‘Why?’
‘Claire loves meeting creepy people. Gary would give her so much book fodder.’
We both giggle, and I can feel myself start to relax.
‘We hardly know each other,’ he says, which makes me emit a nervous laugh.
‘Yes, and now we’re sharing a bed,’ I say with a deadpan tone.
We go silent, and I listen to the creaking pipes and footsteps on the floor below.
‘Nelly,’ he says.
‘Yes, Oliver.’
‘I know this is nosey, but I saw the book you were reading earlier. Can I ask what it’s about? It has an image of seawater on the front.’
‘It’s about the author, Margo Lane, who turned to swimming to process her grief. The water healed her. Can you swim, Oliver?’
‘Very well, Nelly. Can you?’
I smile at his confident response. ‘What’s your best stroke?’
He rearranges his pillows. ‘Front crawl. You?’
‘I excelled at backstroke and won numerous competitions when I was eight. Although I preferred front crawl.’
‘You won competitions?’ he exclaims. ‘When was the last time you went swimming?’
‘Years ago. I stopped when…’ I take a shaky breath. ‘I was nine.’
He allows my emotions to settle before speaking. ‘Maybe this book is a sign that you should go swimming again.’
We both go silent. I can feel him turning over, and I think he’s facing the pillow wall. ‘I have been meaning to ask, how is your aunt doing?’
‘She’s okay.’ I think back to earlier when she modelled her shaved head.
‘That must be hard for you both.’
I gulp back a wave of emotion. ‘It is hard, but we’re doing okay.’
‘That’s good.’
‘She means a lot to me.’
‘Talk to me about her,’ he says, his voice soft and inviting. I hesitate. It feels unnatural to talk about my life. This is new territory. I do my best to avoid human interaction and lock myself away. But his gentle tone is coaxing me to start.
I take a moment. I have learnt that if I don’t do this, my emotions get the better of me. ‘My parents died in a car crash when I was nine. My aunt became my legal guardian.’
‘I’m sorry, Nelly,’ he says quietly.
We don’t say anything else to each other. I close my eyes and when I open them again, it’s morning and his half of the bed is empty.
He’s not in the flat, so I assume he’s gone out for the day.
After I shower and get dressed, I head to make my morning coffee, and I hear the front door close. ‘Nelly, we ran out of ground coffee, so I’ve been to the café and bought us a takeaway coffee each.’
He stands at the doorway to the kitchen, a packet of ground coffee tucked under his arm and a cardboard tray in hand, carrying two coffee cups. His dark hair looks messy and wild. Despite all this, his captivating eyes and boyish smile make my heart beat faster.
