Page 22 of A Wedding in a Week

I can’t help sniffing as he slides close again to click my seat belt safely fastened. He smooths it over my front the same way he smoothed the fabric of my sling, and like in the kitchen, I could easily do that for myself, but I let him. I also inhale again, trying to be subtle about breathing in a scent I can’t pinpoint apart from being pure Marc.

“How’s that?” he asks before pushing back hair that’s still damp from his post-chores shower, and I want to do the same—want to shove a hand through his hair so badly if that means I’ll get to hold him closer.

I want that more than breathing, aware he’s no closer to being out of my system than ever. Not even a little.

That’s the problem with a long-closed door between us swinging open again. Although maybe swing is an exaggeration—I’d caught a glimpse of what we’d be like together, that’s all, and I don’t only mean physically. Marc’s shown me more than how he’d fit in my arms, hasn’t he? Like our shared breakfast this morning, and our case-study conversations.

Only it’s more than shared time at a kitchen table or a few conversations for me, and it’s more than him finding my sling and wanting me to wear it. It’s a connection that clicks into place like my seat belt—one that isn’t only sexual, although my lips still tingle like my numb fingers each time I relive that kiss behind the feedstore. It’s more than a physical reaction to someone who kissed me like they meant it. It’s deeper, and I don’t know how or why. I only know I’ve glimpsed good parts of our past since we started talking—seen myself through his eyes, and that’s addictive.

I’m a success to him, not a failure. Someone who’s kept this place going, not almost run it into the ground. I’m also a gateway to a job that would make him happy, and I want that so much I make a quick mental calculation.

Numbers aren’t my strong point, but I’m pretty sure I only have five more days to make it happen.

I’ve got to.

I’ll have to go all out because his phone chimes as a reminder that I’m not the only person who triggers the smile that drives me—I recognise the chime of that dating app, and I stiffen.

At least Marc ignores that ping. Instead, he asks, “How’s that, Stef?”

He hasn’t slid back to the driver’s seat yet, still close enough to see me blink, unsure of what he’s asking.

“Your seat belt,” he reminds me. “Is it okay? Not bothering your arm?”

I shake my head, mute as he touches the fabric of the sling again like he can’t help it. He traces the contour of my forearm, the curve of my elbow, his touch so light I barely feel it. He also leans in, and I instantly regret saying, “It’s fine,” when that means he’s gone, fumbling the car keys as if flustered.

He starts the engine, which roars to life, and he drives us away from the farm. Most of me is glad I’m not driving so I can watch him. The rest of me regrets that I don’t have the steering wheel to clutch—that could at least excuse my whitening knuckles. Not that Marc drives too fast.

It’s me.

Barring medical checkups, I’ve been landlocked on the farm for weeks now.

Did I prickle with sweat the last time I was driven in this direction? I don’t remember, but that first week or so at home is still a confused, concussed blur where I kept thinking I must be dreaming to have Lukas home. Marc, too.

Now I’m wide awake and hyperfixated on each sea-glimpse along the coast road, on each lay-by where tourists slow to snatch scenic photos, and on what waits only a hop, skip, and jump from the roadside. Or one rolled vehicle away, at least.

“You okay?” Marc asks after a few minutes.

“Yes.” Or I will be the moment this road straightens. We’re on a stretch that curves, following the cliff’s contours. That means we’re almost at the same spot where I nearly went over the edge, and I regret eating so much breakfast.

I must look green around the gills the next time Marc glances over. “Want me to stop?”

“Fuck no.”

Stopping on this stretch might tempt fate a second time.

I can’t risk that. Not if that means Marc being collateral damage.

“Keep going.” I swallow, aware he glances my way again. “Don’t look at me.” That must come out with a snap. For a split second I glimpse a version of Marc I’ve done my best to forget.

Rejection still looks awful on him.

He didn’t ever deserve it from me. He doesn’t now, not after being so helpful, and not after the other ways we’ve reconnected. That means I make myself do what I’m worst at.

I talk.

“I didn’t mean that, Marc. Sorry.”

“Which part? The part when you told me to keep going or the part where you told me not to look at you?”

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