Page 26 of Finding Love at the Magical Curiosity Shop
‘Why can’t you?’
He makes a noncommittal noise and goes back to trying to reach behind a sideboard for something that’s fallen down behind it.
‘I told you about me the other day.’ I prod because I can’t help myself. ‘What’syourstory, Ren? And if you don’t want to tell me, rest assured, I will question you mercilessly about it on some other day.’
He looks up and meets my eyes across the shop and laughs – a laugh that was probably supposed to be sarcastic, but comes out sounding genuine when he recognises the repeat of what he said to me in the café.
‘Don’t have one. I’m the most boring, embarrassing person on the planet. Ava can attest to that, and frequently does.’ He’s trying to joke, but there’s an underlying hurt in his voice, and like the other day when he stayed hunkered down in the café doorway to avoid embarrassing her, I have no doubt that he’s struggling with Ava growing up and going through the perfectly normal phase where everything your parents do is the most embarrassing thing ever.
And I cannot stop myself pushing. ‘You seem like a man who’s been hurt…’
‘Hurt?’ He scoffs and stands upright to look at me. ‘Oh, I haven’t beenhurt. I’ve had my heart shredded and fed back to me on a pair of sharpened chopsticks, along with any belief I ever had in love, magic, the goodness of humanity, and my ability to trust anyone or believe inanything. Does that answer your query?’
I didn’t expect such honesty, and he probably expected his sharpness to deter me from questioning him, but such a jaded worldview has done nothing but make me want to go over and give him a hug. Now I’m even more determined to find out what he’s hiding under his prickly shell. ‘Seriously, Ren,’ I say gently. He seems like someone who needs a bit of gentleness in his life. ‘Messy divorce? Absent ex-wife?’
‘Ah, yes, whydoesanyone have kids if not so they can tell people private things you didn’t want them to know within moments of meeting them?’ He rolls his eyes at the memory of Ava opening up too much when they first came in here last Tuesday, and then glances at me and seems to relent. ‘And yes. Messy divorce. Absent ex-wife.’
‘You could elaborate, you know.’
‘I could.’
Despite that, he stays frustratingly silent. Just because hecoulddoesn’t mean he’s going to.
‘She’s gone to Italy?’
‘Mickey…’ It’s said warningly, but it doesn’t sound like a warning – it sounds more like a plea.Please don’t make me talk. And if there’s one thing I know about men with a rod of tensionthattaut through their shoulders, it’s that they need to talk.
He’s gone back to trying to shift the upcycled wooden sideboard, and I decide to change tack. If he won’t talk about his relationship, maybe he’ll talk about his job instead. ‘What’s it like being a teacher?’
‘Great, in July. Bloody awful once term starts again.’ He’s not concentrating on his answer, and I’m surprised by the inadvertent admission.
‘Really? You don’t like teaching?’
‘I’m not sure I like anything lately,’ he mutters, and then glances up at me as he seems to catch up with what he’s said and backtracks. ‘I mean, yeah, I love it. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, since my first history lesson on my second day at secondary school. We had a teacher who brought history to life. I connected with his lessons like I was really there, seeing past events happen in real time, and from that moment, I wanted to do that. I wanted to be standing up there at the front of the class, bringing times gone by to life for other disengaged kids like me. But these days, it’s alotof pressure, and it’s increasingly hard to get the ultramodern smartphone generation interested in times long ago when most twenty-first century kids only care about social media stats and getting TikTok views. It’s a lot of lesson planning, overtime, taking work home to mark on my own time, and the feeling of helping kids has been buried under pointless admin and endless paperwork. If behaviour is poor in class, it’s framed as your lesson not being engaging enough. If pupils aren’t getting good marks, it’s because your lesson wasn’t written well enough. There’s so much stress and pressure, and I…’ He runs out of air and trails off, but I can hear the unsaid ending of that sentence. He, once again, seems like someone who is barely holding it together, and if the rest of that sentencewasn’tgoing to be ‘…can’t take any more’ then I’ll eat my hair flower. The urge to go over and give him a hug tingles in my fingertips again.
I can see the way his chest is heaving as he struggles to keep his emotions under control. His eyes are wide, a deer-in-headlights look like he doesn’t know how I got him to say all of that, and I’m not sure if I should give in to the hug urge or push him further. I don’t think Ren opens up easily, and this is a chance that can’t be ignored. ‘And you’re dealing with a lot at home too…’
He sinks down and sits against the sideboard he was trying to move with the heaviest-sounding sigh I’ve ever heard. ‘Ava hates me. She blames me. When we split up, her mother made no secret of the fact it was because she was bored of me. I wasn’t exciting enough. I didn’t make her feel alive. She wanted more. I was holding her back, clipping her wings, ruining her life, and she made sure Ava knew it was my fault for not being enough. Ava had a choice of whether she wanted to stay with me or go to live with her mum, and she chose her mum, and one of the worst things I’ve ever had to do is sit her down and explain that shecouldn’tgo with her mum because her mum didn’t want her, but not in those words because I didn’t want her to think badly of her mother or feel unwanted. My ex wanted to travel, see the world, and she didn’t want to be tied down by a daughter who needed her.
‘At first there were visits. Her mum would take her to do something fun and exciting that dull old Dad would never do – ice skating or a shopping spree – but she started coming up with more and more excuses about why she couldn’t be there, or if she did turn up, she’d be hours late. Then she started standing her up completely, arranging to meet and then just leaving her there, waiting. Gradually she faded out of our lives. Her parents told us she’d gone to Italy with a new boyfriend. She hasn’t been in contact for over a year. I suspect her parents know where she is, they’ve mentioned that she’s travelling and Ava says they have postcards from her, but nothing else. To my knowledge, she’s never evenaskedhow Ava’s doing or made any effort to contact her, and I have no idea how to make that better for her.’
This explains so much. The prickliness and cynicism. Even the warnings about not wanting Ava to get her hopes up – I now understand how badly she’s been disappointed before. Andheis broken by this, I can see it in every inch of him. Torn between blaming himself and being rightfully angry at his ex. He’s hurting, and trying desperately to keep all of that away from his daughter. No wonder he gives off a vibe of barely holding it together, and I feel such a swell of affection for him.
For a man who is juggling so many problems, he’s gone out of his way to help me, and to get involved in the diary solely because it was what Ava wanted, and that says so much about what agoodguy he is, deep down, even if it seems like it’s been a long time since he felt that himself.
‘Ava still thinks she’s going to waltz back in and fill our lives with excitement again. Shestillthinks that I drove her away and then somehow prevented her from living with her mum, and it feels like she’ll never forgive me.’
My teeth have cut through my bottom lip where I’ve been chewing on it as he talks, trying to stop myself interrupting – either with words or by throwing my arms around him. ‘Can I say something?’
He looks up and blinks, and it’s almost like he’s forgotten I’m here and it takes a moment for him to nod.
I go over and sit beside him on the sideboard. ‘You’re the least dull person I’ve ever met. You’re clever, and brilliant, and funny, and kind, and the fact youstilltry to hide the true extent of your ex’s cruelness from Ava speaks volumes about you.’
‘Oh, Mickey.’ He laughs a thick laugh and bends forward like he’s gone light-headed, scrubbing a hand over his face and taking long, deep breaths.
My thigh is pressing against his, and I force myself not to rub his back and try to comfort him in some way. ‘You can’t blame yourself for any of that.’
‘Itismy fault, though.’ His voice is muffled through his hands.
