Page 56 of On Circus Lane

He’s not interested in just my comfort. He wants me to be happy.

The bus moves away, and I tip my head back, feeling the air cold and lovely on my face. He's watching me when I lower my head, and I flush.

He doesn’t say anything. He just pats my hand and looks out at the view going by. Strangely, the lack of questions makes me volunteer information. “I’ve been claustrophobic since I was little,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes soft and warm. “That’s a hard thing to grow up with.”

I nod. “It used to limit me.”

“Used to?”

“I went to therapy, and that helped a lot.”

“That’s good, babe.”

I try to ignore how the endearment makes me feel gooey inside and carry on talking. “It did me a lot of good. I can go in lifts now and sit in cars and on trains. It’s just sometimes it trips me up and makes me feel weak. Like when we first got on the bus.”

“I think we all have something from our childhoods that trips us up. I actually admire you for how strong you are.”

“Really?”

There’s nothing but honest admiration in his eyes. “Yeah, Bee. It’s amazing.”

I bite my lip, and then I tell him something that only my dad, Ivy, and my therapist know. “It’s because my mum used to lock me in a cupboard when I was little.”

“What?”

His exclamation is loud enough and horrified enough that it stops the couple in back from snogging. They look at us curiously and then go back to their lip action.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout,” he whispers.

I smile at him. “It’s okay.”

“So, she locked you in a cupboard?” He hesitates. “And it sounds like it was more than once?”

“Yeah. I was a bit of a crimp on her social life, so if she was having one of her lovers over to the house, she used to lock me in a cupboard until she was done.” He stares at me in horror, and I hasten to add, “It had a light in there, and I had lots of books to read. And food and a drink,” I finish as an afterthought.

This is the most about my childhood I’ve ever shared with a man, and I’m already second-guessing my impulse. Now, we’ll likely have to talk about it forever.

His hand comes down on mine, and I sneak a cautious look at him, but he’s staring out at the view. I consider pulling away, but something stops me. Probably the same bloody impulse that led me to vomit my past all over him. But I decide I don’t want to ignore that impulse to share things with him.

I squeeze his fingers tentatively.

He looks at me for a long second, then leans in and kisses me. I’ve had many kisses in my life, but something about the soft, sweet press of his lips against mine makes my eyes hot. When he pulls away, he smiles.

“You’re missing the Royal Mile, babe,” he says. His understanding of me is something I feel deeply, almost at a cellular level.

I squeeze his hand in gratitude and fall into watching the scenery flash past. It’s a bustling street lined with buildings that I’m sure are full of history and facts, but I can’t focus on any of that. All I can see and feel right now is him, and for once,I have no fear about befriending this man. Just a sense of easy inevitability and…joy.

“This is us,” Tom announces as the bus trundles down the hill. He jumps out of our seat, and I follow him down the winding little stairs. The bus stops momentarily in the traffic, and I lose my balance, falling into him.

“Sorry,” I say, trying to push up my glasses and keep my balance at the same time. I go still as he sets one long finger on my glasses and does it for me. “Oh, thank you.”

His eyes are dark in the shadowy stairs. He gives the space a quick glance and then, satisfied no one can see us, he reaches up for a kiss. I tip my chin happily, and our lips connect. I savour the softness and the taste of peppermint. His tongue runs along my lower lip before he bites it gently. I gasp, and he steps back a little.

“Holyrood Palace,” the driver calls.

“This is our stop,” Tom says, his voice a little hoarse as he takes my hand and helps me down.

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