Page 58 of Under Your Spell

‘Why not?’ I say awkwardly, because I suddenly realize that I want to share this with him, and isn’t that the strangest thing of all?

Theo pulls out a chair beside me at the table and sits, bends over the laptop, eyes already scanning the screen. I try not to watch him read, but what else am I going to do? There are moments when I think he’s smiling, and there’s definitely one point where he chuckles under his breath, a rich hum of laughter.

I don’t realize that I’m nervously jiggling my leg until his hand comes down on my knee. ‘Stop,’ he murmurs, and he leaves his hand there, his palm warm against the bare skin exposed by my shorts.

This at least proves to be a distraction from freaking out over him reading my silly story.

‘Clemmie,’ he says finally, his voice serious, dark eyes sober. ‘This is so good.’

‘What?’

His smile is slow and lovely. ‘It’s so good. It’s properly funny; it’s charming. It’s totally weird. It’s you.’

‘Er… thanks?’ I say, flushing. ‘I think that’s a nice thing.’

‘It’s the nicest thing.’

‘I don’t really know what it is.’ I feel flustered by his praise, by the earnest way he delivers it. I don’t think I had expected him to take this, me, so seriously. ‘I’m just putting off doing my real work, but I thought maybe I’d finish it and give it to Lil and Serena as a gift.’

‘You should definitely do that.’ Theo rubs a hand across his jaw. ‘They’ll love it. But I know exactly what it is.’

‘What?’

‘It’s a book, Clemmie. It’s a children’s book.’

‘What?’ I say again.

‘It’s the beginning of a children’s book. I love it.’

‘You do?’ I am not being eloquent, and I know that, but my brain feels like a stuck record, skipping across his words, over and over.

‘Yes,’ he says firmly. ‘I do. And other people would too. You should do something with this, something real.’

I rear back. ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ I say.

Theo shrugs. ‘I’ll stop being an idiot when you stop belittling yourself and how talented you are. I see how you try to protect yourself, I’m even starting to understand why you like to play it safe, but it’s okay to put yourself out there once in a while, to throw yourself into something.’ He leans in and, hypnotized, I find myself leaning in too. He reaches out and carefully tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle. We’re so close that I can see every golden freckle in his irises. We’re so close I can feel his breath across my own lips. For a second I think he’s going to kiss me and my body thrums with something painfully close to desperation. His eyes roam my face. ‘It’s okay to take risks, Clemmie,’ he says quietly. ‘Creative or otherwise. Remember that.’

And then he stands and strolls off, like he hasn’t just absolutely obliterated me.

My hands are trembling and I ball them into sweaty little fists. I force my attention back to the computer screen, to the words there.

A book.

I don’t know what I think about that, but I let the idea settle around me, and after a few more minutes I go quietly back to writing.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The days slip by faster and faster now as Theo and I settle into a nice companionable routine. I sit and type at my laptop – not quite acknowledging that I’m working on a book, but not exactly denying it either – and he sits on the sofa and writes. Sometimes he doesn’t have his guitar, just the notepad and a pencil. Other times he plays quietly, hums something. It’s all still fragments. Bits of something. But I can tell it’s going to be good. You don’t have to know anything about music to know Theo Eliott has it.

These moments feel special. Both of us creating, making something – not together but in the same space. When we pause for breaks, chat over a drink about how our work is going, it feels like I’m taking myself seriously, throwing myself into it. Just like Theo said.

About a week after I start writing, Theo sits at the kitchen counter reading The Canterbury Tales while I cook dinner. Spread on the surface beside Theo are the shells and bits of sea glass we just picked up on our walk. Later I’ll add them to the jar on my bedside table which is already half full – each shell a reminder of the time we’ve spent together.

‘Hey, Clemmie.’ Theo lifts his head from the book. ‘What does “queynte” mean?’ He chokes on a laugh. ‘Wait, never mind, now I say it aloud I think I’ve got it.’

‘How are you and Chaucer getting on these days?’ I ask, grating some cheese into a dish. Theo leans over and pinches some between his fingers, stuffs it in his mouth. I notice he’s not so bothered about the piles of raw vegetables I’ve already chopped.

‘I love it,’ Theo grins. ‘I wish they told us when we were kids how filthy it is, then I’d have paid attention much sooner.’