Page 72 of Enemies to Lovers

‘Yes,’ he nods. ‘I feel very lucky that my grown-up children will still come willingly to spend time with me. It’s not the case in every family.’

‘No,’ I say, knowing it’s true. ‘Good job you andMum are so awesome really, isn’t it? And that you raised awesome kids.’

‘We certainly did,’ Dad says with a grin, and then he loops an arm round my shoulder and pulls me in for a sideways hug, landing a kiss on my temple.

‘What was that for?’ I say.

‘I love you, that’s what it’s for,’ he tells me, letting go. ‘And you seem good now, Flo. I feel like I’ve got my daughter back.’

I don’t know what to say to that.Sorry my breakdown made you sad?My therapist said I can acknowledge that the breakdown affected the people around me without assuming responsibility for it. I think of that now, to remind me not to shoulder Dad’s feelings about what happened to me.

‘Somebody told me recently that the opposite of anxiety isn’t calm, but trust,’ I say. ‘And that makes a lot of sense to me.’

‘You’re feeling more trust lately?’ Dad clarifies. ‘In yourself, or the world, or …?’

We stop throwing stones and turn to head back the way we’ve just come.

‘It’s a work-in-progress,’ I tell him, ‘but I think in myself, and that kind of affects my trust that everything will work out. I’ve never felt that before. Like I really might be okay, you know?’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I know that.’ He pulls a leaf off a nearby tree branch and shreds it with his fingers, contemplatively. ‘I thought it might be a romance makingyou happy,’ he goes on. ‘That Adonis bloke. But you said it didn’t work out?’

I laugh. ‘It was the man-bun,’ I tell him. Dad furrows his brow. I make a ball shape with my fist and rest it on the top of my head. ‘The hair? Never trust a dude with a man-bun, that’s what I say.’

He considers this. ‘I see what you mean,’ he smiles. ‘No hipsters allowed?’

I shrug, the responsibility not mine – I don’t make the rules.

‘Are you doing okay?’ I ask him then. ‘Are you having a good holiday?’

‘I am,’ he says, dropping the last of the leaf to the ground. It flutters down slowly, like a ballerina’s pirouette.

His tone catches me off-guard. ‘You don’t sound sure,’ I tease, but instead of him reiterating his joy, pain crosses his face.

‘I worry about your mother,’ he continues, and we’re at the bottom of the steps to the house, but instead of going up, he leans against the handrail post and looks up at the sky. I wait for him to speak. I don’t think I have ever heard of anyone being worried about my mother. ‘It’s hard, you know, becoming retired. She’s still got thirty or forty years in front of her to fill, and it can be overwhelming.’

I cock my head. ‘I don’t think Mum has ever been overwhelmed in her life, has she?’ I offer.

Dad tuts. ‘Flo,’ he says. ‘You know better than that.Everyone goes through stuff, even if we can’t see it or necessarily tell from the outside.’

I nod, thinking of what Jamie said about assuming that I, out of everyone, could feel sympathy for somebody going through it.

‘You’re right,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll check in with her. Sorry. You’re worried about her, and I’m glad you told me, so that I can share half of that worry, okay?’

‘Okay,’ Dad nods. ‘You’re a good girl, Flo. I’m proud of you.’

‘Thanks, Dad,’ I reply, and we head back up to the house, every step I take making me realise that I’m proud of me, too.

Mum, Kate, Laurie and Alex are all havingaperitivoson the veranda when we reach the house. They’re laughing and joking about who knows what, pouring wine and opening beers, and the playlist I’ve come to think of asThe Holiday Playlistis reverberating from the Bluetooth speaker. I desperately want to ask where Jamie is, but I daren’t. I have another beer and listen to the details of another restaurant Alex has found for us, and it’s only when we start getting our things together to leave that I begin to feel really confused. Are we going without him? If we are, then why? I’m eager for clarification, but truly do not trust myself to speak his name out loud. I think if I do, it won’t sound like, ‘Oh hey, where’s Jamie?’ It will sound like, ‘Oh hey, I’m hoping to hook up with Jamie again and thought you should all know. Is he about?’

‘He left this for you,’ a voice whispers in my ear. Kate. I turn round, alarmed that she’d allude to him – to me – with everyone around, even though nobody can really hear.

She stuffs a piece of paper in my hand, and my heart sinks. I know what this will say. It will say,I can’t do this. I’m sorry.I scurry off to the kitchen and round the corner to the living room whilst everyone else shuts the doors and locks up. I take a breath.

Up the hill, where we went running. From the house, walk for about ten minutes. 10 p.m. I’ll be waiting.

I put the note into my bag and pull out my phone.

Me

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