Page 7 of A Wedding in a Week

Marc almost drops his phone. He does drop his T-shirt and the hose again, his lively expression shuttering, and I regret opening my mouth. I also regret the way he looks anywhere but at me, but at least seeing it happen right in front of my eyes forces me to take action. I shut off the hose at the feed store tap, striding back to do what I should have done three years ago.

“Sorry.” I picture Lukas rolling his eyes at me, so I try harder. “I am, Marc. Really sorry.”

And here’s another thing I’d almost forgotten until Marc shows me—for all that he shutters quickly he’s even faster at reopening.

His smile returns, and him aiming it directly at me instead of at my brother is all kinds of compelling. It’s like standing in sunshine after winter, or next to a magnet that draws me close like it did during his last summer visit.

Like a magnet?

No. We’d orbited each other, and I’m still not sure which of us took turns to be moon or planet.

It doesn’t matter now, so I say, “Sorry,” again because it’s my own fault I’d forgotten the tug of attraction between us.

It’s as strong as ever. Or at least it’s still as strong for me.

That makes speaking tricky. Gritty. I’m nowhere as wordy as I should be given I was the one who told him no in the first place. “Sorry,” I say one last time. “Forget that I asked what you were doing. That was nosy of me. You don’t have to tell me.”

“No worries.” Marc glances at his phone and then at me, and now that there’s less than a foot between us, I don’t have to guess how awkward he must feel around me without Lukas as a buffer. I can see it as clear as the water that still trickles down his chest. I hear it in his voice as well. “It… It isn’t anything important.” He starts to slip his phone away again, only for it to chime once more.

His gaze is drawn back to the screen as though whoever is messaging him is his magnet these days, not me.

I glimpse a text conversation that I’m suddenly convinced must be what Lukas promised—Marc isn’t messaging his brother. He’s on that app where he really has matched with someone who’s a good fit for him, a better one than me, regardless of that benchmark Lukas mentioned.

I missed my chance with him.

I won’t get another.

There’s nothing wrong with my heart. I dodged that genetic bullet, so there’s no reason for it to choose now to hammer, or to switch to a wild and thumping gallop, and with no one left to run interference between me and Marc, I can’t avoid the reason.

No one’s ever measured up to him for me either.

3

I don’t know what realising that does to my face. All I know is that Marc sees it the moment he looks up from his phone. Then he does something else I’d almost forgotten—he takes a deep breath, squaring his jaw like he did every time Dad gave him a new challenge. It didn’t matter if it was learning how to balance feed sacks on a quad bike or how to slide down the hayloft ladder, it meant he’d face what was coming head-on. Like now.

“I just told you a lie.” Marc turns his phone to face me. “I said this wasn’t important.” He means the conversation on its screen, and it is a conversation he scrolls through before passing his phone to me. “But it could be important. Look.”

This chain of messages is also sprinkled with photos, only not of naked torsos. I see shots that a stranger has sent to Marc. They’re of Cornwall—of the sea and of the moors—all the things I know he likes. It’s way more personal than the simple exchange of times and locations I used to swap with my own online strangers.

My hand curls around evidence that Lukas was right, Marc has found someone on his wavelength, and my knuckles whiten. Maybe he takes that as some kind of judgement—he sounds a touch defensive. “Yes, it’s a dating app, but it’s not just for finding some random to bang. I did plenty of that at uni.” I shouldn’t feel gutted by that. Of course he’s had a life away from the farm, one he doesn’t veer away from explaining now. “That was good when I was busy, right? Fun when I only had time for casual.” He tilts his chin. “This app’s different.”

“How?”

“Because it’s designed for friendship, at least at first. For finding someone compatible.”

That pokes at that same tender spot in my chest that John prodded by calling Marc ours. He’s not going to be ours for much longer if the length of the conversation on this phone is anything to go by. He’s going to be someone else’s, and soon.

Marc leans close and scrolls some more. “Read this.” He picks up his dropped shirt, drying himself with it. That distracts me from looking at what he must want me to see on his phone. When I do refocus, I can’t make sense of what I’m reading. “What’s your opinion on Cornish pasties?” I say aloud. “That’s what you’re asking to decide if someone’s—”

“Compatible with me?” Marc’s nod is a short, sharp movement, nothing like the old easy agreement I remember. “Partly.” He takes the phone back.

I can’t help asking, “Cornish pasties though?”

“Yes.” Now there’s a hint of something else in his glance, not brittle or defensive. Not warm with his gentle humour either. I see a wistfulness I now realise belongs to our last summer together. I hear it too. “I missed your mum’s cooking. Emma always made brilliant pasties.” He adds, “Proper homemade shortcrust pastry full of peppery meat and veg,” as if I didn’t grow up eating them alongside him. Still, he continues with more detail. “Hers are what I think of as authentically Cornish. Not pasties like this.”

He shows me a photo his match sent him. It’s of a convenience-store version, and nothing about it looks appetising. Marc’s nose even wrinkles and I can’t say I blame it. The real deal is hard to beat, so much better than anything shop-bought and wrapped in plastic, which is why I snort. I can’t help it. I’m offended on behalf of my county that this offering has the word Cornish printed on its wrapper. I’m also offended that this is anyone’s version of good enough for Marc.

Maybe that shows. His lips twitch and he scrolls to another question on his phone, turning it to show me what else he’s asked his match.

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