I look away. The wine is hitting hard now. I can feel the maze spinning as the tears arrive.
“I just needed a minute,” I say, wiping at my face. “A stupid, dramatic minute to realise I’m not Cinderella at the ball. I’m one of the drunk mice in the corner, off-key, off-brand, using a slipper as a microphone and heckling the fairy godmother.”
He snorts. “That’s a new one.”
I shrug. “I’m not the girl who gets the prince. I’m the girl they pair with him ironically, for laughs, who ends up ugly-crying into her wine, arguing with a hedge named Derek.”
Another pause.
“You want a medal for that pity party?” he asks, gently.
I blink. “No. I want a kebab. And probably a bucket of water.”
He laughs, rising slowly to his feet.
“For what it’s worth… I wouldn’t have let you stay lost. Even if it was hilarious listening to you sing like a drunk karaoke banshee.”
I smile, despite myself. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me in a shrubbery.”
He extends his hand.
“Come on, milady. Let’s go collect our token of love before the pigeons call the RSPB.”
I pause, staring at his outstretched hand and something low in my chest twists, not unpleasant, just certain, like this was always going to happen.
I take his hand and haul myself upright with a groan. “Tell me about the bridesmaid and the duck.”
Tyler chuckles. “Only if there’s wine. And a legally binding agreement you’ll never sing Eric Carmen again.”
I squint at him. “I thought it was Celine Dion?”
“Yeah,” he says, lips quirking. “Her version’s better… but don’t tell Eric.”
That does it, the laugh bursts out of me, catching me off guard, like I wasn’t ready to find him funny yet. And now I’m smiling, because maybe, just maybe, this maze didn’t swallow me whole after all.
Chapter 11
Melt or Bite
Tyler
I’m knackered, scratched to shit by roses, and staring at Hayley belting out a power ballad to a bloody hedge.
Not a shy hum, no, she’s going full X Factor. Arms flung wide, face tipped to the sky, gloriously off-pitch like she’s summoning the ghosts of dead Tudors with Tesco’s cheapest rosé. I legged it through this maze expecting her to be chucking wine cups or swearing at squirrels.
Instead, she’s sprawled in the clearing, legs out, fuck-ugly mustard-yellow gown trying to strangle her, twigs in her hair, singing like the hedge is the last man left on earth.
I should have delivered a killer line. Something flirty. Instead, I stood there like a prat in a codpiece and called her “Bridget Jones.”
Smooth, Tyler.
Fuck me, she was a state. But she’s the kind of state you run toward, not away from. The kind you want to brush clean, pour another glass of wine for, and hope she’ll let you stay.
Truth is, I didn’t want to be late. The second I realised the race started without me, something ugly twisted in my gut. I legged it faster, thorns tearing at my arms, because of course she’d think I’d ditched her. Yet again, I’d demonstrated the exact type of man she thinks I am, the one who doesn’t show up.
The universe is clearly taking the piss right now.
I should probably tell her why I got delayed, but she seems to have forgiven me, so why make it a bigger thing?
