Page 132 of For Real

It’s so weird watching him like that, just being Laurie, in this grotty little caff.

He’s probably going to encore by turning a pumpkin into a carriage for me.

He’s talking to Ruby now, agreeing to—or basically, telling her—a numbering system for the tables. It’s not the one we normally use, but honestly, it’s probably an improvement. And the next thing I know, Ruby’s back in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, and she’s doing the dishes in a slightly haphazard but still better than nothing way. And I can hear Laurie’s voice in the caff, like I’m attuned to it, even if I don’t know exactly what he’s saying.

He appears at the service hatch, jug of coffee in one hand, a stack of orders in the other, which he feeds into the grabber. “Two full English, one with no black pudding, one with extra sausage. One cheese-and-bacon omelette. One chips and a portion of hash browns.”

For a moment, I’m frozen. And then…I’m not.

Everything is simple again.

Two full English, one with no black pudding, one with extra sausage. One cheese-and-bacon omelette. One chips and a portion of hash browns.

I can…I can do that.

And I do. And while I’m cooking I tug on the slider, so I can occasionally glance at the little piece of paper fluttering above my head. I don’t actually need the reminder, but I like having Laurie—okay, yeah, his handwriting—so close to me. He’s neat for a doctor, but maybe he’s just being extra specially careful. He’s put the table number in a little box at the top right, all precise.

The next orders come in quickly, Laurie calling them out to me as he sends me the slips, but it’s okay, I’ve got this. The truth is, with Laurie around I feel I can do anything.5

And that’s kind of scary too, in its way.

When the first order is ready, I arrange the plates in the hatch and ding the bell, and because I’m feeling almost whole enough to be silly, I call out, “Service!”

Laurie’s over in an instant, and for a moment our eyes catch over a pair of full English breakfasts, and he smiles at me.

This man I tied up on his kitchen table while I baked a lemon meringue pie. Who nearly let me hurt him in public. Who can’t seem to stop finding ways to give me himself.

I…don’t know what I’ve done to…get this. How I can possibly be what he wants? Especially now that I’ve basically had hysterics into some mayonnaise. Well, near some mayonnaise, but that doesn’t exactly make it better.

The thing is, it was just easier to believe in good stuff when Granddad was around. But he’s gone, and now there’s just me, and who’s going to be proud of me when there’s nothing to be proud of? The pieces of me and the pieces of him are all in boxes at the hospice. I need to go pick us up, but I don’t want to see what two lives look like.

Things are running pretty close to normally after an hour or so. I’m knackered and sweaty, and I still want to be…God…Laurie’d called it home.

So yeah. I want to be at home with Laurie.

Home sounds even better than Paris.

I can’t quite believe Laurie’s the same guy who freaked out at taking me sixty miles up the country. But even if he does still want to sweep me off somewhere, there’s no way I’ll be able to get time off. Also, I have exactly £57.29 in my bank account right now.

I really have been living in a crazy bubble, so obsessed with wanting Laurie and winning Laurie, I didn’t stop and think how it was going to work. Like, he wants to go on romantic holidays, and I can barely afford to take him to KFC.

At one point, Greasy Joe stomps downstairs, ready to rip me a new one, discovers everything’s fine, grunts, and then goes away again, totally failing to notice there’s a complete stranger working in his caff. Because that’s how he rolls.

Once we’ve dealt with the breakfast/brunch rush, Laurie sends Ruby to clear and takes over the washing up. And I feel fucking terrible.

He’s a doctor—no, a consultant. He went to Oxford. And now he’s up to his elbows in dirty plates and Fairy Liquid. All because of me.

I leave the griddle, so horribly aware I’m flushed and spotty and deeply unattractive right now. “You don’t have to do that. We’re okay.”

“I’m not going until you’re coming with me.”

“Yeah, but…” I tug on his elbow, trying to stop him. “You shouldn’t be doing that shit. You’re like…too good for it.”

“Toby, do you think I got to the age of thirty-seven without ever washing dishes?” He turns and piles a few bubbles on the end of my nose. Should be cute, right, but it just breaks what’s left of my fucking heart. “I can work a menial job for a day. It’s fine.”

That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? I nearly tell him I work this menial job every day, but then Ruby’s at the hatch.

“Somebody wants to know if you can, like, make…a…” Her brows pull together.

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