Work for it, p.24
Work for It, page 24
Oh. Ah. Hm. “Yes?”
“Well, I did. And all I wanted to do was help, but you’re always so protective of me. It was only after you left last month that I talked to Theo and Aria and realised, you aren’t letting anyone help. So, you’re on notice, Olu: that’s not going to work anymore. We’ve all made a pact, the whole group.”
“Wonderful,” I drawl. “It’s a conspiracy.” But there’s something warm in my chest.
“For a long time,” she says, as if I haven’t spoken, “you were the only one loving me hard enough to make up for everything else. You were the one who kept me safe from all my demons. You have been everything to me, Olu, all my life. Now you will let me look after you.”
I want to say something pithy, but I find I simply… can’t. All I’m capable of is a stiff nod, because if I speak, my emotions will overflow. Loving Lizzie has always been the most natural thing in the world, and I never understood where I learned how to do it. Our parents certainly didn’t teach me. But now I realise that Lizzie taught me, from the moment she was born. Being there for her has always lit up the shadows in my life, so I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that she’s there for me, too.
“Alright,” I say finally. “I suppose that doesn’t sound too bad.”
She gives me a little smile. I give her one back. And a part of me that I didn’t realise had been missing slots neatly into place.
“So,” Isaac says. “Now we’ve done the touchy-feely family bit, will you come back to work?”
“I left the company,” I frown, “because my being involved was nepotism, plain and simple. I assumed you were joking when you asked me to come back.”
He stares. “All twelve times?”
Has he really asked so frequently? “It was becoming a tired joke, if I’m honest.”
“Jesus Christ, Olu, you do my head in.”
I know I’m feeling better now, because I give him a wink.
“You saved my arse, back when we got the company,” Isaac goes on. And I suppose, now he mentions it, he’s right. But he was just finding his feet back then, and I had business and legal experience, which applies itself to any number of things. I shrug, and my mind wanders to Griff. Griff, who I might eventually be with. Griff, whom I am determined to see again, since I owe him an apology. He seems to expect good things from me, so I shouldn’t throw away his faith. I’ll do what’s right and tell him I’m sorry. That’s all. Then I will nobly and humbly leave.
“You handled all the technical shit,” Isaac’s saying. “Taxes, payroll, renewing contracts, managing the transition with the staff to keep everything moving…”
Of course, it’s possible Griff won’t want me to nobly and humbly leave. Maybe he’ll want to tell me what a tosser I’ve been, in which case, I will certainly let him. But I’ll also make it clear that I won’t try to hurt him again, and that I’m working through a series of epiphanies with regard to, ah, self-image, and—
“Did you like it?” Isaac demands.
I blink back to the present. “Hmm?”
“Working at Montgomery Publishing. Being my right-hand man. Did you like it?”
He does ask the silliest questions, sometimes. “Of course I did. It was the best job I’ve ever…” My sister and brother-in-law are watching me like cats watching a mouse. My words trail off as self-consciousness fills me, but then I push through. “It was the best job I’ve ever had,” I admit.
“Great,” Isaac says. “You’re hired.”
I straighten in my seat. “Here, now. You can’t hire me for a job I already—”
“Shut up. I’m giving you two weeks off to get your shit together. Come on.” He rises to his feet. “Let’s sort your hair out.”
“Piss off.”
“You going to see your fella or not?”
I hesitate, ignoring my sister’s smile. After a moment’s thought, I admit, “Perhaps I would like to regain my usual style.”
“There you are, then,” Isaac says. “Maybe you should shower, and all.”
“For fuck’s sake, Montgomery.” He’s not entirely wrong, though.
17
Olu
Nine days after leaving Fernley, I’m back. But I know something’s wrong when Maria winces as she opens the door to me.
Usually, that wince would be an arrow to my heart. I would assume the worst—that Maria didn’t want me here—and choose a mask designed to hide the fact that I’d even noticed, never mind that I cared. However, I am now embracing this new-fangled concept called vulnerability (only around friends, you understand). And, since Lizzie and I went so far as to contact a counsellor—which means I have essentially admitted to a complete stranger that I might possibly require some assistance with my, ah, self—I am, at this point, committed.
