One Small Mistake(48)

Kathryn and Charlie were visiting Jack’s aunt in Taunton, and Jeffrey was locked away in the belly of the house, poring over emails in his study. We were alone. Jack’s mood was stony, which probably had something to do with the gash that split his bottom lip. One that hadn’t been there when he’d walked me to school that morning.

‘You need to tell Kathryn. If she knew …’

‘I’ve tried. She doesn’t believe me. Doesn’t want to.’

‘But the bruises.’

‘Brushed off as fights at college.’

‘She can’t be that gullible.’

‘She can when she wants to be.’

We lapsed into silence.

‘Jeffrey isn’t a good person,’ he said simply.

‘No, I don’t think he is.’

Silence stretched on. I scooted a little closer. Our arms touched, mine bare and his in a leather jacket I picked up from a charity shop for his birthday. We looked at the sky. There were so many stars. I wanted to say something knowledgeable about constellations, or something profound about life and the universe and how time was finite, and in five years, when he’d moved out and had a job, none of this would matter. It would feel as far away as the stars above us. But I didn’t because Jack whispered, ‘I don’t know if I’m a good person either.’

I frowned. ‘How can you say that?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’

‘You’re so much more like your mum. Everyone says so.’

‘Weak.’

‘Jack …’

‘I never want kids, El. I never want my child to feel as disappointed in me as I do in him. I couldn’t stand it.’

I took his hand in mine. ‘You can’t be a bad person if everything you do is done with love. That’s the difference between you and him.’

I was fifteen and young and very much in love with Jack Westwood. The kind of intense, feverish love that makes everything else turn to ash.

I loved his anger and ambition.

I loved his weathered sketchpad filled with drawings of all the different places we’d live when we left Crosshaven: a lofty London apartment, a thatched cottage, a rustic lakeside cabin.

I loved that he could twirl a pocket knife through his fingers with the same ease as he could a number two pencil.

I loved his mop of golden curls and the sharp angle of his jaw.

I loved that he was predictably unpredictable.

But I wasn’t brave enough to tell him. To tell anyone.

‘It’s getting cold,’ he said, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it around me. It was warm from his body. Far too wide across the shoulders. It smelt like him. I wanted to kiss him right there, on that ledge, with the earth beneath us and the stars above, and his thrifted jacket curled around me.

The heat in his gaze told me he knew what I wanted.

He smiled. Then he swooped down and kissed me.

I sank into the feel of his mouth on mine, into the hot press of his body. I was gentle, careful not to catch his split lip. Jack groaned, wanting more. He kissed me harder, until I was lightheaded and spinning; the only thing keeping me tethered were his hands on my waist, sliding beneath my top and along my bare back. His fingers moved to unhook my bra.

We were reckless and certain.

Young and wanting.

Breathless and wild.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

We sprang apart. Jack caught me before I fell. Jeffrey loomed behind us, his face twisted into a snarl of disgust.

Jack swivelled around and hopped down from the windowsill.

‘What did I tell you?’ barked Jeffrey, his Philly accent thicker in anger.

He shrugged.

Then Jeffrey was on him. He grabbed Jack by the throat and swung him into the wall hard enough to make it shake.

Jeffrey brought his face inches from Jack’s. ‘What did I tell you?’

Jack lounged in his father’s grip, like a bored model who’d had too many cameras shoved in his face, but his trembling hands betrayed him.

‘What did I fucking tell you?’

My heart beat so fast, I was sure it would crack a rib.

‘You hear me, boy?’

I wanted to get the hell out of there, but even if fear hadn’t rooted me to the spot, I couldn’t leave Jack.

‘I hear you.’

‘Fucking punk,’ he spat before letting go of him.

They stared at one another, chests heaving.

‘It’s time for her to go home,’ Jeffrey said.

Jack made to move towards me, but Jeffrey shoved him away.

The car ride home with Jack’s father was silent.

Jack and I have never talked about the kiss. It was like it never really happened, like it was a dream or a film. I thought maybe, understandably, Jack’s fear of his father outweighed his desire for me. Not wanting to cause friction between our families, I didn’t even tell my parents what’d happened. I should’ve, because a few days after Jeffrey’s overreaction, he killed himself. Maybe if I’d said something that summer, someone would’ve realised how unstable he was.

Years later, I got drunk on a dangerous mix of tequila and vodka and told Ada about the kiss and Jeffrey’s outburst. The next morning, she wanted to know more, but I was so ashamed of not being good enough for Jack, so guilty for not telling anyone about Jeffrey’s extreme reaction while he was alive, I pretended to have no memory of our conversation.