Something Old, Something New

"So, you're back to run the shop for them?" I hazard a guess.

"A bit," Nick tips his head from side to side. "Like I said, the shop doesn't bring in too much, so I set up the vans not long after I got back. We've got eight of them now, which is great, and they're making money, but now someone has to manage all of them and the shop, which means I can't be working in them or here full-time. Then I roped Ben into it," Nick shakes his head, "hoping he'd be keen to help, but his mum is dead-set against it. He's happy to be making money, but as soon as a better offer comes along he'll go back to London. He's a city boy through and through."

"And you're not?" I ask, tentatively.

"No", he chuckles. He looks exhausted as he pushes his hair back. "I'm much happier here. I like that everyone knows everyone. I like that neighbours will go and buy ice lollies for each other just to help out. If you asked your neighbour for help in London they'd call the police."

I laugh. I didn't like London for that same reason. I didn't mind that everyone was a stranger to you, but it was the fact that no one wanted to not be a stranger. I always found that weird.

"What about you?" Nick asks, looking right at me. He's taking me in -- really looking at me for the first time. "How are you getting on here?"

"I love it", I state. It seems really simple to me. "It's home."

Nick smiles sadly. "I wish Ben was like that."

There's a lull in the conversation. Nick isn't looking at me anymore -- he's staring out the window. I can feel the tension in him.

Without really thinking, I put my hand on his arm, over the counter. "Things will be fine, you know," Nick looks to my hand then up to my face. "I don't know Ben, but at least with the shop and the vans -- people won't let Pat and Alec down. The whole town loves them. They'll always be looked after."

Nick nods before squeezing my hand. I take it as a sign I should move it away. "Thank you. That's kind of you to say. I should have known that -- I suppose I must have gotten too used to London people."

This conversation is clearly at its end, so I pick up the ice lollies and move to leave.

"Thank you, Becca," Nick says, making me turn at the door. "For listening to me grumble on."

I smile. "Anytime, Nick."

************

It's been a week and a day. A full week and 24 hours. Eight days of me constantly trying to find an excuse to go to the dessert truck or Pat and Alec's, then changing my mind and deciding to just let Nick think about me (which I have no idea if he ever will) then flipping back to considering just spending all of my money on ice cream.

This is what I'm like with a crush. I'm insufferable even to myself.

The only good thing to come from this is that I've started getting out of the house every day. At noon my mum goes for a walk up the cliffs, and I've started to join her. It's forty minutes of being totally out of breath and listening to my mum talk about what's happening in town, which means there's no room left in my brain for Nick. It's the most peace I get from myself all day.

The issue is that my mum doesn't go walking on weekends. Saturday and Sunday are busy days -- there are always events, lunches, visits, or trips planned for the weekend. I think that it's mums' way of dealing with dad being gone and, I have to say, she is thriving. She's doing better than I am and she's in her sixties.

Today mum invited me to afternoon tea with Lucrezia -- a Polish woman who I swear hasn't aged since I was a child -- but I said no, on the grounds that I went with mum to lunch yesterday, and her friends all asked me intrusive husband-and-baby-timeline-type questions the whole time.

So here I am, putting on my walking boots, packing a lunch and setting myself up for a proper hike along the cliffs by myself. I don't know if it will be worse or better than being stuck inside, but I hope that the difficulty of exercise (something which I am not accustomed to) will occupy my brain.

I pop in my earbuds and use my phone to listen to a little bit of unemotional music (I've heard a lot of love songs in the last week -- my imagination is exhausted and begging me to stop) as I lock up behind me.

Partlesy is a lovely little town, and there's a castle about two miles away on the cliffside. It's just a husk now, and crumbling to pieces so you're not supposed to go too near it. The council put up a metal fence along the main entrance (though you can still get in by going around the side, which I'll admit I have done many times). I begin heading up there, smiling at some of the people I pass -- I don't know most of them by name, but Partlesy is that sort of place.

Around the half-way mark, I go into my backpack to grab some water. I'm only a little out of breath -- one of the perks of regular walks (and mum's cooking is a lot healthier than my old diet of take-aways and pasta) -- but I don't want to rush. I have nothing to do for the rest of the day.

