I’ve been enjoying running my hands through it every time we’ve been in bed together.
He enjoys it too, judging from the noises he makes.
‘What are you thinking?’ he murmurs.
‘Naughty things,’ I reply.
We move at the same time, and a moment later, I’m straddling his lap and my lips are locked with his. His hands grip my hips to hold me in place because my hands are filthy and I’m keeping them aloft and out of the way.
I doubt I’ll finish this sculpture.
A few days later, Finn and I say our third goodbye, and it’s agonising.
‘Will we stay in touch this time?’ he asks.
I hesitate. ‘I don’t know.’
Right now, I can’t imagine how I’ll ever resist reaching out to him.
‘I’m sorry I came back at the wrong time,’ he says.
‘What are you talking about?’ I lift my head from his shoulder, my vision blurry from tears as we stand at the top of the stairs, embracing for the last time. ‘You came back at exactly therighttime.’
‘I’m glad you think so,’ he murmurs.
I realise he’s referring to my missed opportunity with Brendan. Istillhave no regrets.
He presses a kiss to my forehead and takes a step backwards, briskly rubbing my upper arms as if to warm me up.
‘Goodbye, Liv.’
He turns and walks determinedly down the stairs and my heart leaps into my throat, almost as though it’s trying to chase after him. I nearly call out to stop him from leaving before we’ve agreed to give this thing between us a shot, but I clamp my mouth shut.
My head knows what’s best for me; what’s best for us both.
These next few years are when people typically meet the person they want to spend the rest of their lives with. We’d be foolish to hold back.
That’s not to say that he doesn’t take a piece of me with him when he goes.
And I have a feeling he’s left a piece of himself behind too.
THIS SUMMER
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I wake up very early on the morning after the pub quiz and stare at the ceiling, my head pounding. After downing a full glass of water, along with some painkillers, I climb out of bed and go and sit at the piano in the living room.
I play one song pianissimo – very softly – but if Tom’s up and awake, he’ll hear it.
And hopefully he’ll hear my hidden message: if I show you mine, will you show me yours?
I’m in the kitchen, halfway through a piece of toast, when there’s a knock on my downstairs door.
I jump to my feet, the remnants of my breakfast discarded, and jog down the stairs, beaming. I know it’s him, because anyone else would have to ring the doorbell.
As I swing the door wide open, my heart skitters at the sight of Tom in the hallway, fully dressed in jeans and a muted-blue long-sleeve T-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower.
‘You’ve made your point,’ he says, eyes dancing. ‘You ready?’
