Page 30 of Still Falling for You

I throw him an unamused side glance because I refuse to look away from the gathering flock of animals.

A few goats start marching stiffly towards me, unable to decide whether I’m a friend or foe. The hunger must win because, within a few seconds, those few brave goats venture all the way to me and start munching on the hay pellets.

Tentatively, I stroke the closest black-and-white goat. Its head feels bony to touch, and its fur coarse against my palm, like an old rug. But it’s strangely comforting. From my peripheral vision, I can see Alex is grinning. It completely transforms his face.

‘Not a word,’ I grind out.

This isn’t too bad. For a few moments, it’s sort of nice, and I understand why the children are enjoying this so much. That is until the rest of the herd and the few goats being fed by the children decide they want the contents of my bucket too. As one, they set into motion with the sole purpose of reaching the source of food, determination glazing their eyes and speeding their hoofed legs. In my panicked mind, Kelis’Milkshakestartsplaying on a loop.

I shrink back, the bucket rattling loudly. I take another step back, but the heel of my boot catches on a tree stump. Pellets fly in all directions, hitting me and Alex like an apocalyptic meteor shower. Everything slows down. I start toppling backwards, but Alex’s hand snatches my elbow just before I connect with the ground. The movement propels me sideways. I ram my knee into the stump, and I slam into the dirt, taking Alex with me. All I feel is a sharp sting of pain across my shin and the heavy weight of Alex’s body crushing me whilst his arms shield me from the goats that descend on us like vultures and pick at the pellets between our tangled bodies. It’s like Hitchcock’sThe Birdsbut instead of birds, we’re pecked to death by domesticated ruminant mammals with backwards-curving horns and crossed eyes.

Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in a dingy utility room being nursed by Alex who is also, to my luck, the designated first aider for the trip. Straight after we picked ourselves up, I realised that not only did I cut my shin open, but I also managed to twist my ankle. All the adults gathered around me like I was an invalid. I flatly refused Alex carrying me into the house, so I had to hobble with Alex and John on either side, scooping me up like I was a bunch of bananas. Danielle didn’t look very pleased about the fact that both of their attentions were on me and not her. I wasn’t particularly pleased that the attention was on me full stop.

Now, the silence of the utility room is pressing against my ears. Everything here smells of mud and bleach. One of the only two plastic chairs in the room is propping my leg that is currently strapped up tight and iced. The other chair is digging painfully into my bottom. I try not to fidget but being thrust into a small space with Alex again makes me fidgety because I just don’t know how it’s going to go. Are we going to shout at each other, share jokes from the past, be coolly hostile to each otheror pretend that the other doesn’t exist? Just thinking about the multiple possibilities is giving me whiplash.

My gaze keeps getting dragged to his previously immaculate jumper that, even now splattered with mud and grime, fits his solid torso too well for my comfort. His jumper must have gotten soiled when I took him down with me. He should be angry with me, but instead, he’s collected. Alex in crisis has always been solution-focused and level-headed. That was one thing I loved about him. I flinch at my internal monologue.

I watch as he takes the slightly beaten first-aid kit out from a wooden cabinet attached to the wall and starts rifling through it. I shamelessly study his profile because I haven’t had a chance to watch him unobserved since our reunion. I’ve always thought his profile was full of contrasts, a sharp nose and cheeks sloping down to the softest, pinkest mouth, together creating delicate features offset by a freckled complexion. I used to dream of those freckles.

He must find what he’s been searching for because his expression turns victorious like he’s hit the jackpot on a fruit machine.

To my dismay, he kneels in front of me. I blink in confusion until it dawns on me he intends to nurse me himself. It was enough I had to let him strap my ankle, but because there was no contact of skin as I kept my sock on, I just about managed it. But I draw a line right here and shake my head vigorously, my short hair sending additional mud flying around the room and onto him.

‘I categorically refuse.’ I snatch the non-alcoholic wipe from his waiting hand and try to shift sideways which is a feat of its own with one leg propped up. Even though the contact didn’t last more than a second, I registered the heat pouring from his hand to mine; Alex has always run a few degrees higher. Where my hands are ice blocks, his body is a self-sustaining kiln. He doesn’t budge, and his knee blocks my side so unless I want mythigh to touch his leg, I have no choice but to surrender.

