The Bringer
Page 16

I look down at the flaky pastry before me, assessing it.
“Do you not like croissants?” he asks. “I can get you something else, if you want?”
“No, I like them just fine.” I pick the croissant up and tear a small piece off, looking at it sitting there stodgily between my fingertips. It really does smell heavenly, if only I could eat it. I glance up to find James’ eyes on me. He smiles. I smile back, and I know it comes off as an awkward smile.
I really need a distraction of some kind.
I begin pulling bits of the croissant off, attempting to project that I’m doing so in an absent-minded manner, placing them casually around my plate as I say, “I know I’m not allowed to thank you anymore,” I smile warmly, praying this will lead his thoughts away from the fact I’m not eating, “but I want you know that I really do appreciate all of this, James, everything you’re doing for me.”
He laughs, pausing to swallow the food in his mouth. “Well I know I’m not supposed to say, ‘but you saved my life, Lucyna, it’s the least I can do’ – but you did and it is.”
“I know but I’ve just come in here and invaded your life.” I rest my foot up on the edge of my chair, dropping the remaining part of the croissant back onto the plate.
“Invade away.” He looks directly at me, eyes on mine. The air suddenly becomes thick between us. And there it is again, that possibility, the possibility that he maybe just might . . . “I was just rattling around in this big house on my own anyway,” he adds, cutting right into my thoughts, removing his eyes from mine.
“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” I ask, keeping my eyes on his face.
He looks back to me and shrugs. “Haven’t met the right girl, I guess. I mean I’ve had a few relationships in my time but none of them ever stuck.”
Ignoring the stab of pain I feel at the thought of James and other women, I say, “She’ll be out there somewhere, you know, the right girl, probably just waiting for you to notice her.” Hinting, wanting to shout out that it’s me, Lucyna, the one sitting right in front of you, the one who loves you above all else. Well, okay, maybe I’m not exactly the right girl, but I want to be, so that has to count for something, doesn’t it?
“Maybe.” He picks his coffee up and takes a long drink, and puts it down, his fingers tapping the handle, eyes firmly fixed on it. “Well, I did think maybe . . .” he trails off, leaving his words hanging in the air.
“You thought what?” I prompt, linking my fingers together around my knee.
His face breaks into a sheepish smile. “Well there was this one girl – from ages ago, who . . . well she was amazing, really great. Different to all the others. And – well for a brief time I thought maybe . . .” He shrugs, fingers now fiddling with the half-eaten croissant in front of him. “But it just wasn’t meant to be.” His face lifts, a positive smile now firmly adhered to his lips as he adds, “So I’ve been meaning to tell you that it’s my birthday this Friday and I’m having a bit of a party.” And once again, just like that, the subject slips away, and this time I’m thankful because the last thing I need to hear about is the one-time almost love of his life. I’m not even sure why I started this conversation off to begin with anyway.
“How old will you be?” I ask.
“Thirty-two.”
“Thirty-two,” I echo. It’s funny I’ve never even thought before about how old James is. Or should I say how young he is.
“Yeah, I know I’m getting old.” He laughs, adding, before putting the remainder of the croissant in his mouth, “How old are you, Lucyna, if you don’t mind me asking?”
His question throws me. It’s not like I can say well I’m roughly about . . . okay well I don’t know exactly how old I am because when you’ve been around as long as I have you don’t really tend to keep count but, put it this way, if you think thirty-two’s old then I’m . . . archaic. But seriously, how do I even answer his question? I’m not entirely sure how old I look for a human. So with quick thinking I say the only thing I can think to say, “I’m thirty-two, same as you.” I paste a smile on hoping to come across as genuine.
He looks surprised. “You don’t look it,” he says. “I had you pegged at about twenty-five, twenty-six.”
Maybe I should have said that but I guess it’s too late now. “Well you look really good,” he adds. “Unlike me. Too many days spent out in the sun.” He rubs his hand over his face.
“I think you look . . . well – just fine.” I keep my opinion brief, withholding my true thoughts that I think he’s beautiful beyond belief.
He grins. “Thanks – I think. So what do you think to the party, then?”
“Well . . . I think parties are nice,” I nod, not really sure what he’s looking for from me.
He does that eyebrow raising grin I’ve noticed he does a lot around me. “Good, so you’ll be here for it, then?”
“I’m invited?”
“Of course you are!” He laughs loudly, eyes amused, and nudges my bare foot under the table with his, skin on skin, sending a thrill running up my leg. “As if I’d have a party and say, right well off you go, then, make yourself scarce for the night. God, you crack me up, Lucyna!” He shakes his head, still laughing.
I can feel my face prickling with embarrassment. I will it not to go red but there’s no stopping it, so I look down and set to task shredding the final part of my croissant.
