chapter seventeen

s e v e n t e e n

*

After a recuperative coffee in a sweet little independent café not far from the ice rink, once Casper and I managed to get off the ice without further injury, we spent two hours driving back to Saint Wendelin, so I spent two hours thinking way too hard about the guy sitting next to me. With every minute that passed, I tried to convince myself that no, of course I'm not falling for Casper, a guy I've considered to be nothing more than a friend for four years. But with each dumb joke he made and every quirk of a smile I caught sight of, it got an awful lot harder to believe my protestations.

It's dark by the time we get home. It's crazy how early the sun sets – we watched it as we drove into the sunset, heading west across the country to our cosy little valley – and the already-freezing temperatures drop even lower as the dark sinks in.

When I pull up in my driveway, a frost warning on my dashboard flashes that it's minus eight degrees and that is painfully clear when we get out. After two hours of toasty heating, the engine guzzling petrol to keep us warm, it's a shock to the system to be confronted by the chill.

"Fucking hell!" Casper cries out. "I swear it's five times colder than it was when we left. Jesus, this is brutal. Come on, Beth, open the front door before my dick shrivels up and my balls drop off."

"Wouldn't want that," I say, fumbling with my keys in gloved hands to separate my tiny house key from the assortment of keyrings jangling on the fob. I change them throughout the year when I feel like switching it up, and right now, they're all festive: a felt reindeer from a handmade stall; a tiny Santa hat; a tiny snow globe featuring an even tinier Christmas tree and miniscule presents.

"Seriously, Bee, we are about seven seconds away from a genital catastrophe."

I snort at him as I unlock the door and he rushes in past me, heading straight for the empty fireplace. The heating isn't scheduled to come on until seven, so the house is almost as cold as outside. Casper wastes no time in laying a fire, haphazardly stacking kindling around a couple of firelighters and topping the pile with a couple of bone-dry logs.

"You're a quick learner," I say as I watch him strike a match. A week ago, he'd never laid a fire before.

"Desperate times, desperate measures," he says. "I know matches make fire and fire makes wood burn, and wood burns nice and hot. And right now, I'm wondering if it's time I invest in thermal underwear."

"You're so nesh, Cas. Why don't you go and have a bath to warm up? I'll stick the heating on and get this going."

Still crouching in front of the fireplace, he rocks back on his heels, pouting as he considers it. "Good shout," he says eventually. "That ice gave me the worst pounding I've ever had in my life. Pretty sure my arse is gonna be bruised to high heaven when I get changed."

I bite my tongue before I can offer to check for him.

Only once he's upstairs do I sink onto the sofa and drop my head into my hands, taking a moment to despair the state of my head and my heart and my back. I can only blame the rink for the last in the list, though I wonder if maybe I did some damage when I hit my head on the ice; maybe this is some strange concussive hallucination and I'll wake up tomorrow and see the same Casper I've known for four years.

Funny, cute, dorky little Casper with his endearing asymmetry and his hatred of my favourite holiday, his wonky teeth and his odd laugh and his charm and...

Damn.

Fire. Make the fire, I think, propelling myself into action. That's something to focus on, neatening up the wood Casper has laid out, which hasn't yet caught the flame from the pungent white blocks of firelighter. It doesn't take long for me to get it going, less than ten minutes, but it feels like an age when the same thoughts are twisting and turning over and over.

I need to deal with this situation. I need to either pull myself together and tell Casper I like him, or I have to let myself down and ask him not to move in. Both are horrible options. I have yet to decide if they're equally horrible. Surely one is better than the other. Surely there's an easier answer out there. For a moment, I imagine the ideal world, in which Casper realises he's madly in love with me too and he puts me out of my misery with a huge romantic gesture.

But he just got dumped. He's single for the first time in two years. The last thing he'll want is to dive headfirst into an ill-advised relationship with someone whose life revolves around his least favourite time of year.

I'm getting nowhere good with this line of thinking, one that will soon delve into the dark, insecure depths of my brain where a tiny voice is screaming you're an arrogant prick for even considering that he could find you attractive! It's a voice I've spent years trying to suppress, with the aid of several partners who have been vocal in their appreciation of my body, but it rears its head every time I even think I might like someone.

Somewhere across the room, my phone buzzes. I manage to tear myself from the heat of the fire to find it lodged between sofa cushions, a text from my mum on the screen.

MUM: how's it going? if you need a break, feel free to come over! im sure your wise man will be ok on his own for a few hours if you want to come and have a drink!

It's an appealing offer. Today's been pretty fantastic, but also pretty confusing, and it might help to get a bit of distance. And share my plight face to face with my parents. My dad may not be the best when it comes to dating advice – I'm pretty sure Mum swept him up and overwhelmed him and they were married before he knew what was going on – but Mum has been useful in the past. We're on the same wavelength for the most part.

I could wait for Casper to be done with his bath, but he only went up five minutes ago and it's so easy to while away an hour up there, soaking in a hot, soapy tub, so I head upstairs and knock on the bathroom door. I can hear the water running but he doesn't reply.

