Page 6 of The Likelihood Of You

I stare at her, letting the sweet tones of her voice melt into my ears, and I wonder how someone can be so apologetic to someone they just met.

She’s definitely not a local.

But she hasn’t ruined it. This is my second re-read of Wicker Manor, and technically, she’s right. It is the overly creepy maid, who is not a maid at all but a figment of Mrs Dalton’s imagination, who she uses to escape the guilt of accidentally killing her child. I’m not afraid to admit that the gasp that came out of me when I read for the first time was a touch dramatic.

“Don’t worry; I’m re-reading it, " I say reassuringly as she lets out a sigh of relief, her shallow breath grazing the edge of my chin and sending goosebumps down my neck.

“Oh, good. If I had, I would’ve paid for your coffee as a sorry.” She sends another smile my way, making my legs feel as weak as they did the first time she let me see it.

Who is this girl? And how the fuck am I supposed to walk away now, knowing she's reading my favourite book?

“You come here often?” I ask, trying not to physically cringe at how much that sounded like a pickup line. But luckily, I don’t think she takes it that way.

“Every morning, for the last three weeks.” She smiles. “You?”

“Every morning, for the last…four years.” I smile back.

“I think it’s the apple pie. I’ve tried to recreate it at home but can’t get the measurements right.” She says, dropping her head and grinning. “I think I’m addicted to it.”

This energy is addicting. “Why do you think I’ve been here every day for the last four years? To admire the decor?” I laugh.

“Hey, that’s another reason I come here.” Her head drops again before popping back up with her bottom lip between her teeth. “Is that sad?”

I shake my head, not taking my eyes off Florence. A name as pretty as the girl it belonged to. “Not in the slightest.”

Only then does it hit me how much I’ve missed this feeling. Really fucking missed it. The feeling of talking to someone who wasn’t looking to get anything out of it other than a casual, friendly conversation.

It felt hard to trust it. It was hard to imagine not ending this with her reaching her phone out in front of us and snapping a picture, or asking the person behind her to take a photo of us. It’s happened so many times that my face is already prepared to morph into the textbook selfie smile I do every time this happens.

I’ve been in this situation too many times not to know how it ends. How all these interactions seemed to end, with them running away, having gotten everything they wanted from me, whether it be a selfie, an autograph, or just to use me as a fucking platform for their career.

But there’s…something. Something about the way her eyes are holding mine, the way she knows and is currently reading my favourite book, the way she conducts herself with as much poise and elegance as most people dream of having, whispers to me that maybe this one time, I can trust it.

After realising that, I felt the need to ask her what the rest of her morning looked like and whether she had room in her schedule to extend what was now my favourite conversation I'd hadin months.

But before I could, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Eden trying to catch my attention. I stepped closer to the counter, grabbed the cup of hot coffee and the bag of pastries with a hastily drawn smiley face on the front, and passed her a thankful smile.

“Thanks, Eden,” I say, my mind feeling like it’s on autopilot, trying to act normal, while in my head, I’m trying to convince myself that maybe there’s a chance this girl is different.

My efforts are pointless, though. I should know that by now, because my mind always finds a way to remind me of the last time I thought I could trust the cute girl with the friendly smile and sparkling conversation. And look how that turned out.

When I turn back to Florence to say a courtesy goodbye, she’s already listing off her order to another server. And while I feel like all I want to do is stay, like this girl just erased the laws of the universe and created her own gravitational pull, I take this opportunity when she’s not looking at me to leave. It takes all my willpower to walk away from her. But I do. It’s what I always do. Get into a conversation with a girl and run away from the worry that she’ll turn out like the last.

I’ll probably thank myself for this later, but right now, I’m doing all I can not to stay glued to her side and find out everything and anything about her.

As I stepped at the door, I turned to take one last unknowing look at her, and to my surprise, she was staring at me. Or not to my surprise, I guess, because staring at me seems to be her thing. That soft smile was plastered across her face, puffing up her rosy cheeks and creasing the corners of her eyes. I return a half-assed smile back to her, before I turn back around and walk away into the heavy rainfall, resisting theburning urge to walk right around up to her to carry on whatever we’d just started.

The story of my life.

Chapter three

Florence

When the plane landed at JFK last month, and after dragging my bags off the luggage belt, I realised I had no idea where I was going. I hadn’t booked a hotel. I hadn’t thought of a long-term plan. I’d simply packed a few suitcases, ignored Hugo and Syd’s pleas for me to stay and hear them out, grabbed my passport and headed for Heathrow.

Actually, that’s a lie. I made one stop before I went to the airport: to see Nanna Dorothy.

By then, it was 11:00 PM, and visiting hours at the retirement home stopped at 8:00 PM. But luckily for me, Nanna’s nurse, to whom I always brought a tin of homemade scones each time I came here, was working the overnight shift. It didn’t take much convincing for her to let me see Nanna. I promised to email her my recipe for the scones and was ushered straight to her room.

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