I'm elbows-deep in my backpack, with Sophie Ellis-Bextor singing about crying at the discotheque, when I'm suddenly, violently jolted forward.

I yelp as the ground rushes up to meet me, one arm trapped in my bag and the other taking the fall. A jolt of pain rushed up from my wrist despite the soft grass landing, but I have little time to think about it before I suddenly can't see. There's a wet sensation all over my face and I'm rasping my lips trying to keep the moisture out of my mouth and batting away my assailant with my now-untrapped hand.

One of my earbuds became unwedged during the kerfuffle and I can hear someone shouting. The voice gets closer and I realise he's asking if I'm alright.

I open my eyes to find a very dopey looking St. Bernard grinning down at me, his head tilted to one side.

"I'm so sorry," the voice says. It's familiar but I'm also kind of hoping I'm wrong. What a bad moment to meet again. "We were a bit behind you but he ran when he saw your hand in the bag. His obsession with food gets the better of him -- I assume he thought you were taking out food, anyway. But that's no excuse -- he should have been on the lead, I'm so sorry. Rebecca?" There's a slight pause. My wrist is throbbing. "Honey, are you alright?"

At my name I look up from the dog to confirm my suspicions. Nick. Nick's here, and his dog just attacked me for a sandwich.

I breathe in deeply, steeling myself. I bet that was the least graceful fall that has ever happened to anyone, anywhere. "Yes, I'm fine," I lie. My smile is tight. I can just sense that he knows it's not genuine.

"Ok," Nick nods his head, handing out a hand to me to help me to my feet. Without thinking, I take it and wince when he tugs. Nick frowns. "Did you hurt your hand?"

I shake my head. "My wrist. It's fine though, just a sprain."

Nick shakes his head as well. "That's no good. I'll walk you back to town, we'll need to get it bandaged."

My hand is still in his.

He turns it over gently to look at my wrist -- it's swelling slightly, but not very much. Is it awful that I wished it looked worse? Just to get him to examine it closer?

His thumb runs over the back of my wrist, just above the blue of the visible veins and it does things to me. Oh, dear sweet Lord.

Maybe it's the fact that I know I'll likely never have sex with this man. Maybe it's the thrill of him being so much older and there's just something a bit taboo about that. Maybe it's just that I haven't had sex in too long -- I don't know. Frankly I don't care. Between my legs, my muscles tighten and flutter and I start to think about what his thumb would feel like gently rubbing my clit like that...

I look up to Nick's face and see that he's watching me as I watch his thumb. My mouth is just a little open, my breathing heavy, and I feel my face heat as he look at me. I wonder if people can really read your thoughts by your facial expressions. I hope so.

Nick smiles a little -- just the tiniest quirk at the side of his mouth. He hands me back my wrist and I cradle it against my chest. "Come on," he says, his voice lower than before.

He bends quickly to grab a few things that fell out of the backpack before straightening and putting a hand to the small of my back to lead me back towards town.

It's a mile walk -- about 20 minutes to my house -- but we don't talk too much. I have to focus on my breathing and where I step, to make sure I don't fall on my wrist again, and Nick seems content to walk in silence, occasionally calling the St Bernard (who is called Dennis) to come back and join us. Every so often, though, he will put his hand on my back to guide me on a narrower bit of the path, or take my elbow (of my uninjured arm) to help me. He doesn't touch my hand or wrist again, which is honestly probably a good thing because I might just internally combust.

I steer us towards my house, knowing that there's an extensive first-aid kit (courtesy of my overly cautious mother) below the sink in the kitchen.

I guide Nick in, telling him to make himself at home. Dennis follows and immediately begins sniffing everything he can see.

I dump my backpack at the bottom of the stairs and bring out the first aid kit, setting it on the kitchen table.

"Ah," Nick says, eyeing up the size of the box. "Preparing for an apocalypse?" He asks, grinning.

I smile back. "My mum likes to be prepared," I answer, opening up the first aid kit.

I begin pulling out all of the things that I think might be helpful but Nick bats my hands away and begins rummaging for himself. "I'm the adult here," he says as I start to protest, so I just shake my head and let him do his thing.

It's strange having him in the house. I don't know if he fits in here. This crush has only lasted a week or so, but I've imagined what fucking him would be like in so many scenarios and, yes, the kitchen table is one of them.