I knock harder. "Cas? You in there?"

A moment passes before he calls out, "Hold on a sec!"

A few seconds later, he opens the door a crack, just wide enough for me to see that he's naked except for socks and a towel around his waist. His face is flushed, his pupils wide, and ... oh, shit. I may be interrupting his alone time. My cheeks go red at the thought alone, redder still when I can't help but notice his body, his smooth brown stomach dusted with black hair and the faintest hint of his abs. And then my eyes dip too low. I see the tell-tale bulge in the towel, which he unsubtly tries to cover with a t-shirt.

"Um. Everything okay?" he asks, his voice a little strained. Fuck, I've definitely interrupted him

"Sorry, I just wanted to ask if you mind if I head out for a bit, go and have a drink with my parents."

"Oh, yeah, sure," he says. "As in yes, that's fine, go and have fun! I don't mind at all."

"I didn't want you coming down to an empty house and no clue."

He's nodding and I'm trying to act natural, like I haven't just seen his towel-covered erection, even though I am about as unsubtle as he was, the way he grabbed his t-shirt and oh-so-naturally held it over his crotch.

"Okay, I'm going then," I say. "Don't have too much fun without me."

Wrong words. Really wrong words. Casper chokes. My blush deepens to an actual fire in my veins.

"I'll try not to," he says, a wry smile on his lips. At least he's amused and not dying of shame. "Are you eating with them?"

"No, I'll be back by"—I check my phone and see that it's just gone five—"seven? Seven thirty?"

"I'll have supper on the table."

"Oh, don't worry about that. I don't even know what I've got in the fridge. I can just grab something on the way home."

"I like cooking," he says. "I already know what I want to make, anyway."

"Oh. Okay, then. Thank you." This conversation needs to end. I should have just yelled through the door that I'm going out and saved us both this awkward encounter. "Right. I'll leave you to it. See you later."

He salutes me with the hand holding the t-shirt, sending me off with one last glimpse of what lies beneath his towel.

*

Despite the work going on in my parents' house, they've managed to make their remaining space cosy, and we end up in the snug with a round of coffee at five thirty. It's a small sitting room at the back of the house, with a neat little wood burner crackling away and easily warming the space that's just big enough for a couple of sofas and a bookshelf.

"Sounds like you've got it bad, baby," Mum says once I've explained my predicament at length, right up until before the bathroom incident. It's not like I caught him in a compromising position, but it's pretty clear I could have.

"He sounds like a good lad," Dad says, he and Mum sitting together on the sofa while I perch on a pouf in front of the fire.

"He's a really good lad."

"Lovely boy," Mum agrees. "But I understand why you're a bit confused. Maybe you should talk to Junie? I know she encountered some issues when she dated her flatmate."

"That's different though," I protest, pathetically. "Like, she was at uni. Living with six other people. It's always going to be awkward if you start dating within a group. And I'm ninety percent sure they only dated because they hooked up at a house party and thought it'd be less awkward if they took it further."

Dad chuckles at that. Sometimes I wonder if he despairs of having four daughters, though the four of us couldn't be much more different. We're not just chalk and cheese – we're chalk and cheese and chaos and a cat.

"In my experience, men are a bit hopeless," Mum says. "No offence, Dusty."

Dad holds up a hand. "None taken."

"Sometimes they need things spelling out for them. They don't know what's right in front of them. I know your dad certainly did."

I glance at Dad. He's nodding.

"I liked your mum for months but I didn't think she even noticed me like that," he says.

Mum rolls her eyes. "And I was dropping hints for months before I realised he had no idea that's what was happening." She puts her hand on his knee and smiles. "It all worked out in the end. He just needed nudging in the right direction."

Dad smiles and pats Mum's hand. "In my opinion," he says, "it's always nice to hear that someone likes you. I was chuffed to bits when I realised your mum was hitting on me."

"Halfway through our first date," Mum adds, shaking her head at him. "As I said – men are clueless. And I've met this particular man – he doesn't seem like the type to turn nasty. Worst case scenario, yo-"

"Embarrass myself, lose a housemate, lose a friend, have to stop going to my favourite café when he's working there, live with the humiliation of rejection," I say, letting loose everything in my head. Mum gives me a sad look. Dad tuts.

"You're catastrophising this a bit," he says, "but only you know you, Beth. If you think it will go badly, don't say anything. If you think it'll be worse to keep it to yourself, say something."

"Mmm."

"Do you think the feelings might be mutual?" he asks.

Well, that's the question of the day. If I knew that, I wouldn't have such a dilemma on my hands. If I could honestly say yes, I'm pretty sure the feelings are mutual, then I'd have already told him, or I'd have been more heavy-handed with my own hints.

"I don't know," I say after a while, with a heavy sigh. "He says some things that make me think ... yes? Maybe? But I also know that he's a charmer. He's one of those people, you know? Like, some of the stuff he says is – or, it seems, at least – undeniably flirty."

