, I’ve told my guests that the hedge is the border of my garden, and they need to stay off your property. If anyone does drift towards you let me know. I’ll clear them.”
It was so innocuous a comment to make after the devastation he’d just levied on her heart that Bo gaped at him. As she did, something Ida had said the other day came bubbling to the forefront of her mind, and she couldn’t help herself from spitting it out.
“By the way? By the way?” she stuttered in disbelief. “Well,by the way,I would like to say, with a great deal of feeling,fuck you, Max Fitzroy.”
Max stared at her.
“And if any of your guests come anywhere near my garden, I’ll push them into the pond,” she added angrily, before she spun on her heels and retreated to the safety of her summer house. She slammed the door shut behind her, her breath coming hard and heart beating fast, and she flicked at the light switch before remembering her lack of power and cursing Max again. Not that she needed lights, she told herself.
You didn’t need lights when your only plan was lying on your bed and crying your eyes out.
* * *
She lay on her bed and cried for an hour before there was a plaintive knock on her door.
“Fuck off, Max,” she spat, though her angry words were muffled by her embarrassingly tear-soaked pillow.
“It’s not Max,” Willa returned gently. “It’s me.”
“I just want to be alone right now,” Bo said. “You didn’t need to come over.”
“I really think I did,” Willa said. “You sent me a WhatsApp that was basically a stream of unidentifiable letters and numbers. After that I got a voicemail which sounded a lot like you crying. Sobbing, actually. Can I come in?”
“But I don’t have any power,” Bo replied feebly. “Foxes chewed through the cable and then Max plugged in some party lights.”
“Okay,” Willa said slowly. “Well, I brought wine, and we don’t need power for that.”
Bo stood, wiping her eyes off and opening the door. Willa leaned against the doorway, looking at her with sympathetic eyes.
“Wow,” she breathed. “You look like shit, Bo. Even in this flattering muted light.”
“I feel like it too,” Bo said, sniffling. She could feel how swollen her eyes were, and knew her face was puffy and red. “You brought wine?”
“Your messages gave me the impression you needed it.”
“Won’t Scarrow miss you?”
“Not tonight.” Willa shrugged. “He’s in LA.”
