‘I didn’t say anything to your brother that wasn’t true. Every word was sincere.’
Rosie swallowed. Dimly, she remembered reading once that the moment before a kiss could be just as magical as the kiss itself.
This felt like one of those moments. Aled’s focus on her face was total, his pupils blown wide, his breathing rapid. This was promise,potential, suspended in a second. If she were Aled, she’d find a line from literature to encapsulate the feeling.
Rosie wondered if you could die from kissing – or fromnotbeing kissed. Surely she wouldn’t survive, wouldn’t be able to function for another second unless he touched his lips to hers.
A heady warmth bloomed through her, and her limbs went deliciously loose. Their faces were so close she could taste his air: sweet and spicy from the cider. Intoxicating. Beneath that there was familiar, clean soapiness – the pleasant, pervasive scent of his laundry, which somehow smelled like home.
She felt her eyes flutter closed. Let her head shift upwards, lifting her lips towards his.
Then, she felt him move away.
Shit. What had happened? What had she justdone?
She must have misread the situation totally. Let her own wishful fantasising convince her there was something real here.God. For all she knew Aled and Ceri were back together, or working towards some kind of reconciliation.
Could she style this out? Perhaps, if she pretended to be drunker than she felt. ‘That moment last night?’ she’d say. ‘You know, when I tried to snog you? Forget it. I was off my box.’ The thought of lying like this, trying desperately to save face, made her feel suddenly sick.
‘It’s not you,’ Aled said, after a pause that felt like an ice age. The words sounded strained, like they were costing him something.
He put his head in his hands, seemingly unable to look at her.
Rosie gulped again. ‘Is it Ceri? I know she’s been in touch with you, and Rhianne said—’
His head snapped up. ‘God, no. That’s … that’s not a thing, I promise. Rhianne doesn’t give me enough credit.’ He looked momentarily annoyed.
‘But there’s other stuff,’ he went on. ‘Stuff I’m still sorting out. I like you, Rosie. I want us to stay friends. And I know we won’t if …’
‘Got it,’ Rosie said briskly, her terse tone totally failing to cover her embarrassment. ‘Friends.’
He meant that if they kissed – or did any of the things Rosie’s anatomy was telling her were urgent andnecessary– it couldn’t last. He meant he didn’t like her in that way, or at least not enough. How had she ever let herself think otherwise?Stupid, stupid, stupid.
‘Rosie, I—’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, her voice clipped and efficient. ‘We’ve both had a bit to drink. Let’s say no more about it. I think we should probably go home – check that Springsteen’s survived the night.’
‘Right,’ Aled said, uncertainly. ‘OK.’
He stood up and offered Rosie his hand.
She didn’t trust herself to take it, and pulled herself up from the bench as though she hadn’t noticed.
They walked home in silence, only breaking the quiet when they discovered Springsteen lying on top of a basket of clean, folded laundry. Rosie’s favourite jumper now bore a fine layer of silvery fuzz, which she’d have to scrape off in the morning.
They said goodnight and closed their bedroom doors, and it was only when Rosie had climbed into bed that finally she let a tear roll down her cheek. It was the first she’d shed since the night James had left her, and it pained her far more than any she’d cried for him.
Chapter 22
During the days that followed, Rosie kept waiting for her mortification to abate. Surely, if she was patient enough – fully committed to pretending that nothing of note had happened – the feeling would eventually disappear.
More than a week after the Bonfire Night debacle, however, she still felt a rush of embarrassment every time she looked at Aled. Typically, this was closely followed by the dull thump ofwantingthat the sight of him inspired. She felt like a pining teenager, caught between needing him to leave and never wanting him to go.
On the surface, both she and Aled carried on as normal: making each other tea and coffee, regularly eating together and keeping the cat in the sort of comfort he clearly believed was his due.
Predictably, Rhianne had noticed the change in them both. ‘I have no idea what the bloody hell’s going on between you,’ she said to Rosie, ‘but it’s not working for anyone. Al looks like I felt when the Spice Girls split up, and every time you smile I worry your face is going to crack in half. It’s forced, like a fear grin. It’s not natural.’
Wednesday afternoon saw Rosie home alone in the flat. After doing the early shift at the deli, she fought through the windy walk home to get started on some long-neglected chores. Her concentration was hampered by frequent reminders of how settled Aled had become in a home that no longer felt just hers. At some stage, he’d stopped closing his bedroom door all the time – possibly when Springsteen moved in, so the cat could hop up on the bed and recline in the sunny patch cast by the small sash window. With Rosie’s enthusiastic consent, he’d also started storing books in her antique dresser, and had made use of an old bureau she’d bought for a song some years ago. Rosie had never had need of it herself, and it pleased her to see it stacked with the set texts he taught, hastily scribbled lesson plans and piles of students’ essays.
