Page 55 of That One Moment

“I couldn’t handle their worried looks and constant need to help. So, I started pretending and lying - to them, to myself - until one day, outwardly, it looked like things had changed. Like I had moved on.” I open my eyes and look into his deep greens, my breath catching on the pain I see in them. Jamie rests one hand just below his chin and I mirror his actions until our pinky fingers are brushing.

I nod in understanding. We’re not so unalike. We’ve both been acting at life these last three years. Hiding, pretending, wearing masks, trying to find our place in a Cooper-less world. They’re all the same - all a pretense at the end of the day.

“Do you ever think we did it all wrong?” I ask, finally putting words to a thought I’ve had over the past few years.

“What do you mean?”

It’s still early evening - maybe sevenish - but the blackout blinds are pulled down and my lamp is on, casting a shadow over Jamie’s features. His eyebrows furrow, that deep groove appearing along his forehead again. I don't resist this time, running a fingertip along it before following the line of his jaw then letting it trail down his neck and shoulder before coming to rest on his arm.

“Cooper died and we didn’t, but we’ve both been living like we never walked away from that crash, wasting the days thatfollowed. We’ve beensurvivingbut not living. You told me that this isn’t what Cooper would have wanted for me but do you ever think it’s not what he would have wanted for you?”

“All the time,” Jamie says. His finger finds mine on the bed, wrapping around it, and my heart trips over itself, warmth rushing through my veins.

“Maybe it’s time to start actually living, Jamie.”

He’s quiet for a while before he answers. “I will, if you will. And we’ll do it for us. Not for anyone else.”

I want to ask if we can do it together, but instead, I nod, close my eyes, and grip his pinky tighter with one hand and his bicep with the other. I’m drifting off to sleep when his fingers card through my hair and his lips press against my cheek.

“What am I doing?” he says quietly to himself as he scratches his nails against my scalp. I nuzzle into the bed and let sleep drift over me.

I don’t know the answer to his question.

When I wake, it’s with the sinking realisation that I’m alone. The lamp is still on and there’s that eerie stillness in the air which comes with being the early hours of the morning. At some point in the night, I took off Jamie’s hoodie, the July air hot and heavy in my small flat. Dragging myself out of bed, I find my phone on the bedside table and check the time. It’s just gone two in the morning. My head feels miles better, but my throat is parched and my stomach rumbles with hunger.

I move through my place on autopilot - using the bathroom, then pouring a glass of water in the kitchen before settling on the sofa. Basil is up and active, running in his wheel, the squeak ofits hinges loud in the quiet room. Ford notices me from where he’s sleeping on his perch and stretches before coming to sit on my lap.

“Looks like it’s just us again, boys.” Placing a hand on Ford’s back, I feel the vibrations of his purr as he circles and claws at my legs until he’s comfortable.

Resting my head on the back of the sofa, I study the popcorn ceiling above me, wishing I hadn’t got my hopes up where Jamie was concerned. When we agreed to start living and not simply surviving, he must have decided that meant returning home and working things out with his girlfriend. He’d been so torn about staying in the first place that this was probably for the better. I try to muster up some happiness for him, but struggle to feel anything other than disappointment.

My eyes drift closed again, only to fly open when there’s a sound at my front door. My heart pounds rapidly against my ribcage, and I shoo Ford off my lap and jump up. Thanks to Darius, the first thing that pops into my mind is ‘axe murder’ which is an absurd thought, but my flight instinct kicks in and I’m halfway to the bathroom to lock myself in when the door shoots open and Jamie fumbles in, his arms laden with grocery bags.

“Bloody hell, Jamie!” I exclaim, pressing a hand to my racing heart. “What are you doing?”

Jamie kicks off his shoes then places the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. He’s out of breath and there’s sweat patches beneath the armpits of his grey t-shirt.

“I told you I was making you soup.” He goes about unpacking and I gape at him, not sure what to make of the entire situation. Not half an hour ago, I was sure he’d left and now he’s here, acting like there's nothing unusual about any of this.

He pulls out a pot and places it on the stove top, then takes out his phone and leans it against the wall.

“It’s two in the morning,” I state, in case he isn't aware that it’s very fucking early in the morning.

He looks up from where he’s laid out three carrots and a knife. “I know what time it is, but I couldn’t sleep and I’m hungry. Are you not?” He chops the carrots in a way that makes me nervous for his fingers.

“No, I am. Very hungry actually.” I move to the other side of the counter until we're shoulder to shoulder. “What can I do?”

Jamie passes me an onion and without instruction, I start chopping it. He finishes up the carrots and puts them in a bowl. Then, he heats oil on the stove and once the onions are done, I wipe them off the plate and into the hot oil.

“How was breakfast such a disaster but you know how to make soup from scratch?” I ask as he adds a hefty amount of garlic powder and water into the pot.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “I have no fucking clue what I’m doing. I watched one video and found this recipe online.” He points to his phone. “The only store in your area open at this time of the morning was a twenty-four hour off license and they didn’t have everything on the list, so I’m improvising.” He holds up a glass jar with ‘Italian Seasoning’ printed on the label. “They didn’t have coriander but this has coriander in it and we’ll ignore the other flavours.” He puts what I am sure is far too much in and then adds the carrots and stock cube.

Taking a step back, I watch him closely as he stirs the pot. I don’t point out that it’s far too hot for soup or that he forgot to put in any salt because this is the most relaxed I’ve seen him since he walked back into my life. He’s more like the Jamie I remember - dimples popping when he smiles down at Ford circling his feet, then humming a tune I don’t recognise as he adds more water.

“I think we leave it now and once the carrots are soft, we blend and add cream. Then we eat.” His eyes sparkle with somethingakin to pride and I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t own a blender.

After about thirty minutes, Jamie checks on the soup and deems it ready. I make us slices of buttered toast while he adds the cream, gives me a side eye because of my lack of a blender and then dishes the chunky soup into bowls. We take our meal to the lounge and sit cross legged on opposite sides of the sofa.

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