Page 11 of Never Too Late

“Good!”

“Yeah…” Laurent’s narrow-eyed stare had me reflecting on the lack of conviction in my answer. I tried again. “So yeah, it was good. I had a chance to say all the things I never got to say, and he acknowledged that he’d been a terrible boyfriend. And in return, he got his explanation for why I left the way I did, and a recognition that it wasn’t the best way of handling things on my end. I guess it was closure for both of us.”

“Hmm… closure,” Laurent said, not sounding too convinced. “So why aren’t you happier about it?”

“What?” I studied his face for signs he was winding me up, but found none.

“It’s what you wanted, right? Cillian out of your life. That’s what you said weeks ago when you first told me about him. Only…” He paused for dramatic effect. “That’s not what I saw last night. Want to know what I saw?”

“Probably not,” I muttered while staring at my feet.

“Well… I’m going to tell you, anyway. I saw a man who still has feelings for his ex-boyfriend, who, despite being completely blindsided by him turning up out of the blue, couldn’t bring himself to pretend he’d moved on when I offered myself as sacrifice.”

“I don’t like lying,” I said. “That’s all. You don’t need to make it sound more complicated than it is.”

“Yet, you went out with him for a coffee.”

“I owed him an explanation.”

“Yet, you went out with him for a drink after you’d already given him the explanation.” All I could do was sigh at that. It was true what they said about the truth hurting. “Yet, you let him escort you home.”

“He threw his phone in the river,” I said. “I felt bad.”

Laurent tipped his head to one side and studied me. “What would you have done if he’d tried to kiss you?”

“Pushed him off. Told him it wasn’t happening. Made it clear I wasn’t one of his advertising campaigns where he could control the outcome.”

“Hmm…”

I was beginning to really hate that sound from Laurent. It reeked of disbelief. “You think I would have kissed him?”

“Much as I hate to admit it, he’s a handsome man.”

“He was handsome when I left. I still left. Nothing’s changed. I’m over him.”

“Are you? Because your actions say otherwise.”

I turned my head to study a tree a few feet away. It was a hawthorn tree unless my tree identification skills were failing me. “What are you trying to say?”

“That maybe you should give him another chance. The man threw his phone in the river, so he’s obviously starting to get it. Maybe he can change.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“No?”

“I gave him his answer yesterday. He’s probably halfway back to London by now.” I turned my wrist to check what time it was. “In fact, he’s probably already there. He’ll be in his office, asking his PA to get him a new phone ASAP, and making up a story about what happened to the old one, that I’d bet everything I own won’t involve any mention of a river.” Rather than the relief I should have felt, the words filled me with a strange sort of sadness. Which was stupid. I knew where Cillian was should I ever want to find him. I’d always known where he was. I was the one who’d left him there.

Laurent let out a breath. “All I’m saying is—”

I cut him off before he could finish his thought. “It doesn’t matter. It’s too late.”

The rest of the day passed with astounding mediocrity as I struggled to keep my mind on work, the data I pored over refusing to play ball and analyze itself. After our chat, Laurent had given me a wide berth. I assumed I was supposed to spend the time mulling over his words.

When the end of my working day finally came, after what felt more like three days than one, Laurent was nowhere to be seen. Neither was anyone else I spent time with outside work. Which left me with little choice but to return home. The stray cat made another attempt to infiltrate the building, hoping either I wouldn’t notice or would turn a blind eye to it sneaking between my legs. I shooed it away, and it gave me a disdainful look as it strutted off with what remained of its tail in the air.

I wasn’t in the mood to cook, but, as I stared at the congealed mess of a microwave dinner that looked even worse than it smelled, I had cause to regret my lack of effort. Having zero inclinations to even try it, I pondered a takeaway. The knock at the door interrupted my consideration of which one spoke good enough English that my piss poor attempts at ordering in French wouldn’t be required.

Laurent, here to apologize, maybe? If so, I’d gladly accept it, and then maybe I could drag him out for something to eat, where the two of us could spend the evening talking about anything except Cillian.

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