I sip my coffee and watch the surface ripple when I sigh again. "Anyway. Enough about me and my problems. How's it going here? How's work?"

Dad shrugs. "Same old, same old. People are still getting divorced, and I'll be busy until they stop."

Mum gives him a look, eyes narrowed. "You'll be busy until you retire," she says pointedly, and then looks at me. "Five more years, and we'll pack it in, once your dad's sixty and he's spent enough of his life helping people dismantle their own."

I think the only thing Mum likes about Dad being a divorce lawyer is the salary. I don't know what he earns, but I know it's the big bucks, more than enough to ensure that Mum has never had any pressure to get a higher paying job. She loves what she does, working as a part-time teaching assistant ever since she stepped back from full-time teaching after her fiftieth.

"We should all go abroad when you retire," I say. "A big family trip to a new city, somewhere you didn't conceive a child."

Mum laughs, her cheeks rosy. "It's a nice idea, honey," she says, "but a lot can happen in five years. We'll probably be grandparents by then and knowing Indy, her babies won't leave her side until they start high school. And a big trip abroad is no place for little children."

I can't help but think of my girls whenever my parents talk about grandchildren. I can't help but think that, by the time my parents retire, my girls would have been ten. Not such little children. But now it's been five years and none of us are any closer to giving my parents grandchildren, though India's twenty-eight now, and married, and I know she wants to have kids by the time she's thirty.

The conversation drifts away from me and Casper, from my parents' jobs, as the three of us float between topics for two hours until a ringing phone interrupts us. It's seven already, somehow, and Dad has to go and collect Paisley from one of her millions of extra-curriculars, and that's my cue to leave.

"Don't overthink it," Dad says as he hugs me and heads off. "Love you; see you soon!"

He leaves. Mum pulls me into a hug and says, "If you're going to torture yourself over the not knowing, then I think you need to just tackle it head on. Don't ruin your Christmas for yourself by spending it worrying about this."

"I'll think about it. Thanks, Mum."

She stands in the doorway to wave me off, still there when I turn a corner and can't see her anymore. I know she and Dad are right, that it's not worth all this stress, but it's so easy to tell myself that I'll tell Casper, and a hell of a lot harder to actually find a way to do that without making a fool of myself or both of us.

When I arrive home bang on seven thirty, I'm greeted by the most irresistible smells the moment I walk through the door and I follow my nose to the kitchen, where I come across my new favourite sight: Casper boogying in front of the oven, shaking his hips along to a Beyoncé song.

"Perfect timing!" he calls out when he hears me take off my coat, the house now deliciously warm. He turns around with two plates in his hands and sets them down on two place mats with a flourish. A lit candle sits in the middle of the table, the melting wax emitting the gentle scent of cinnamon and spices, and he presents a bottle of wine from somewhere, ready to pour into two waiting glasses.

"Whoa. You went all out."

"Only the best for Beth," he says with a grin, pouring me a glass of white wine. "Beef bourguignon and a rather nice Pinot Grigio that I may have sampled while cooking."

"This smells incredible."

"Hopefully it'll taste half as good," he says as we take a seat. "Also I hope you're ready to eat – this can keep warm if you're not."

My stomach grumbles in response. "I'm very ready. I can't believe you've gone to so much effort!"

He shrugs and gives me that crooked smile, holding up his glass to clink mine. "Cheers, Jerusalem. Here's to ... Beth and Casper's big day out. I had so much fun today!"

"Me too. That tree was ... wow. Thank you for showing me."

"Thanks for teaching me how to skate," he says. "Even if we did end up in a bit of a heap."

The memory comes with a hot flush and a tingle in my spine.

"I am so bruised though," Casper continues. "That ice was brutal, my entire arse is black and blue." He scoots back his chair and hitches up his jumper, pushing his pyjama bottoms down an inch or two, just enough to show the discolouration of his hip and his lower back. "I swear, I almost had to ring you from the bath; I genuinely thought, at one point, that I'd never be able to get out."

He laughs as he rabbits on and on, but my mind's stuck on the image of him in the bath. Naked and soapy. Now that I have more of an idea of what he looks like under his pyjamas, it's an even more vivid image and it won't budge when I try to shove it out of my head to focus on what he's saying.

"Anyway, I think it's safe to say I'm not a skater," he says. "It was fun, though. You're amazing. I was half hoping you'd be shitter than me and we could have a laugh, but you were like some kind of ice fairy."

I cough on a laugh and sip my wine. "You're very easily impressed."

"True. I'm a man of simple needs."

So am I. I need you.

Mum's right. No good comes of torturing myself. I'm going to have to tell him. If he runs for the hills, so be it. What's the good of loving someone if I keep it to myself? I've never done that before. Every other time I've liked a guy, it's resulted in a relationship. Why is it so hard this time to string the right words together?

I take a sip of wine. I swallow. I take a deep breath.

And I let it out. Not now. Not yet.

*

happy friday! what do YOU think beth should do?