Flutters,I think to myself distractedly.
‘I’m not the writer,’ she continues, ‘but you know what I’m saying.’
Unfortunately, I do.
I still don’t really understand how Nicki wrote so authentically about her heroine, Kit, being in love not just with one person, but with two. The love she speaks of is so deep, so passionate, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt anything on that scale before.
Well, not with anyone other than Elliot when we were sixteen. But that was first love. And first love, though ardent, is not necessarily long-lasting; the sort of love that endures.
I still can’t believe we found each other again. We’ve both matured, we’re both more experienced. Our relationship this time around really could go the distance.
I don’t know why I think about Charlie at that moment, but I do.
I firmly push him out of my mind and slam the door shut behind him.
Somehow Sara manages to convince me that I should write about Beau, but I can’t quite bring myself to tell Charlie. I have this horrible feeling he’d be disappointed in me.
On Monday afternoon, I return my attention to the second row of books on Nicki’s top shelf. They’re very dusty and I cough as I try to lift some of them down without falling off Nicki’s swivelling chair. Frustratingly, most of them are nothing more than old school textbooks.
I have a quick flick through her A-level English language study guide – if only for nostalgic reasons: I used to have the same book myself. A single sheet of paper falls out onto the carpet.
I bend over and scoop it up. It looks like a poem in Nicki’s handwriting:
I am not one thing
But many little pieces
Divided but allied
One of these I gave to you
Now part of it has died
Every time you hurt me
Every time you make me cry
That little piece of me you own
Withers up inside
For now it’s still alive
You haven’t lost me yet
But others have
Others have
And that’s something
You should not
Forget.
I sit down on the chair, shivers ricocheting up and down my spine. My pulse is racing. This is too strange. Too coincidental. When did Nicki write this?
I turn over the page, but there’s no date.
