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I stomp through to the kitchen, going through the motions to make myself a coffee and trying to pretend that I’m not still thinking about her. It’s been twelve years, and yet she’s still so easily under my skin. It’s so effortless on her part. All she does is smile and make little sarcastic comments and that’s it. On my mind, under my skin, in my thoughts, and refusing to go.

I sit down with my brewed coffee and take small sips, thinking back to the very first time I saw Delilah. My first day of the teaching placement had me awake early, so when I made my way downstairs to get a coffee to start my day, I was surprised to find anybody in the kitchen, let alone a young woman.

Even now, I can recall the skittish way she reacted when she saw me, how she pulled her hand back from the bunch of bananas like she was doing something illegal. It was almost like I’d caught her rifling through one of our wallets, and I was initially amused at her reaction, but then curious about why such a young girl was in my house. I could tell she was younger than me, and instantly I worried that Christian—the dumbest housemate I ever had the misfortune of being stuck with—had come home with an underaged girl. I could tell she wanted to leave despite the early hour. Part of me wanted to offer to drive her home and make sure she got home safely, but the more sensible part of me had told me to stay well away. Dropping home an underaged girl to passionate and apoplectic parents who were likely to jump to conclusions and shoot the messenger wasn’t something I wanted to do.

Twenty-two-year-old me thought it was sensible, but then I saw her again, and everything left me feeling unsettled. I started to understand everything about her life, and I always wished I could go back to that first morning and do things differently. If I could rewind time, I would do it all better. I’d grab my keys and drive her home. I would ask her if she was okay. I’d make sure she felt safe, because it didn’t take me long to understand that Delilah Adler hadn’t felt safe in years.

Nor did it take long for me to add to that uncertainty and lack of safety.

I take another sip of my coffee, letting the familiar scent of the beans ground me. I should eat something, but my stomach doesn’t feel settled enough to face food. It isn’t the drink from last night, though.

It’s seeing her again. It’s enough to shake my world and leave me unsettled, like I’m still on a roller-coaster long after I stepped off the ride.

I think about what I need to do today, but I can’t recall any appointments, fittings, or interviews. I know I have a few interviews scheduled in the diary for next week, but for the most part, things are supposed to be quiet. I told Pippa—my manager—to wind things down for me. It’s been nonstop since the filming started, and I need a break. Usually my calendar is booked back-to-back, and the lack of things to distract me is leaving it wide open for Delilah to wander into my mind, no matter how much I try to fight it.

I check the clock, scowling slightly that it’s only seven thirty. After a late night at the premiere and all the tossing and turning I did in the night, sleeping in would have been welcomed. I guess I should consider myself lucky that I don’t have a throbbing headache and a shitty hangover.

I reach across the kitchen counter to grab my mobile from where I left it last night. For once, there are no missed calls or unanswered texts and emails. I assume Pippa is taking me literally that I asked for a break.

I launch the internet and type in the name of Delilah’s shop. It was pure luck and serendipity that I ended up in there. Except luck and serendipity are typically welcomed, and I’m not sure this is. I can’t decide if I find it serendipitous. I can’t decide how Delilah will see it either.

I hop across the sections of her website. There’s one dedicated to the things that can be found in her shop and can be purchased online. There’s a page that lists a bunch of classes she offers, training events in sewing techniques. Another is for bespoke tailoring services, announcing pricing, timescales, and processes. Yet another shows the pictures of designs she’s created.

I shouldn’t be surprised at her choice of career. She was always talented in that field, whether it was the things she made as part of her A-level course or the pages and pages of designs she carried around in her sketchpad. It was a regular occurrence for me to find her either sketching furiously or completely absorbed in her history textbook.

I think back to those first few days, how I would sit with her in the little students’ area outside the history classrooms and try to get her to look at me. The sixth formers had their own common room located on the opposite side of the school to the history block, but outside the history classes was another area that appeared to be an impromptu hideaway for them, one that Delilah regularly took refuge in. She would be scribbling away, studiously ignoring me to start, but it didn’t take long until the conversations started between us. We would talk about the history content, her essays, and additional books she could read to further her knowledge, but then conversations wandered into other subjects. We found a shared love for the theatre and would talk about plays she was studying in her class. We talked about her art and her designs, both things for her design course as well as part of her theatre studies. She trusted me enough to slowly slide her sketchbook towards me so I could look at things while she stared at the table with guarded apprehension.

She would peer at me with heavily lined eyes from under her long, thick fringe, taking shy looks in lessons and whenever she saw me around the school grounds. The first time she properly looked at me—seeming like she forced herself to do it—her bright blue eyes took me by surprise. Beautiful eyes that made her look so much wiser than her eighteen years. There was so much depth to them, but also so much hurt and pain. Hurt and pain that I contributed to, even though I swore I would never hurt her.

Just another promise I broke.

The memory of her eyes and those first conversations is what makes me put down my coffee cup and stride to the bathroom. Suddenly it seems imperative that my wide-open day on the calendar starts by going to her shop and paying her back for the shirt.

***

I park my car on the street opposite her shop, then stare at the front door as I wonder if I’ve lost my grip on my sanity. I know she’s inside—the shutters are up, the lights are on, and there’s a shadow that occasionally crosses the window. I can’t decide whether it’s creepier to be in my car watching like a stalker or if I go in.

I groan to myself, wondering why she’s always had this ability to get so far under my skin that I don’t know how to think straight. Logic and reason abandon me when it comes to her.

I get out of the car, zapping it locked as I cross the road. I hesitate for a moment before pushing the door to her shop open. The bell above the door tinkles, announcing my arrival.

“You’re early, but I’ll be with you in a moment,” her voice calls from somewhere further inside. There are the sounds of her moving things around in the backroom, and then she strides into the front area, a stack of different fabrics in her arms.

She stumbles to a stop when she sees me.

“Is your cash machine working?” I blurt out.

It’s the stupidest thing I could ever say to her. It sounded a lot smoother in my head.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. There’s a weariness in her expression today, something that wasn’t there yesterday, or maybe it was, but her surprise masked everything, and I didn’t really see.

“I came to pay you for the shirt,” I say.

“I didn’t really think you were going to come back,” she snipes.

I’d argue that I’m a man who keeps his word, but she knows all too well that it isn’t the truth. The last time I saw her, I broke every promise I ever made to her, but it wasn’t the first time I broke a promise to somebody. There was a time when I broke the promises I made to other people—and to myself—for her.

I watch as she dumps the fabrics she’s carrying onto the large table set up at the back of the shop. I don’t remember seeing it yesterday, but then my original focus had been on replacing my shirt, and then it was just on her once I saw past all the changes.