He nudges my foot again, forcing my eyes up to his. “I know you won’t know anyone there, but Sara and Neil are coming so there are two friendly faces, and of course there’s me.”
Well I wouldn’t put 'Sara' and 'friendly' in the same sentence. And I don’t know why but I instantly felt irked the moment he mentioned her name.
“So are you and Sara getting on okay now, after yesterday?” I ask, trying not to sound as brittle as I feel.
He shrugs. “Well, I haven’t spoken to her since then but, yeah, we’ll be fine.”
“That’s good.” I stand. “Have you finished?” I waggle my outstretched fingers toward his empty plate.
He looks up at me. “Oh, er, yeah, thanks.” He puts the plate in my hand, his fingers grazing against mine. I ignore the sensation it creates and put his and my plate and cup onto the tray.
“Not hungry?” He nods toward my plate that’s neatly arranged with shredded croissant.
“Sorry, no.” And I ignore the inquiring look he gives as I hasten to make my exit back into the house before he can question me further.
Chapter 9
Teardrops
“James?”
He looks up from the bowl he’s filling with crisps. His eyes instantly widen in his gaze. “Wow. Look at you. I mean you look . . .” He shakes his head, seemingly lost for words. “You look great – really great.”
A feeling of utter bliss trickles through me, setting my skin aglow. I glance down at the dress I’m wearing, the beautiful blue dress that James picked out that day he took me shopping.
“I knew it’d suit you,” he adds nodding. “The colour really brings out your eyes.” He shakes his head and laughs. “And I also know how incredibly lame that just sounded.”
I smooth my hand over the silky fabric. “Not lame – nice. Thanks.”
I run my eyes over him, taking in the black v-neck jumper he’s wearing down to the dark blue jeans cut up the leg to accommodate his pot, us both dressed in our best clothes ready for his birthday party. “You look – well . . . great too,” I add, as my eyes travel back up to his face to find his still on mine and, when they meet, he grins and we both laugh.
But although we're laughing, I know it’s forced, manufactured in some way, because if truth be told things have been – well strange between us for the last few days, and I’m not really sure just when, or why, it started – I simply all of a sudden realised.
I can’t even put my finger on exactly what it is that’s changed because, on the surface, we talk as normal and spend time together as normal. Everything as normal. But underneath all the normality there’s an obvious layer of tension. The air between us is so thick and dense, I’m sure if I just reached out and poked at it with my finger, I’d make a dent. I have no idea where it’s come from or how to make it go away.
I’ve wanted to say something to him, wanted to ask him if he feels it too, but every time I’ve attempted to do so, something’s stopped me, held me back.
“Is there anything else that needs doing?” I ask, knowing there probably isn’t as I helped him prepare earlier - well I mainly did the shopping for the food and alcohol.
He shakes his head as he rips open a bag of peanuts with his teeth and pours them into a waiting bowl. “Nope, all sorted.” He picks some peanuts out of the bowl and pops them in his mouth.
I lean against the edge of the kitchen cupboard, arm resting on the cool marble surface. Our eyes meet. I look away, suddenly feeling jittery, and the only sound in the room is the crunch, crunch of the nuts as he chews them.
Like I said, things are – strange.
At that moment, thankfully, the doorbell rings.
He looks past me toward the hallway. “I’ll get that.” He throws the empty peanut wrapper into the bin on his way and brushes past me heading through the door, his arm stroking mine, setting off such a combustible amount of heat and energy surging through me that it nearly knocks me off my feet. I curl my fingers around the edge of the work surface to steady myself and glance down at my bare arm, feeling sure for a moment there that my skin was actually on fire.
James introduces me to his friends – Jack, Lewis and Anna. As I discover, James plays Sunday football with Jack and Lewis, and Anna is Lewis’s girlfriend – or a football widow as she puts it. We all make our way out into the garden as it’s such a warm summers evening, and it’s not long before more people arrive and the garden is buzzing with the sound of music and chatter.
I’m stood lingering near the rosebushes, holding a half empty glass of wine pretending to drink it, when Neil comes through the back door with a bottle of beer in his hand. I had been talking with Anna but she went off to use the bathroom.
He smiles widely when he sees me. “Hey, Lucyna, nice to see you again. So how’s our lifesaver doing?” He walks over to me, covering the gap in a few strides.
“I’m really well, thanks. How are you?”
“Yeah, I’m good, ta.” He takes a swig of beer. “How you finding it living here with James? He as much a slave driver at home as he is at work?” He grins, brushing his blonde hair out of his eyes.
I shake my head and smile up at him. “No, James is really great to live with.”
We fall silent. I glance down at my wine glass. Neil takes another drink of his beer. “So whereabouts is it you’re originally from then, Lucyna?” he asks, and puts the bottle back to his lips, this time taking a long drink, all the while keeping his friendly blue eyes on mine.