The Day She Came Back(49)

‘Flynn!’ she had shouted, jumping from the bed. ‘You have to get up! I’ve got stuff to do!’

‘What stuff?’ he had asked, one eye closed, his head half lifted from the pillow and with the faint outline of dried drool on his chin.

‘Just stuff!’ She wanted nothing more than to take a long, hot bath, alone. He chuckled and laid his head back on the pillow, as if what she wanted was of no consequence.

‘Stuff can wait. It’d be a shame to waste the morning.’ He reached for her, taking her by the hand. ‘Come back to bed, just for a little while.’

The sight of his beautifully formed, semi-naked body was enough to melt her resolve. His skin and the novelty of sexual contact was a magnet. With the pull of her arm, she felt her body slide back on to the mattress. After some intoxicating, hypnotic kissing, the rush of blood to her head and the feel of his hands on her skin – her body overruled her decision to get up and start the day. The question for her was: would sex be any better the second time around? Maybe it was like anything else, only going to improve with practice?

And she supposed it was a little better, but still a whole world away from fireworks.

Flynn showered as she loped around the kitchen, pouring the last of the orange juice into two glasses and rattling the empty carton before lobbing it on the floor next to the bin and filling the kettle with water. She did her best to ignore the rubbish that had accumulated in such a short space of time: egg boxes, empty plastic milk bottles and biscuit wrappers, not to mention the sink piled high with used tea-stained cups, dirty coffee mugs and plates with crumbs and indeterminate smears clinging to their edges.

Flynn filed into the kitchen eventually, his hair flopping over one eye and his lids heavy, but dressed and with his backpack in his hand, seemingly ready to go. The sight of him preparing to leave made her stomach flip with dread. Instantly she regretted her earlier thoughts of wanting to be alone.

‘What time is it?’ He propped his head on his hand on the table and looked like he might nod off again.

‘Latish. More brunchtime than breakfast.’

‘Cheers!’ He raised a glass of orange juice in her direction, and it made her laugh. She liked the way he did and said things. She liked him.

‘So, Victoria, are we, like . . .’

‘Are we what?’ She spoke over her shoulder as she peered into the empty bread bin, as if staring long and hard enough might make some bread appear. She wanted to feed Tommy, and herself.

‘Are we good . . . after last night and this morning?’ he asked, with an uncharacteristic hint of nerves, a slight tremor to his voice and a leg that jumped, his foot beating time on the kitchen floor.

She put the lid back on the bread bin before taking up her place opposite him at the table. ‘Do we talk about it? I am a bit out of practice at this whole . . .’ She struggled to find the appropriate word – relationship thing? No, God no. Hook-up? Yuck!

He took another sip. ‘It was your first time, right?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And I guess a bit weird because we only really started hanging out, like, a few days ago.’

‘Mm, I guess.’ Two days ago, to be precise. She nodded, a little embarrassed by her seemingly rash actions and yet more than a little thrilled by them too.

‘I just wanted to check that we’re cool?’

‘Am I not going to see you again?’ His words sounded like a coded goodbye and the thought shocked her. Not only did she want more of him, but the thought of him disappearing now sent a quiver of regret along her spine. Was he too going to abandon her, reject her?

‘What?’ He laughed. ‘Of course you’re going to see me again! Like, today and every day till I leave for Newcastle.’

She felt her shoulders relax, thankful for this.

‘Good.’ She made the tea. ‘I like spending time with you, Flynn. It means a lot to me right now, when everything feels a bit . . .’ She looked up, again trying to find the word. Her grief had done this, left large holes in her vocabulary and her thought process.

‘A bit shit?’ he offered.

‘Yes.’ That’ll do. ‘A bit shit. And, I mean, I know that we’re not . . . I understand that . . .’ What exactly are you trying to say?

‘It’s okay.’ He jumped in. ‘I get it, and I’m not offended if you don’t think we have any future. I get that we’re casual, if that’s what you’re worried about. I mean, that makes sense, with me heading off to uni.’ His tone was soft and conciliatory.

‘Well, no.’ She paused, trying to think how best to explain her mindset, that, and how he had no right to be offended or unoffended; it was her body, her life and her decision to make.

The two now locked eyes over the tabletop, sipping at their orange juice.

‘It should have been a big deal for me.’ She swallowed. ‘I always thought it would be, but at the end of the day, it’s just sex, isn’t it?’

‘I think so.’ He nodded, as if listening to an unheard beat. ‘Just sex.’

It was her turn to nod. ‘I really like you, Flynn, always have, really.’ She swallowed.

‘I really like you.’

‘Thanks.’ She smiled a little shyly, in part at his admission, but also at the rather pedestrian exchange. ‘I guess what I’m trying to say is, I have a lot going on right now. My head really is a mess.’