Nick makes quick work of collecting the necessary items (which turns out to simply be a bandage and some tape to hold it). When he has them lined up in front of him, he grabs the chair between his legs and drags it until he's right in front of me. "Here," he commands, gently taking my wrist again. "I am not qualified for this, so don't sue me if I make it worse, ok?"

I laugh lightly, watching as he takes the bandage out of its packet and begins to wind it around my wrist and over my palm, crisscrossing. Though he says he's not qualified, he does a good job. It's firm but not tight. It feels like my wrist is supported.

This close, I can observe his face while he's engrossed in his task. He really is handsome -- age hasn't taken a toll on him yet. I wonder if I was harsh when I guessed his age before...

"What age are you?" I blurt out, not thinking.

I'm immediately mortified, but Nick just laughs a bit. It's a sexy sound -- low and rumbling. "I'm 43," he says. I just nod a little. "Why?" He looks up at me. Our faces are inches apart -- I hadn't realised just how intimate this was. "You worried about your mum coming home and catching you with a boy?"

Nick wiggles his eyebrows and I laugh -- a proper, belly laugh. I can just imagine it. If my mum walked in just now she wouldn't bat an eyelid. She'd have no idea what was going on in my head.

When I finally calm down, I bring my face back to look at Nick. I must have leant forward -- I must have -- there's no other possible explanation for how our lips are so close. So close. Less than a few centimetres and we'll have closed the distance.

I close my eyes as he leans forward. His forehead touches mine but our lips don't meet.

"You have no idea how much I want to," Nick groans. "Really, you don't. But I was only supposed to be gone for 40 minutes to walk Dennis. I'm needed back at the shop, Becca. And I know that if I start here then I'm not going to leave."

My stomach clenches at that -- at all of it.

He wants me! I feel like screaming it. I feel like climbing onto his lap and insisting that he proves it, but that wouldn't be fair.

Instead, I take a deep breath and nod, pulling away slowly. "That's fair," I say, though it comes out in a husky whisper. The sound makes him frown like he's in pain -- I wonder if my voice affects him the same way that his voice affects me?

Nick shakes his head and drags his palms down his face before looking at me and grinning. "Some other time, though," he winks. I just laugh and push back from the kitchen table.

He calls Dennis (who has gotten upstairs and up to who-knows-what) as we walk to the front door.

"Thank you for the bandage," I say as I open the door for him.

"No problem," he replies, Dennis trotting down the stairs and straight out the door into the garden. "I'm sorry my dog tried to kill you for a sandwich."

I giggle a little bit as he turns, but I don't want him to leave -- not without a solid idea of when I'll see him again.

In a moment of pure confidence (and genius, I have to admit, I've never been this smooth in my life) I grab Nick's arm as he's about to leave. "Hey," I say as I lean against the wall a little, hoping that it looks sexy in some way, my head tilting. "If I came by the truck later -- say 8pm -- would you be around?"

Nick smiles and ducks his head a bit. "Yeah, I think I would."

I nod, trying to suppress a smile. "Ok then."

Nick hides his grin as well. "Maybe I'll see you around then, Becca."

"Maybe you will," I reply as he leaves, Dennis leading the way.

I close the door behind him and do my best (honestly I do) to not excited/happy dance around the hallway but it's impossible.

I give myself 30 seconds to complete this. Half a minute to let it all out, and then it's all business. It's just after 1, which means that I have a full 7 hours to shave and make myself completely irresistible.

That should be enough time, I assume, climbing the stairs two at a time.

************

It is not enough time.

Several events happen in the 7 hours that I had to get ready and get to Nick.