So I grit my teeth and ask awkwardly, “Is everything alright, Maria, darling?”
“Oh, yes,” she nods, the sun flashing off her strip of white hair. “Everything’s fine. I mean, I’m fine. And you’re looking well, Keynes. And I’m very happy to see you!”
“I’m happy to see you too,” I say truthfully. “Sorry I didn’t call ahead, but I was a bit distracted”—nervous, anxious, shitting myself—“and it completely slipped my mind.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. I expected you’d be back, anyway.”
“You… did?”
“For Griffin,” she says, and the wince is there again. She leans against the doorframe. “I’d invite you in, only—”
“Only?”
“I think you’re about to leave again.”
I do believe I’m sweating. And in a linen suit, too. “Maria, darling, please be direct. You’re making me quite miserable.”
I think my honesty shocks her, because for a moment all she can do is stare. Then she pulls herself together and says, “Griffin left the village days ago.”
There is a ringing in my ears. My heart is not beating so much as it is flying around my chest, smacking into my ribs every so often with an Oof. “I beg your pardon?”
“He left. Gave Henry Breton-Fowler an earful and quit his job, apparently—the village was all atwitter. Then he goes, that very night. House is locked up, and only little Rebecca Baird has the key. No-one knows where he went.”
Right. I see. Well, no need to panic. No need, no need, no need. I’m sure Griff is fine. He’s probably just gone off on some twenty-eight-year-old sort of adventure, like he should have long ago.
Of course, the timing seems rather suspicious, and my skin is too tight for my body, and I’m worried, worried, worried—
No. I’m calm, I’m thinking, I’m handling it. I adjust the cuff of my shirt and say, “I’ll be needing Rebecca’s direction, then.”
Maria looks pleased.
My journey to Rebecca’s house is faster than expected because, after the first minute or so of walking, I start to run. I don’t care how undignified that is, and I don’t care about the dog walkers who turn in the street to watch me with expressions ranging from alarm to astonishment. Wanting Griffin, it turns out, is rather like being with Griffin: I forget to worry about things that don’t matter.
Rebecca’s house is, as Maria described it, The little white one on the corner just past the church. I pound at the front door, and someone tall, thin, and very much not Rebecca opens it.
I really don’t have time for this.
“I’m looking for Griff,” I say without preamble, “or someone who knows where Griff is.”
The man gives me a slow, sceptical look up and down.
“Quickly,” I snap.
The fine lines on his forehead become deep furrows. “So,” he says. “You’re the bloke, are you?”
I sigh. Then I shout at the top of my lungs, “Rebecca!”
It does the trick.
A few seconds later she’s there, a ball of blonde energy, pushing the thin man aside. “Christ’s sake, Lewis,” she mutters, “don’t go sticking your oar in.” Her hair is piled on top of her head, her cheeks are flushed, and she’s wearing shorts and an oversized shirt covered in dust.
I raise my eyebrows. “Moving going well?”
“I’m packing up the loft,” she says, “while His Highness here answers doors.”
The man’s voice comes from the hallway she just shoved him into. “Oh, come on, Bex—”
She steps into the garden with me and shuts the door behind her. “Alright,” she says briskly. “I’m not best pleased with you—”
“I’m wounded.”
“Quiet, would you? I’m trying to have a helpful, fairy godmother moment, here.”
I do believe that aligns perfectly with my goals, so for once, I shut my mouth.
“Good. Now, I can’t tell you where Griff’s gone because friends don’t give friends’ whereabouts to men who brutally rejected them.”
Ouch.
“But, just in case you had a good reason, which I’m hoping you did…” She gives me a look that says I’d better. “I feel comfortable telling you that he’s gone to France—”
“He’s gone where?”
“To learn about making wine without grapes.”
