Page 25 of The Shape of Your Heart
It’s how it feels. It’s also exactly what Nathan said earlier, about life being a gift. ‘Some days I still can’t think straight,’ I say quietly. ‘But more recently, I’ve been thinking I need to start doing something. So I’m helping someone with their garden.’
‘Are you?’ Dad sounds surprised. ‘That’s wonderful.’
‘Is it? I can’t tell. My instincts are out. All I know is, I can’t carry on spending so much time at home.’
‘No,’ he says gently. ‘But you shouldn’t push yourself, either. When you’ve been through something of the magnitude you have, it takes time to let the dust settle. You’ll know when the time is right.’ He pauses. ‘I should have said this before – I’m proud of you, sweetheart.’
I look at him in surprise. ‘You are?’
‘Yes.’ His voice wavers slightly. ‘You may not know it yet, but you’re strong.’ He puts down his tools. ‘I’m parched. How about you let your old dad make you a cuppa?’
By the time we’ve had a cup of tea together, there’s still no sign of my mother. But as I drive away, I’m thinking about what my dad said, about being strong. Most of the time, I haven’t felt strong. I’ve felt helpless, my life out of control. But a year on, I suppose I am starting to put the pieces of my life back together – albeit a very unexpected life. If that means I’m strong, I’ll take that.
Instead of going straight home, I drive to the beach. As I walk along the sand, I gather a handful of flat stones, skimming a couple of them across the sea, carefully arranging the rest into an uneven cairn.
In spite of the sun, there’s a coolness to the breeze. Reaching the rocky headland at the far end of the cove, I stop. Ahead of me in the sand, someone’s created a tree. It isn’t exactly finessed. Made mostly of stones, the roots are a tangle of artfully arranged strands of seaweed.
A strange feeling comes over me as I gaze at it. The day we met, Liam was making a tree. There are words, too, traced with one finger into the sand. Staring at them more closely, I make out a message.
Will you go out with me?
Almost certainly, Nathan’s done this. Startled, I gaze up and down the beach, wondering if he’s here. But there’s no one in sight. Instead, the tide is coming closer, but that’s the beauty of transient messaging. You can say anything you want to in the moment, knowing its presence is finite.
He probably never imagined I’d actually read it – that’s if it is for me. What would I say? It isn’t a no, but I’m not sure it’s a yes, either. Bending down, I trace letters that will soon be lost underwater.
Maybe.
The following day, I don’t go to Nathan’s house. Instead, I head down to the beach again. There’s a late summer vibe, the warmth of the air tempered by a breeze that’s strengthened, the sea restless with anticipation the way it is before a storm hits.
The tide is already coming in and, finding a rock, I climb up out of its reach, staying to watch its slow encroachment until the sand is submerged. On my way home, my phone pings with a message from Nathan. I wait until I’m back before I read it.
Hi, just hoping you’ve had a good day. Would you like to go for a drink this evening?
Yes. The answer is there immediately, before my guilt lashes out. How can I even consider this? Getting out of my car, I take a deep breath and rationalise with myself. Unless I’m going to be alone for ever, at some point in my life, there will be someone else to go for a drink with, maybe have dinner with. Why not Nathan? I text him back.
I’d really like that.
Five minutes pass before he gets back to me.
Cool. I’ll pick you up at 8.
Going upstairs, I shower, then find a dress I really like. Mid-calf, it’s a faded blue with short sleeves. Putting it on, I gaze at my reflection. Can I really do this? It’s only a drink but it feels like I’m preparing for something of stupendous proportions and I find myself wavering.
I hear his car pull up in the lane, before there’s a knock at the door. I’ve worked out what I want to say, but when I open it he hands me a bouquet of flowers. I gaze at them, distracted.
‘These are gorgeous.’ Wrapped in brown paper, they’re tied with the coloured string that’s the trademark of one of the farm shops. ‘From Lily’s?’
He nods. ‘They’re a thank you – for what you’ve done to my garden.’
‘You didn’t need to.’ I bury my nose in them. Lily only sells flowers that are scented and locally grown. ‘They’re beautiful. Thank you.’ I realise we’re still standing on the doorstep. ‘Want to come in?’
‘Thanks.’
In the kitchen, I search for a jug for the flowers, trying to ignore how gorgeous he looks in faded jeans and a linen shirt that shows off his tan. When I’d been just about to tell him I’d had a change of heart, I’m doubting myself again.
He watches me arrange the flowers. ‘They look great.’
When last time he came here I felt uncomfortable, it’s a measure of how much has changed, as suddenly I like that he’s here. ‘It’s easy with flowers like this. You can’t go wrong.’ Picking up the jug, I place it on the table, before turning to face him.