1. Jen (from next door) knocks on the door asking for plasters and anti-septic cream, if I have it, because their youngest (James) had a fall on the gravel and it's quite nasty, apparently. This was when I had just started to pull things out to start getting ready, so it wasn't that big a deal. But it turned into a 2 hour saga. We brought James into the kitchen, where I hadn't cleaned up the first-aid kit yet, and started to get him patched up. This became a full blown tea-and-biscuits conversation (because I can't have her sitting at my kitchen table and not offer her something to drink and I definitely couldn't ask her to leave (mum would murder me and, anyway, I don't think I have it in me)).
2. Once Jen left, mum came home from Lucrezia's about 15 minutes later and had to use the bathroom. This was particularly troublesome as I had hair-removal cream all over my genitals. I cleaned up and got out only to find mum in my room looking at my dressing table, where I had set out nail polish and make-up. And I was wearing a hair-mask. That was all it took -- the questions began. What was I up to? Where was I going? Who was I meeting? I managed to avoid all of these questions (quite skilfully I might add) until she then wanted me to clarify that I didn't have plans tonight. "So," she said, "you won't mind driving Angela and I to Sarah's house at about 7 tonight?"
3. As soon as this conversation ended, mum locked herself in the bathroom and drew a bath ("Lucrezia's house, God bless her, reeks of... actually I don't know what it is -- you know that way that other people's houses just smell strange to you? Well, it's that and I can't go out smelling like that"), which would have been fine if I'd had a chance to rinse my hair mask. So, I had to use the kitchen sink.

By this point it was almost 4. I hadn't even showered and still needed to wait for mum to get out the bathroom to do so, but that meant I couldn't put on make-up or do my hair. And I didn't want to start painting my nails in case they were still wet when she got out. So, at 5.15 (five fifteen -- what the hell was she doing in the bathroom for an hour and 45 minutes?) I finally got in the shower. Then I had some dinner, letting my hair dry at the same time.

At 6.15 I managed to start getting ready, but then twenty minutes later, mum asked me if I was ready to take her and Angela to Sarah's ("I thought you said we were going at 7?" I asked. "No," mum tsked, though I specifically remember it. "We need to be there for 7. Honestly, Becca.").

I got stuck behind a tractor on the way home, which added another 10 minutes to my journey. So, I got back for 7.30. So, I have had 20-ish minutes to get ready. So, 40 minutes in total.

So, no, my body is not 'completely irresistible' and I want to scream because how did all of this possibly happen today? Why? Did I do something horrible -- is this karma?

I struggle not to dwell on the fact that I just might have patchy pubes due to taking off the hair removal cream too quickly and not having enough time to check the more hidden areas with a mirror.

Don't think about it, I instruct myself as I straighten my spine and walk out the door. It's almost 8 so I'll be a tiny bit late, but it'll be fine. It'll all be fine. Nick's not going to freak out about the little stuff. Hell, we almost did it on the kitchen table earlier and I hadn't even showered -- that has to count for something, right? Right?

Oh God, now I'm nervous. My stomach is in knots and I'm already around the corner, coming towards the beach. I'll be able to see the van any second. My palms are slick with sweat. Shit. I'll be a blubbering, sweaty mess when he sees me and he'll really politely, but firmly, tell me that he has no interest anymore.

There's the van. And leaning against the back door of it, scrolling through his phone with one hand and rubbing the stubble on his jaw with the other, is Nick. The picture of ease. The complete opposite of everything I am.

This could be disastrous.

Before I can turn around (I could have done it -- I could easily have faked a sudden stomach bug and made my apologies in a few days) he looks up and smiles at me. And then we're only a few meters away, but he doesn't pull away from the van, he just watches.

"Hi," I smile, trying to look completely unbothered.

"Hi," he replies, also smiling, but he looks concerned. "You look like you're about to go to the gallows." He chuckles a little, an eyebrow lifting.

I giggle (just a tad hysterically). "I got a bit nervous on the way here," I admit. I should have hidden it better. No, I should have had a couple of drinks before I left. That would have helped enormously.

"In a bad way?" He asks, putting his phone in his pocket. He sounds worried. He sounds doubtful.

I'm almost certain that if I don't say the right thing here then he's going to call it off -- for my benefit, not his. "In the way," I begin, hoping this comes out right, "that you get when you really fancy someone, and you don't want to fuck it up?"

Nick grins and ducks his head -- it's an adorable gesture. I think he might even be blushing a little. "Well then that makes two of us," he admits as he raises his eyes to mine.

He pushes away from the van and we meander a little away. I want to take his hand but... Well, people talk. And I don't need this getting back to my mum anytime soon.

"So," Nick begins, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Did he have the same thought I just did? "Where should we go?"

"We could go back to mine? My mum won't be home until late." Nick laughs so loudly it almost startles me. "What?" I ask, smiling as I watch. His laugh is lovely.