Page 79 of Keeper
“But it’s what’s best,” she states firmly.
“For whom exactly?” My voice booms.
She shrugs. “For everyone. If you’re not terrified of losing Poppy every day of your life, she’s not the one for you.”
I huff out a laugh and begin pacing. My sister has completely lost it. She doesn’t know me at all because fear is what’s forced me to keep my distance from Poppy. Fear is what made me keep her at arm’s-length our whole lives. Fear is all I’ve been living with the past two months with Poppy. Fear of her leaving. Fear of losing her. Fear of never seeing her again. And now, all my worst fears have come true.
“I’m not listening to this anymore, Vi.” I pause and press my hands on the table, piercing Vi with a seriousness that she cannot ignore like she can a naïve baby brother. “You’ve helped me a lot and I appreciate it more than you know, but you’re completely wrong about this. I’m going to love this babyfiercelybecause I’ve never been more terrified of losing someone than I am of losing Poppy. I’m so bloody afraid, I’ve never let myself admit that I’m in lov—” An intense pressure rises up in my chest as I realise what I was about say. I pull in shaky breaths as the words hang on the tip of my tongue, ready to fall out like lyrics to my favourite song. I look straight at Vi and say, “I love her.”
I clench my jaw and wait for the doom to come, but it doesn’t. Lightness comes instead. An airy, walking on water weightlessness that I feel all through my body.
“Bloody hell, Vi. I love Poppy.” I exhale heavily. “Fuck me, it feels brilliant to say! I love her…I think I’ve loved her my whole life. Like it’s always been there, but I’ve denied it.” I hardly recognise my voice, but it feels fucking fantastic to hear.
Vi smiles and tilts her head. “You love Poppy?” She has a coy bounce to her voice.
“I…do. She’s my world and I love her.” I rake my hand through my hair and look around the room manically. “I need to tell her. Right now.” I push my sleeves up and bound for the door, ready to break into Andrew’s flat and choke him until he talks. “That frustrating Scot better sing like a canary.”
“Booker!” Vi shouts, a weightiness to her tone that pulls me up short. I look back and she’s standing at the table, a proud gleam in her eyes. “You can’t just tell her and expect her to believe you. You need to do a lot bloody more than say the words.”
I frown, pondering her words for a minute. She’s right. Poppy has always had a flare for the theatrics. If she were in my shoes, she’d probably hire a marching band or a dance company. Hell, she’d probably write a song and sing it to me.
But I don’t want to do something Poppy would do. I want to do something I would do. Something that reminds her of why she fell in love with me to begin with. “I think I have an idea.”
“I could really use my best friend right now,” I croak into my pillow as I lie down for a nap in my childhood bed and beg myself not to start crying again.
Napping has become my new favourite thing. Napping means a break from the crying. Napping means a break from the panicking. A break from the moping.
Napping means remembering the feel of Booker’s warmth pressed against my backside.
I guess even napping has its moments of treachery.
That’s the crap part about your best friend being the man you love. When you lose him, it’s a double punch in the gut. It’s like retching and having diarrhea at the same time. As if getting sick isn’t pathetic enough, now you have to sit on a toilet while doing it because you’re pissing out your arse as well. Really, is there anything else that can make you feel so pitiful?
The doorbell rings downstairs, ripping me out of my colourfully descriptive pity party. My heart leaps into my throat as I slide out of bed and look out the window for Booker’s truck. I’ve been waiting for him to show up since the moment I came to my parents’ house last week. Hiding here has been easy since my parents are away on holiday for their thirtieth wedding anniversary—a blessing and a curse, really. A blessing because I’m alone, a curse because this house is full of Booker Harris memories. Even sleepover memories, back when things weren’t so complicated between us.
I make my way down the long flight of stairs and tiptoe up to the front door. Peering through the peephole, I exhale with relief when I see Andrew standing on the other side.
“Oh good, it’s only you,” I say as the door swings open and I swipe the tear residue off my face.
“Nice tae see ye, too,” he grumbles and strides in like he’s been here a hundred times even though this is only his first. “Ye think I’d receive a more welcoming greeting considering I’ve driven all the way oot tae Chigwell.” His nose wrinkles and he whispers, “I can actually smell the Botox in this neighbourhood. Is yer mum one of them?”
“No, she’s not. And you don’t have to whisper. She and my dad are in the Canary Islands for their anniversary. But you should still stop being so judgemental.” I look down at his empty hands. “Where are my things?”
He lets out a haughty laugh. “Still at Booker’s.”
“He wasn’t home?”
“Oh, he wis home all right.” He looks around the house and says, “I need a drink.”
Frowning, I follow him into the kitchen where he hoists himself up on the counter. “A nice red will do.”
I roll my eyes and pull the cork out of the open bottle on the counter, giving it a sniff to make sure it hasn’t gone bad since my parents have left because I sure as hell wasn’t the one to open it. I pour the dark liquid into a wine glass and hand it over. “What happened?”
Andrew opens the collar of his shirt and rubs around the front of his neck. “Is it still red?”
I frown and look closer at the area he’s touching. “No. It looks normal.”
He huffs and takes a drink. “The wanker is lucky I dinnae press charges.”
