Page 105 of Book People

‘No,’ I repeat, the only word I seem able to say. ‘No, I don’t.’

‘It hurts, of course, and no one wants to be hurt. But the pain is how you know it’s important. It’s how you know it matters.’

‘But I don’t want it to matter, Dad,’ I say, sounding like a child as the truth hits me like an atom bomb, destroying everything inside me.

I don’t want it to matter, but it does. She does.

And it hurts to love her, but she’s important.

My father takes another step towards me and puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘You can’t fight love, Sebastian. Believe me, I tried. But the happiness that comes with flinging yourself bodily into it . . .’ His smile turns warm with memories. Good memories. ‘It’s worth any price.’

I want to tell myself that I don’t need my father to tell me about love, that I don’t need his pep talk, but I don’t pull away. ‘I’m afraid,’ I say, with an honesty I wasn’t anticipating. ‘I’m fucking terrified.’

Dad squeezes my shoulder and the ghost of the boy I used to be feels better. ‘We all are, son,’ he says. ‘Remember, though. Your story isn’t over. And the only person who gets to write your happy ending is you.’

Chapter Twenty-nine

This is the last note I’ll send, C. I’m going to be called up soon, but I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave you alone with him. Give me a sign, a nod, a look, anything, so I know that you want me to stay.

H.

KATE

The shop feels empty the day after the festival, though, to be honest, I’m enjoying the peace. I have boxes to unpack and a new window to plan; I’ve got plenty to do.

I’m just coming out with a box when I notice the book sitting on the counter. I put the box down and go over, pick the book up.

It’sI Capture the Castleby Dodie Smith. My favourite book as a kid.

It’s not an edition we have in the shop here and I wonder where it comes from. I pick it up and leaf through the pages, only for a note to slip out. The piece of paper flutters in the air and lands on the counter upside down.

A strange, electric feeling gathers inside me.

I turn the paper over. There’s writing on it, in blue ink. A firm, slashing hand.

You don’t have to reply. I’m not expecting anything. I just wanted to tell you that I’m in love with you and that walking away from you was the biggest mistake of my life.

There’s no signature. Only an H.

My throat tightens, a lump rising in it, and the blue ink on the paper wavers. Oh my God. Are those tears? I swore a man wouldn’t make me cry any more and yet here I am, crying.

My chest feels sore and for long minutes all I can do is stare at the book on the counter and the piece of paper.

He wrote me a note. Just as Sebastian did for Kate, all those years ago . . .

Part of me doesn’t want to reply. He told me it was over and, if he’s having second thoughts, then that’s his problem. I should do what the first Kate did and keep the book, not return the note . . .

Yet is this him fighting for me? For us? Is this him picking up his sword? If so, then he’s absolutely going the right way about it. The pen truly is mightier.

I can’t not pick mine up too.

I let him walk away from me two days ago, but I’m not going to walk away from him.

I pull out a piece of paper and choose my own sword – red ink, of course – and I write back.

How dare you not expect anything of me? You should expect something. You should expect everything.

C

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