Page 111 of That Reunited Feeling

The soul-crushing pain in my chest and the constant churning in my stomach will go away eventually. It always does.

33

TOM

“I

t’s a bit like back home around here,” Hugo says, gazing ahead of us along Blythewell’s Main Street. “Apart from the snow. And the temperatures low enough to freeze the nuts off a badger.” He wraps his arms around himself for dramatic effect. “I’ve never been so bloody cold in my life. Why the hell does anyone live here?”

It was a complete surprise when he called to say he was in Boston on business and asked if I was around for a visit. Since I wasn’t in the mood for a trip to the city, I invited him up here for a couple nights.

Eager to have my brain occupied with non-Hannah-related matters since she left four weeks ago, having him here is a welcome distraction.

I haven’t seen her since the night she and I got back from London—the night she made it clear she thought I was a giant mistake. I took off for New York the next morning and stayed with Walker until Maggie gave me the all clear that she’d gone.

And since then, I’ve done exactly what I came here tonotdo—work. So much for the rest and relaxation. But the more I can stuff my head with things to take my mind off the gnawing feeling in my chest and gut that I’ve lost the greatest thing that ever happened to me, the better.

Bedtime, when I’m alone in the quiet with nothing but my own thoughts, is the worst. I do my best to drown them out with true crime podcasts. But while I try to fill my head with tales of nineteenth century poisonings and modern-day reversals of miscarriages of justice, when sleep finally comes, the image I inevitably drift off to is that of Hannah’s face on the pillow next to me, lashes fluttering, an almost-smile forming on her lips.

This afternoon, because Hugo has to walk every day as part of his knee rehab, we’ve strolled into town with the incentive of stopping off at The Frisky Ferret for a beer on the way back.

“Yeah, there’s a very British influence,” I say of the rows of brick and stone buildings on either side of the street, each with charming signs or canopies. The shiny new pink-and-yellow striped awning of Choc Full of Love stands out a little way ahead of us—I might have to cross the street to avoid the memories in there. And at the very center, on an island in the middle of the road, is the tall, old, wooden clock tower decorated with hand-carved flowers.

“Elliot told me the village was named after an English guy. Mr. Blythe, I guess,” I say. “Hence Maggie and Jim’s house is Blythe Manor. Apparently, he built it in a lovesick attempt to try to get an Irish woman to move over and marry him.”

“I’d have moved over and married him for that place,” Hugo says, stuffing his hands into the pockets of Jim’s spare parka. The wool jacket he wears around London just didn’t cut it in late February in New Hampshire. “It’s fucking gorgeous. What a top bunch of blokes you are to get them something like that.”

“They weren’t sure about it at first. Thought it was too big. Love it now, though. And the thing they like most is when we’re all there. I don’t doubt they’re desperate to have a horde of grandkids running around, playing hide-and-seek all over the house and chasing each other in that massive garden.”

My mind spools through a home movie of us sitting around the dining table for a huge Christmas dinner, with each of our partners at our sides. The person next to me? Hannah, of course. In the background are the happy laughs and squeals of kids spread out on the floor, playing with their new gifts. Dylan tries to keep them all in order, particularly his little sister. Or is it a brother?

“So, yeah,” I continue. “They generally just love to share it.”

“I should pick up a thank-you gift while we’re out.” Tough on the outside, softy on the inside, that’s Hugo. “What do they like?”

“Anything related to wine or scotch for Jim. Anything related to plants or the garden for Maggie. Actually”—I point to the shop we’re approaching—“that’s the perfect place for something for Mags. Anything from there will make her happy.”

I instinctively follow Hugo into Find Your Roots but stop when my stomach lurches as I step over the threshold. “Actually…I’ll…wait outside. I have to…um…make a quick call.”

“Scared to show your face in here, Tom Dashwood?” Hannah’s cousin, Jude, pops up from behind a display of greenery.

Shit. I thought I was escaping before she’d seen me. I wasn’t certain Hannah would have told her what happened. But I am now.

“Well, hello,” Hugo says, sidling up to her with a glint in his eye and the smile that always means trouble.

“Oh. Hi.” Jude fixes him with a suspicious look. “Can I help you with something?”

Hugo winks. “I could probably come up with a list.”

Jude rolls her eyes.

“But for now,” he continues, “I’ll settle for advice on a thank-you gift.”

“Who’s it for?” Jude sniffs and folds her arms across her apron bib.

“The aunt of the pariah over there.” He looks at me and raises his voice. “Makes a nice change for you to be the one people are pissed off with, huh, Tom?”

Hugo’s still stinging from the way the British press have portrayed him as the man who let the football-mad country down by getting injured in training (not his fault), for thumping a reporter (totally his fault), and unceremoniously dumping one of the nation’s most beloved English rose singer-songwriters by text (absolutely his fault). She did write a song about it, though. And it got to number one. So she made sure the world knows he pulled a dick move, and she got some good revenge therapy.

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