He’d moved here to breathe. To step back. To recalibrate. Instead, he was the same person in a different postcode. Still grinding away. Still lonely. Still convinced that if he stopped moving, the feelings would catch up and tackle him to the floor.
He grabbed his jacket.
Prom’s ears flicked.
‘Don’t get excited. I’m not taking you on a walk. You’re a cat, not an Alsatian.’
Prom watched with bored interest as Kieran shoved his feet into trainers and stepped outside.
The air was crisp, the June sunlight welcomingly cheerful. Cranley looked like one of those villages designed to lure people into complacency: stone cottages, hanging baskets, the smell of something baking that made his stomach clench with hunger.
It should have soothed him.
Instead, it made him feel like an intruder.
He walked towards the centre, passing Janette’s shop with its cheerful sign and the little bell that would no doubt summon her like a foghorn if he dared go in.
‘Not today,’ he muttered.
A Bit of Crumpet was open, but he couldn’t face Jo’s sparkle either. It was too … human. Too warm.
Without meaning to, he found himself drifting towards the pub.
The Jekyll and Hyde sat solid and familiar, as if it had been there forever, holding secrets in its walls. Kieran hesitated outside the door, unsure if socialising was the answer right now.
A cluster of people edged past him, chatting excitedly about something or other. A middle-aged man held the door open for him, but he shook his head and hurried away.
Standing on the street corner, he took a deep breath. ‘Wimp,’ he muttered. ‘Beans on toast it is.’
Back at the cottage, Kieran heated the beans and rammed two slices of slightly mouldy bread into the toaster. Prom, optimistic at the can opening, skulked off when no food came his way.
Returning to his laptop, Kieran vowed to pull on his big-boy pants. He’d venture into the pub soon and try not to behave like a socially inept idiot in future.
As he typed, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Something pale, fluttering in a patch of sunlight filtering through the threadbare curtains.
A butterfly.
Gold-tinged, almost sparkling. Unlike any butterfly he’d seen before – not that he was an expert in lepidopterology.
As Kieran mentally congratulated himself on knowing the word, the butterfly fluttered above his head. It hovered, as if deciding whether to land.
Kieran held his breath. Even Prom, who’d strutted into the room, gazed upwards.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the butterfly vanished.
Just … gone.
Kieran looked around, expecting to see it flit elsewhere. Nothing. No movement. No shimmer. Just a light breeze that ruffled the curtains and reminded him how crap the window seals were.
‘All right,’ he muttered, half to himself and half to the universe. ‘Either I’m hallucinating, or Cranley’s got a weird pest problem.’
Prom miaowed, his gaze still fixed on the spot where the butterfly had been. Seconds later, he yawned and curled up in a ball.
Somehow, Kieran managed to dig deep and polish the ClosetAura pitch. It needed more work, but it flowed better.
Stretching his arms above his head, he outdid Prom on the yawn-ometer. A nap might be in order, although Kieran associated daytime naps with older people.Mucholder people.
‘Sod it.’ Kieran mirrored Prom’s curled-up position, but on the sofa rather than the floor. He tugged a fleecy blanket over his body, for comfort rather than warmth.