I stare. “He’s gone to… wine without… what?” Then a memory slots into my mind like something from a slideshow: Griff and I, lying fully clothed on my bed, watching dust motes dance in the sunlight and talking about a wine hotel in Alsace.
Rebecca is watching me closely, her lips curving into a slow smile. “That mean something to you, does it?”
“I hope so,” I murmur. “I really hope so.” Because if I’m wrong, I’m about take a pointless bloody flight.
Griff
It’s hotter in France than it is back home. You’d think that’d be common sense, but we’re so close, right? As countries, I mean. There’s just a little strip of water between us, and we’ve spent centuries in and out of each other’s business. So, even though I knew things would be different here, I still wasn’t prepared.
I’m happy to be surprised, though. Happy to find myself in a place I couldn’t have imagined on my own. Next time, I’ll go somewhere even further away—and yes, there’s going to be a next time. Turns out, planes aren’t that intimidating, and people don’t stare at me as much as I thought they would, and my savings account is fairly healthy. I like it here, doing things I’ve never done, seeing things I’ve never seen. Like my view right now: I’m sitting on one of the benches placed throughout the hotel’s grounds, watching the sun set over the hills. Hot orange spills across neatly arranged vineyards, and for a moment, I don’t even mind how overpriced this place is. I’m too proud of myself for taking a risk, and doing it alone, too.
Without Olu.
Although, sometimes it doesn’t feel that way. I sort of see him everywhere. Like, when I arrived here, I remembered the way he’d described it and compared everything I saw to the memory of his voice. Even now, I see someone walking toward my bench from the corner of my eye, and some awful, hopeful voice in the back of my mind says, That’s Olu. The fine hairs on my arms stand up like an electric charge has washed over my skin, as if it’s actually him.
Then he says, “Griff,” and I almost fall off the bloody bench.
My head snaps to the side, and there he is: in a creased, pale blue suit that looks way better than it should, striding down the lane toward me, the sun’s last efforts lighting him up like a god. I freeze like I’m a rabbit and he’s headlights. What the fuck is he doing here? How is he here? Why is he here? My tongue feels too heavy to ask any of that, and my hands are grasping the bench tight enough to ache. I sort of want to throw something at him and run away, so I don’t have to face how much I love him or how much it hurts. But judging by Olu’s expression, if I really wanted to avoid him, I’d have to throw something pretty damn big.
Because he looks determined. And, even though I’m supposed to be furious with him, I can’t be. I just can’t. I’ve given up trying.
“Griff,” he says again, his voice hoarse. “You’re here.”
I set my jaw as he comes to stand beside me. “Obviously.” Snarky feels good right about now. I think I’ll keep it up.
He doesn’t look put off, though. Just hesitates, as if to make sure I’m not going to storm off, then sits down. There’s enough space for a whole Rebecca between us. And, now my brain’s working again, I’m pretty sure Rebecca is how he found me here—she’s a traitorous genius. But why is he here, when I’m so certain he only ever saw me as temporary? The words are stuck to my tongue, trapped inside my mouth.
Seeing Olu up close after trying so hard not to miss him is sort of like being hit in the gut. I lose all my air. He has dark circles under his eyes, and he seems thinner than usual, his suit not fitting quite as perfectly—but he’s still as beautiful as I remember. Wish he’d fucking stop that.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not really sure how to do this, so forgive me if I get it horribly wrong. But it seems pertinent to start with the fact that I’m sorry.”
I want to say, For what? but I might have stopped breathing.
Good thing he’s still going. “And now, of course, I’ll illustrate what I’m sorry for, so you’ll know that I—that it—that I know.” He’s staring at me so hard, I think I’d feel it even with my eyes closed. He takes a breath and rubs his palms against his thighs unsteadily. A soft, sweet feeling floods my chest, soothing the wounds that formed when he said he didn’t want me.