‘I’m capable of doing it myself. Thank you very much,’ I snap.

His expression turns unreadable for a moment until something that resembles amusement flickers across his features. ‘OK,’ he announces calmly, staying put. There’s a challenge at the curve of his lips. ‘I’ll wait.’

‘I will manage, but I require some privacy. This isn’t First Aid Challenge onBlue Peter– I don’t need an audience.’ I sound petulant, but it rubs me the wrong way when he’s being smug.

He shifts in his position but doesn’t get up. His legs must be getting stiff, but he’s stubborn. ‘The fact that you haven’t so far managed to roll up your trouser leg and look at the cut tells me a lot about how you’re planning onmanagingit.’

I won’t admit out loud I was planning on ignoring it and pocketing the cute red and blue plaster for tougher times or for a tougher Holly who would be OK with looking at blood without fainting.

He smells my bullshit straight away, like a truffle hog finding a particularly large growth of the expensive tubers. ‘Admit it. You weren’t going to put a plaster on the cut, were you? Or even look at it.’

‘Maybe I was.’ I lean against the back of the chair, trying to gain some distance. I don’t like being cornered. ‘Maybe I wasn’t. None of your business either way.’ I go in with a directly offensive tone because one never plays darts without intending to hit a bullseye.

‘It’s my business. Because if you get an infection because of an untreated scratch and they have to amputate your leg because you weretoo chickento check it, I might be liable for not giving you first aid.’ Did he really call me chicken or am I delirious because of potential infection coursing through my body? I’ll never know because I’m not going to look at the cut.

‘I’m notchicken,’ I spit out, but there’s no real spite in it because I think he’s having fun at my expense. ‘It’s called hemophobia, and it’s a real thing.’ It occurs to me he’s being almost human here and wonder at the change from the cold, hostile Alex I have encountered for the last few weeks. What has gotten into him?

‘Fair point,’ he acknowledges and snatches the wipe from me again while I’m preoccupied. ‘Ready?’

Before I have a chance to react, he grabs the jean leg, tugs at the end so my foot slips between his and starts rolling up the trousers. ‘Look away if you must,’ he orders, but I’m so fascinated by his hands that I’m deathly still.

A thought occurs to me. Have I shaved my legs? A part of me hopes that I haven’t shaved them for at least a year so as soon as he sees the growth, he lets go and leaves me in peace, but no luck. My calf is as smooth as a baby’s bottom and there’s blood trickling from a long cut located under my knee. I gulp heavily, my sight spinning. Then my eyes shift to his freckled hands, and I wonder at how gently they’re holding my leg in place, and that’s all it takes to redirect me; I’m like a baby being presented with a brightly coloured rattle. His hands have always been my fetish. And he knows that. We both stare at where we are touching, white against slightly tanned skin. Multiple entities like butterflies flutter in my heart cavities, making them convulse. I get light-headed, but this time, I have a feeling it has nothing to do with the blood.

Alex coughs awkwardly, stopping my dangerous thoughts. ‘What is it about the goats? I have never seen anyone this panicked about goats.’

I think he’s trying to distract me, and it’s working because I can’t stop myself and spill the truth.

‘I guess I’ve developed a lifelong distrust of galloping goats after Auntie Eugenie’s pet goat Mabel rammed me into a freshly painted picket fence. I only had one pair of jeans and ended upwalking with the print of the fence on my bottom for four days. All the neighbouring children started calling me the Zebra Girl. I was twelve, the tender age when nobody wants to be called the Zebra Girl. Plus, their eyes unnerve me.’ I shudder.

He shakes his head in disbelief. He disposes of the used wipe in the sanitary bin and inspects the cut to see whether there’s anything wedged in it.

‘I don’t think goats are capable of galloping. That’s more of a horse thing.’ Is he mocking me? Once again, I wonder why he’s being almost nice. Maybe he has a split personality disorder I never knew about. It would explain a lot.

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