Page 115 of If We Were Young

Reaching up on my tiptoes, I kissed his cool cheek, inhaling that scent clinging to his coat one last time. “We can’t regret the things we didn’t do, Matthew. Just live the life you have now.”

His fingers caught my chin, turning me so I had to meet his gaze. His lips pressed against mine, hard and sure, and for the sake of all the things that were never meant to be, I kissed him back.

I shivered uncontrollably at the ticket office in the train station. Relieved I only had half an hour until the next train, I went and grabbed a coffee and then huddled on a bench to wait out the time.

Stupidly, every so often I glanced along the station concourse, hoping to see him march along, his coat tails flapping behind him. He didn’t.

What a twenty-four hours.

Watching my breath mist in front of my face I knew every minute had been a dream.

Matthew Carling and I were nothing more than a page in a forgotten history.

Friends weren’t meant to be lovers. Friends were supposed to stay friends without blurring the lines.

Once you began erasing the lines no one knew where they stood anymore.

God, I just wanted to get home.

Scotland was cold and miserable. Why was it so cold? It was March for God’s sake. In London we’d be waiting for the first blossoms of spring. Scotland was still in the depths of winter. Pulling my hand away from the heat of the cup, I held my palm up to the sky and watched as snow settled in my grasp.

Like the snow that dragged Paul away, it melted in my hand. An icy burn, a bitter memory.

A new slither of pain edged its way into the surface of my heart.

I got my phone out and shot a text to Ange. On my way home. Let's not talk about it.

There was no answer and I sipped at my coffee until the train was ready to board and then with one last look at the station I slipped into my seat and shut my eyes.

I didn’t get to unlock the front door until six the following morning. The house was quiet. Neat and perfect.

The same as always. Everything had been tidied like the previous evening hadn’t happened.

I almost snuck up to my room just so I could lie face down on my bed. I couldn’t do that though.

I needed to keep going. If I stopped now, I’d battle the memories of yesterday morning in Matthew’s purple house.

How had he stood on the other side of the pub window? I’d gone over and over it all night on the train. He’d come all the way to London, left his own stag party in a bid to see me, but then hadn’t spoken a word.

Silence.

It was all silence.

My life was one long never-ending stretch of echoing silence.

Well, not anymore.

In the kitchen I switched on the radio and turned it up and then I flicked on the kettle. I’d need caffeine; lots of it, until it oozed out of my pores.

When I’d got coffee and toast and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, I pulled out the notes I’d made at Lynn’s kitchen table. Before history went sideways.

I owed it to Matthew and his family to help them. If I could help him save that company, it would make everything seem so much more worthwhile.

I’d got a clear idea of how we could bridge the past and the present. Not for me—I knew no bridge could span that far—but for the shop a vision had taken shape. Now I just had to get it onto paper.

“Oh, you’re home early, darling.” Ma walked in, already immaculate in pale trousers and a wool blend jumper.

“I needed to get back.”