Page 22 of Second Song

“What does it sound like?”

“Like a never-fucking-ending racket. Like being inside a washing machine while some wanker rings bells and blows whistles.”

I wonder if that’s why he didn’t hear me shouting for him last night.

He inhales deeply. “I’m thinking about taking on a local project before moving on, only…” With his back to the window again, he’s haloed. He also trails a finger across my bare stomach, sketching I don’t know what there.

He said he had to go.

His friend is waiting for him.

He still draws a slow and swirling pattern that has no structure and, for a warm and golden moment, we’re both caught in early sunlight. He doodles in slow-motion and, like the design he paints on my skin with a single finger, I don’t want this to be over.

Any of it.

He winces as if he hears me think that, and he’s a man of few words, so I return to his last statement to ask my own one-word question. “Only?”

“Only now? Since getting discharged from the army?” He shrugs, and fuck past-me for only seeing steel in him at first, for only noticing all that square-jawed roughness. His answer sounds so fragile. “I don’t tend to work on projects tied to rebuilds. My usual projects are all short term and solitary, not like seeing a project through from start to finish with my old crew. Demolition is my thing, my expertise, so I’m never needed long term.”

I really wish that I could trust my own judgement when it comes to reading people. I risk getting it wrong again by saying, “I needed you yesterday. So did that lamb. Hope it’s doing okay.”

He smiles then, and wow.

Wow.

I won’t let myself forget this second glimpse of him so happy. “Daft beggar,” he murmurs—and I am—but Liam doesn’t mean me. He says, “I tracked down the farmer. Told him he might want to check it out. And check the rest of the fence as well, so it can’t play any more stupid games on the coast road.”

“See? That lamb needed you too.”

He shrugs but his smile flickers, back to a ghost of that briefly wide one, and that’s what stays with me when he leaves.

I watch him go from the window, leaning out to keep him in view, and if I overbalance and have to clutch the window frame to keep from tipping headfirst, isn’t that on-brand for me?

Liam stops at the mouth of the alley and pulls out his phone, and for a moment, I think he’s spotted that I almost won my first stupid prize of the morning. He’s swallowed by alleyway shadows before I can tell for sure if he noticed, and maybe it’s good that he’ll be long gone from here if I get the chance to come back in September.

I’d only tip headfirst for him as well.

I almost give up on getting that promised interview callback. I also give up on trying to figure out what to do. If Mum were here, I’d check in on whether ringing Luke Lawson myself was assertive or way too pushy. I’m not feeling either, to be honest, still too caught up with different feelings that draw me back, over and over, to a window I’ve left open.

Maybe that’s why I expect to hear Liam’s voice when my phone rings, which makes no sense. There hadn’t been any point in us swapping numbers, had there?

Someone else speaks. “Is that Rowan Byrn?” I recognise these clipped tones. It’s Luke Lawson, as promised, and suddenly I’m the opposite of pushy or assertive. In fact, I’m voiceless. Or almost. I manage to croak out, “Yes?” And here I go, making another great first impression—the mirror in this hotel bedroom reflects me looking as worried as his little boy had been on a bridge above a sandpit.

Thankfully, it doesn’t faze his father, who simply says, “Good. Tell me, Rowan, are you still in Cornwall?”

“Yes?” I could slap myself for sounding uncertain. He’ll be looking for confident student teachers, won’t he? That’s what I aim to convey next. “I’m definitely right here in Porthperrin. In a pub.” I hold the phone away, mouthing a silent shit. “Not because I’m drinking. I don’t. Drink alcohol, I mean.” Fuck my life.

“Well.” He pauses. “That’s good to know.”

He goes on to tell me where to meet him, and my hotel room mirror reflects confusion. “Wait. You don’t want me to come back to the school?” Is that because he’s already made all of his September appointments, and there’s no point in me returning?

He gives a different reason. “I just dropped my son off at a friend’s house for a playdate. I’m closer to you than to Glynn Harber, so why don’t we split the difference? I can meet you halfway at an open garden. My daughter can play and we can chat there.”

Part of me is convinced this is still a brush-off. I can’t help peppering him with questions. “Because you’ve already chosen a candidate?” Shit. “Or because I still stand a chance, but you want to hear me play first? And then what? Then you’ll give me a definitive answer?”

His next pause draws out, and I regret being such a slave to needing the world to be certain. Did that all come across as desperate?

Maybe not. Luke Lawson only asks, “That’s important to you, Rowan? Things being definite and clear-cut? You operate best when you know what comes next?”

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