Page 68 of The Wishing Tree Beside the Shor
‘How many do you have?’ I ask, giggling as I push myself back onto my knees and up to my feet and hold a hand down to pull him up. He reaches out and slots his fingers around mine, but instead of pulling himself upright, he leans up on his elbows and looks over his shoulder at the sandcastle teams celebrating their wins. A woman wearing a dinosaur costume has sculpted an actual dinosaur and is now sitting astride it.
‘And you wonder why you ever wanted to leave Lemmon Cove …’
I follow his gaze, and when I look back down and meet his eyes, his mouth tips into a half-smile that looks much more serious than his jokey tone sounds.
Covered in sand, my chest feeling tight from laughing so hard, and with Ryan’s hand in mine, that’s a question I cannot answer. The only thing I know above all things is that I don’t want to do it again.
I don’t want to go back to London.
Chapter 16
I have to tell him. This can’t carry on. I feel sick as I head back towards the strawberry patch that night. I can’t stop thinking about him after today. The beach, that kiss, the feeling of having something I don’t want to lose. Whatever is happening between me and Ryan deserves a chance, and without me being honest about my job, it isn’t going to get one.
He will understand why I couldn’t say anything before. It won’t change things. And he’s kept things from me too. He doesn’t have any moral high ground to stand on when he was essentially betrothed to someone else and I never knew. Of all people, he willknowthat some things can’t always be shared at the ideal moment. I keep repeating it in my head, but it doesn’t alter how much I believe it.
Ryan’s at the upper end of the strawberry patch, tidying up after the tourists of earlier. He grins when he sees me, but instead of a traditional greeting, he starts singing the inimitable first bars of “Saturday Night” by Whigfield.
I laugh quietly so as not to wake the residents. ‘You never fail to impress with your ability to find a Nineties song for every occasion.’
From the beam on his face, this is surely the best compliment I could ever give him.
‘So I even get to see you on Saturday nights now?’ He comes closer and we do an awkward half-hug, half-kiss thing. We have both plainly forgotten how you greet a fellow human.
‘Today was fun. I …’ I decide to be honest. ‘I didn’t want it to end, thought I’d come back and see if you needed any help.’
His smile gets even wider. ‘You must have a sixth sense because I do. The residents were knackered so I sent them inside earlier and promised I’d do the clean-up. Tourists, good. Torn bits of cardboard punnet and squashed strawberries everywhere, not so good.’
He carries on humming “Saturday Night” and I start collecting up debris because it gives me an excuse to avoid the conversation a bit longer. Every time I think of saying, “Ryan, I need to tell you something …” a wave of nausea washes over me, and each time I go to open my mouth, my lips and tongue feel like they’re no longer working in sync.
‘Can you help me with this?’ He’s got a roll of duct tape and is poking at a piece of torn weed fabric with the toe of his shoe.
When I go over to him, he crouches down and shows me the tear. ‘If you hold this part, I’ll stick.’ He pulls the tape off the roll and leans over, his hands brushing against mine as he sticks down the parts I’m holding. ‘I can’t wait to get some proper wooden paths laid in this place.’
I appreciate his confidence that it’ll ever come to that. The fabric paths are temporary and the plants are in temporary positions. All of this was only ever meant to be temporary, and I can’t think about the implications of it being permanent.
We’re both crouched and I look up and meet his eyes and something crackles between us. The dimples right at the corners of his mouth dip as he smiles.
Come on, Fliss. Just blurt it out. You can tidy the words up later. They just need to be out there. You can’t explain anything if you haven’t said it yet.
It’s the perfect moment. I swallow and run my tongue across my teeth, trying to persuade my lips to form the words.
And then I overbalance and have to ram my hand down onto the ground to keep myself upright.
The moment is gone.
‘Ry,’ I start, quieter than an inaudible mouse, but he’s already stood up so he doesn’t hear me.
I’ll put it off for a bit longer. It’s fine. Another moment will come along in a minute and I won’t miss it next time.
He yawns loudly and stretches until something in his shoulder makes a cricking noise, and while he’s distracted, I pick up a dropped strawberry and hold it out on my palm towards Baaabra Streisand, who removes it from my hand with her teeth surprisingly delicately. When it’s swiftly devoured, she headbutts my leg looking for more.
‘Your sheep’s trying to kill me again,’ I say, but I smile as I reach down and pat her head. We’ve reached an understanding lately. She doesn’t try to headbutt me over any more cliffs, and I sneak her the odd strawberry when Ryan’s not looking.
‘My sheep’s not getting her usual amount of exercise chained up by the gate all day. Usually she does circles round the tree but she can’t with so many people visiting. Seeing as you were surprised the other day, do you want to go for a …’ He holds a finger up in a “wait for it” gesture, puts on a shrill voice and turns to Baaabra. ‘Walkies?’
Baaabra practically bounces. If she was a dog, she’d be wagging her tail and turning in circles of excitement. Even her lips have pulled back and it makes it look like she’s smiling.
‘You’re going to walk your sheep?’ I look up at the care home. The curtains of every window are shut, but lights are still glowing from inside. ‘Now?’
