Page 59 of The Wishing Tree Beside the Shor
He doesn’t lift his head and his words are muffled through his arms. ‘You deserved someone who could give you the world, and I couldn’t.’
‘How could you ever think that?’ I know I shouldn’t touch him, but he’s right there, his head is still bowed onto his arms, and my fingers reach out and stroke through his dark hair. ‘You were the best thing in my life. You made every single day better just by existing. You might not have had confidence in yourself, but I thought you were the best thing in the world.’
He shudders as my nails brush through his hair and I go to pull my hand away, but his shoots out and grabs it as he lifts his head and turns to look at me. ‘You were going off on this big adventure. You were excited. You’d been talking about it for weeks. A flat in London. All the places this fancy new job would send you. The shops you’d go to, the things you’d buy with your new salary that was a hell of a lot higher than I could afford at Sullivan’s.’
‘Yeah, I wanted an adventure, but it came at a price – the cost of leaving you. All Ireallywanted was for you to tell me you felt the same. That would’ve been the best adventure I could’ve asked for. I left because I thought you were going to leave, and I was so scared of being left behind and seeingyougo. It would’ve broken my heart, so I broke my own heart to protect myself.’
‘I’m sorry, Fee.’ His lips move against my skin as he keeps holding my hand against his mouth, his stubble scratching with every movement. ‘We should have had this conversation many, many years ago.’
He glances up at me, almost to gauge my reaction because he looks unsure about whether I’m going to wallop him or not, and then he pushes himself upright and uses his hold on my hand to tug me closer.
My other hand is gripping the top of the metal barrier fence, my knuckles white, and his grip is so tight that my fingers zip with pins and needles when he finally releases my hand.
‘Can I do something I should’ve done fifteen years ago?’ His voice is a breathy whisper, and I nod almost imperceptibly because I can sense what’s coming seconds before he surges forward and kisses me. A kiss that’s a million times different from the last time we were here.
I can’t help the whimper when his mouth finally touches mine.
A shiver of electricity goes through me.Thisis what I always imagined kissing Ryan would be like.
It’s both hot and heavy and soft and gentle. A kiss that’s been trying to burst forth for many, many years. My hands are in his hair, on his neck, clawing into his shoulders. He’s cupping my face with one hand, his other splayed out on my lower back, supporting me, even though I’m leaning heavier and heavier against him until eventually he sinks down to his knees, dragging me with him because I can’t tear my mouth away from his yet, not until we tumble over onto the grass. He lands with a huff and I let out a squeak. His arms tighten around me like a vice, holding me safely against him, and then pulling me tighter and tighter, splaying his hands out wider, like he can’t touch enough of me, until I can push myself up on one elbow and look down at him. I brush my fingers through his hair, stroke his face, and he pushes himself up until he can fit his lips against mine again, and I lose track of time as we lie there, snogging in the grass.
When I’m breathless and panting and can’t think straight, he says, ‘That was worth waiting for.’
And it makes me laugh so hard that I might actually be hysterical, even though he’s absolutely right – itwasworth waiting for. ‘Next time, can we wait about fifteen seconds instead of fifteen years?’
‘Fifteen seconds is too long.’ He surges up to kiss me again, and then lets out a long breath and drops his head back against the grass and runs a hand over his face, looking dazed, possibly oxygen-deprived, and like he can’t get his head around this turn of events.
I’m not sure I can either.
Maybe our wishing tree really does answer wishes.
And I’m so happy that I can almost forget there’s still something I haven’t told him.
Chapter 14
That Saturday is opening day. It’s eight o’clock in the morning when I leave the house with three jars of jam Dad made last night, and although he tried to show me how to do it myself, the thought of all that fiddling with thermometers and straining and sugar boiling points was enough to bring me out in a cold sweat.
Even though the sun rose hours ago, the grassy verges are covered in early-morning dew drops, the first sign that autumn won’t be long in coming, and I get that familiar sinking feeling when I think of what the next few weeks will bring. Whether we save the tree or not … whether the strawberry patch is a success or not … I cannot stay here. Ihaveto go back to London and somehow explain this whole mess to Harrison and hope he lets me keep my job. And when did I start saying “back to London” instead of “home”? I shouldn’t be thinking like this. London is home. Lemmon Cove hasn’t been for a long, long while. And yet the thought of not breathing sea air and scaring off flocks of sparrows every morning in favour of cramming myself onto a sweaty tube and breathing in pollution and exhaust fumes makes the stone in my stomach grow even bigger. And then there’s Ryan. Every time I think about leaving Ry, it puts me instantly on the edge of tears and I push the thoughts down, like if I just don’t think about it, it will never happen.
I’m dodging cars parked on pavements even at this time of day and the Seaview Heights car park is also packed, and I have to squeeze between cars to get in. They couldn’t all be here for strawberries, could they?
There are so many people that it feels like I’m already late. Tonya and Ffion are sitting at a table on the care home driveway, inviting visitors to their cake stall. Someone’s obviously spent half the night baking, because there’s a huge cake stand full of Welsh cakes, a pile of dainty china cups and saucers and a teapot with jugs of milk and sugar, and a big bowl of clotted cream.
‘Ooh, you are clever.’ Tonya grabs a jar of jam from my hand before I’ve fully removed it from my bag, unscrews the lid and plunges a spoon in, smacking her lips together as she tastes it. ‘I wish I could do that. Will you give me the recipe and full instructions before you leave?’
‘Oh, I was a bit rusty, my dad is really the—’ I stutter.
‘Fabulous!’ She shoos me out of the way to serve a customer wanting a cup of tea and two Welsh cakes, and that familiar guilt bristles at me again. They all think I’m something I’m not, and that I slaved over a hot stove for most of the night in the kitchen, when all I really did was peer over my dad’s shoulder and try to take in what he was saying.
They’re not charging for the food, but there’s a donation box on the table and the man puts a couple of pound coins in and nods his thanks.
‘Now go and see your boy,’ Ffion says when the man leaves. ‘He’s got a real spring in his step this morning and I think we all know why.’
‘Ry’s not mine,’ I say, even though the words make me feel flushed and fluttery. ‘The spring in his step will be from all the sugar flying about from those Welsh cakes.’
Tonya fixes me with a knowing look. ‘The fact you knew who I was talking about says it all.’
‘Well, you were unlikely to be talking about Godfrey.’ I give her a wink. ‘Although you could’ve meant Mr Barley or that mankini-wearing Jeremy Corbyn gnome that’s … sticking out of the hedge?’ I squint towards it.
