Page 55 of If We Were Young

Nothing in there had changed. Not the tables or chairs. The same old woman sat in a chair beside the bar that also doubled up purpose as a counter for the till. The air still cloyed with the same tang of fat and spice, sweet and sharp.

Despite it being only three roads from home, I’d never once walked through the doors in all those years. Sometimes I’d taken longer routes on foot just so I didn’t have to walk past.

The smells in there. The whisper of voices. The cool rush of the air conditioning as it hit my skin; they all belonged in a time other than the one in which we stood.

I turned to stare at him. My throat blocked with a tangle of questions. As I glanced at his face, the pink sting of cold on his cheeks, his hair pushed back and away from his forehead, his lips pressed together like maybe he’d made a mistake. I saw myself in the mirror behind. The reflection showed me the broad sweep of his shoulders, the navy coat and grey scarf, the long curve of his neck reaching towards the dark hair above his collar. And my face. Open mouthed, my eyes bright and wide. Lines on my skin, my hair an ash not from a bottle.

“Matthew.” I sighed his name.

His fingers still held mine and his thumb pressed between our palms, pushing at my skin. A waiter bustled out through the door. Behind where he’d come from came shouts and the clang of saucepans.

I held in a whimper of dismay as Matthew let go of my hand, but it swiftly turned to joy as it settled back into that place at the base of my spine; like he knew I needed the touch to keep me moving forward.

He’d done it every lecture we’d ever walked into together. A gentle hand, fit against my skin, gesturing me to keep going.

“Mr Carling.” Oh sweet Jesus, it was the same waiter. I peered at him closer almost entirely sure it was the same man. He was balder, but then I was greyer, so I couldn’t judge.

He gestured us over to the round table in the window, making a motion with his hands that I should give him my jacket.

I didn’t want to take it off. Underneath I modelled old lady clothes.

What had I been thinking?

The waiter gestured again, so I unbuttoned it and handed it over before slipping into the seat and straightening up the napkin.

Matthew handed over his button-up wool coat and scarf, leaving just the dark shirt. I wanted to be that cotton, cradled around his body. I remembered once putting on his hoodie and being overwhelmed by the thought it had touched his skin and was now next to mine. I’d burned bright at Bonfire night, my skin glowing under an oversized jumper.

When he’d sat, his fingers spreading along the tablecloth, I opened my mouth. Prepared. I’d been rehearsing all day.

“So, I’ve been thinking about the name change and how we can get around that.”

He lifted his hands and held a finger up at me. “Drinks first?”

“Oh, uh sure.”

“I’m not staying far away. I thought maybe, if you don’t mind, I could leave the car and walk you home?”

My mouth flapped.

Two things. Walk me home? And… no I couldn’t even think it… “I’m sorry, staying where?”

“I’m only down south to liaise with your office, so I thought it best to hire an apartment.”

“You hired an apartment just for two weeks?”

He shrugged, and I admired how the shirt he wore loved the slope of his arms.

His gaze remained bold as it drifted along my face. “It made sense.”

How did it?

I wanted to crack open his skull and see what it held inside.

“I guess commuting to Scotland would be exhausting.”

His gorgeous face flickered with a frown.

“You must miss your children though?”