Page 47 of Over You
Time does not heal all wounds. Or maybe. . . it does. Maybe thiswastime healing us.
Fergus’s wiry white brows pulled together. “You look troubled.” He tossed another peanut at Albert before dragging a stool out and patting its top.
I didn’t sit; instead, I dragged my fingers over the worn wood. “If I need some time off, would that be a problem? Maybe a week or so?”
Leaning back on his chair, he snuffled then held out his arms. “What do you think, Albert? You think we’re too busy to go without her for a while?” His gaze found mine. “Take whatever time you need. Henry and I can always walk behind the bar to pour our own cider if Tom fails us.”
“Thanks, Fergus.”
He winked. “You’re a good egg, so I try to make you happy.”
I started toward the door.
“Enjoy your vacation, love.”
I nodded even though it wasn’t a vacation. I was going home.
My house was only a few doors down from the pub, but that walk gave me enough time for dread to mount in my chest. Fear set in.
The lock clicked, and the door swung open to Spencer asleep on the couch. Tiny bits of paper lay strewn across the floor and desk.
I dropped my keys onto the coffee table, then I sat on the arm of the sofa, sweeping hair from his face. I frowned at the sweat that drenched his forehead.
He shifted on the cushion, and his eyes blinked open. “Hey,” he said, his voice groggy.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” He dragged a hand down his face when he sat up. “I’m so tired. I don’t know why.”
“I think that’s normal.” I slid to the cushion beside him and scratched my fingers through his damp hair. “Go back to sleep if you want.”
“I don’t want to miss seeing you.”
“I’ll be here when you wake up?”
“Promise?”
I nodded.
He kissed my cheek before scooting down and laying his head in my lap. “But keep doing that.” Spencer grabbed my hand and placed it back in his hair. “That felt like old times.”
He slept through the night, and I slept on the couch with him.
The next day.Tom had dropped off my car with barely two words. At first, I thought that was what had Spencer on edge, but when we tried to watch a movie, he fidgeted. He got up and down. I could tell by the way his eyes glassed over and fixated on nothing, he was thinking about the high. The worst thing we could do was sit.
“Hey.” I touched his shoulder, and he jumped. “Why don’t we go do something?”
He wiped his palms over his jeans on a nod and stood.
He was already at the door by the time I’d grabbed my purse. He didn’t ask where we were going. He spent the fifteen-minute drive to Stonehenge with his eyes closed, jaw twitching, and leg shaking.
But I just knew when we pulled into the carpark of Stonehenge that he would snap out of it.
When Spencer had first signed with the label, we had made a bucket list of places we wanted to go; knowing we’d have the money made it a lot less depressing. And while I’d visited every city on that list by myself over the past year, I had avoided the sites that made us want to go.
I’d been to Paris but hadn’t set foot on the Eiffel Tower.
I went to Rome without a visit to the Vatican.