“I pushed you away,” Olu says. “I lied to you, when I said we were too much work. I’m sorry for acting as if there was nothing between us, when there’s everything. And I am so fucking sorry for hurting you, Griff.” His voice doesn’t waver, and neither does his gaze. “I want you to know that I only did it because—because I was struggling with myself, and I couldn’t believe that you might love me anyway. I’m not sorry for feeling that way, exactly, because dealing with those feelings is… part of me,” he says, as if the words are brand new and he’s still learning them. “So I can’t apologise for that. But I am sorry it made me lash out at you. Sorrier than I can say.”
Oh, fuck. My heart is aching like he just punched it, because suddenly, I don’t think Olu used me. I think he needed me more than I knew, and I was too hurt to notice. I replay the things he said to me that day, the wild look in his eyes that screamed Escape, and I see everything a little differently; it’s like pouring light into a shadowed room and watching the monsters melt back into furniture. The thing that looked like rejection was Olu’s pain. I always knew he had it, but in that moment, I didn’t see it.
Maybe I shouldn’t try this just yet, but I reach out and hold his hand. “Okay,” I say. “I’m sorry too. I’m sorry I believed the worst of you for even a second.”
Surprise flares in his eyes, and a tiny, cautious smile warms his face. “Oh. Really? I thought more grovelling might be required.”
The idea makes me scowl. “I don’t want you grovelling to anyone.”
He laughs. “Okay. Alright. I see. Well, then. Next up is the, er, request.”
I wonder if he’s written this down somewhere and spent a plane ride frantically memorising it. The thought makes me hold his hand tighter, maybe too tight. He doesn’t wince. He squeezes back.
Why does touching him feel so fucking good?
“I need you to know,” he says, “that I adore you. In fact, I—I love you. A lot. A ridiculous amount, really, but who am I to argue with, er, feelings?” He winces. His discomfort is a weight on my chest; the kind that comes from a huge dog trusting you enough to fall asleep there. “I love you,” he repeats, firmer now, “and you’re brilliant, you’re gorgeous, you’re perfect—for me. I think you’re perfect for me. So, I wanted to ask if you’d possibly give me another chance. Because I want you. I mean, forever. I—okay, that’s enough.” He nods sharply and presses his free hand into his thigh.
I can feel the force of his hope, his nerves, his regret. But beneath all that, I can feel myself: I’m stunned. And so happy I don’t know what to do with it. What happens when you’re overflowing with more fucking joy than you’ve ever felt in your life? It’s like an ocean in me, made up of I love you and You’re brilliant and Will you give me a chance? All the things I’ve ever secretly wanted, barely dared to hope for, never quite got around to expecting.
But I should’ve known to expect a lot from Olu.
“Griff,” he says suddenly, and his foot starts to tap. I think he does that when he’s nervous. “Do you want me to leave?”
“What? No!” I blurt.
“Oh.” The tapping stops. “Right. You just looked…” he laughs. “You’re thinking ferociously again.”
My smile is sheepish. “Sorry. No, I don’t want you to leave. I want you to know that I love you. And then I want you to kiss me.”
He sits up straight like I shoved a hot poker up his arse. Those winter-fir eyes, warm whenever they look at me, widen. “Oh. Well, then, I suppose I’d better—”
“Yeah, you’d better.” I grab him by the back of his neck and drag him closer, right where I want him, oh fuck that’s perfect. His thigh presses against mine and his hands grasp my shoulders, strong fingers twisting at my T-shirt. Then his mouth is there, hot and sweet and cautious. A hello kiss, the whisper-soft brush of skin on skin. An I missed you kiss, holding still and breathing each other’s air.
I whisper into his mouth, “Please don’t leave me again.”
“I won’t,” he says. “I won’t.”
“And I won’t stop loving you when things get hard. Please try to believe that. Because I’m going to prove it.” I press our foreheads together, let him feel my lips move against his. “You’re not a burden, Olu, not to anyone, and especially not to me. I know you’re depressed. I know you have bad thoughts sometimes. I know all that, and I love you as you are. I want you to feel better, but I love you as you are.”
His next breath shudders out of him. “And I love you.”
“It’s not a competition,” I say solemnly.
“If it was,” he tells me, “I would absolutely win.”
