Page 4 of That Reunited Feeling

“You must be in a bit of a state,” she says as she marches off along the hallway, “to not know the difference between the doors to the landing and the bathroom.”

She tosses me a look over her shoulder.

Thatlook.

The one from half a lifetime ago.

2

HANNAH

It’s like there’s a screaming gorilla in my chest, pounding at my ribcage, desperate to escape.

I manage to maintain a relatively normal pace down the hall, but as soon as I hit the stairs and am out of Tom’s view, I race down them like I’m running away from a ghost—the ghost of the person who shattered my heart into a thousand pieces, mashed it into the ground, then threw it into the trash.

Seventeen years, and not a peep out of him.

When I took this job, I’d just left a shitty relationship and was staying with Jude, helping her out in the shop while I wait for my friend Rachel’s new house in LA to be finished. Rachel and her husband are building a huge place with a guesthouse where I can set up home for a bit. There are good reasons to go to LA—not least, as Rachel said, that it would be a way to leave the past behind.

And yet my past is right here, smacking me in the face, while naked and clutching its balls.

At the bottom of the stairs, I don’t turn left to the kitchen where I can hear Maggie puttering about. I head straight for the front door.

Along with the job, Maggie offered me their guest suite that’s attached to the side of the house. Staying in Jude’s tiny apartment had been a tight squeeze, so being able to move here was perfect.

Perfect because Tom was three thousand miles away.

Maggie had mentioned he’d be over briefly just before Christmas for their eldest son Max’s wedding, but reassured me he’d be staying at Max’s place in upstate New York. So I knew there was no danger of me seeing him then. And since she’d already mentioned that he rarely visits the US, the chance of him returning before I’m long gone was almost zero.

And yet here he is, just three weeks later.

And not just here, but here and naked.

Holy shit, he’s grown into one fine figure of a man. Not that I haven’t seen pictures of him online—of course I read about how he started a music label in the garage of his other aunt and uncle’s house in London and turned it into a billion-dollar international empire.

And of course I’d looked at photos of him with famous bands—the images of a smiling, sexy global music mogul were lightyears away from the high-schooler I knew.

And he’s definitely not a gangly teenager anymore. His shoulders were always broad and square, but now they’re filled out with curves of solid muscle. His chest was always wide, but now his pecs dip into a valley dusted with the fine fair hairs that glinted in the morning sunlight on the landing. And his legs were always long, but now they have power and strength to them.

And God only knows how all the business he was holding in his hands has changed. I didn’t manage to get a good look beforehe grabbed the whole package as if he feared I was carrying a sharp knife.

I fold my arms across my chest, bracing against the cold air that instantly makes my eyes water, and trot across the gravel to my temporary home.

I’ve often run through what I’d do if I saw Tom again, what I’d say. These fantasies usually involved me being in a band he was desperate to sign and me defiantly refusing, or swishing away from him in a fancy dress at an awards show where I’d picked up half a dozen trophies and he’d won none.

What they didnotinvolve was me yelling at his fully exposed form in the hallway of his aunt and uncle’s house about ghosting me. Nor him—weirdly, given the circumstances—sharing his apparently strong feelings about LA.

And they definitely didn’t involve me running away, angry gorilla in my chest, throat and eyes burning, to pack up everything and get as far away from him as possible.

But I guess seventeen years of carrying around a heavy heartbreak takes its toll.

I can’t be around Tom. I can’t. I can’t be around the reminder of how much he hurt me. I can’t be forced to look at him and know I can’t have him. Not that I want him. I mean, who in their right mind would want someone who treated them that badly?

I have to get away.

I hurtle through the door to the beautiful little guest suite I’d felt so lucky to have, but now can’t wait to leave, pulling my phone from my back pocket.

It takes my trembling hands a couple tries, but I squeeze out a text to Jude.

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