Six of Hearts(95)

A moment of eye contact ensues between us. I break it when I go to grab my bagel and see that it’s all gone. “Oh, my God, you ate all my breakfast,” I say, trying to hold back a grin as I push his shoulder.

He grabs the hand I pushed him with and drags my body into his. Our mouths are close, and I think he might kiss me. Instead, something passes behind his eyes and he lets go, backs away.

“I’ll make you something to replace it. What do you want? Eggs?”

I study him, wondering why he didn’t kiss me, wondering what the thought was that I saw come over him. “Yeah,” I reply. “Eggs sound good.”

***

The next day as I’m sitting on a bench, eating lunch in the park close to the office, a man comes and sits down beside me. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, thinking I know him from somewhere but not being able to put my finger on where.

“Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?” he says casually.

“Yeah, it’s great,” I say, and take a bite out of my sandwich. I don’t really like it when strangers try to make conversation with me. The next thing I know, the man is taking a strand of my hair and smoothing it between his fingers. I startle and move away quickly, turning to look at him properly now. My hair falls through his hand.

It’s the man Jay met up with in the docklands, the one in the suit with the neck tattoo. My eyes widen as I take him in. His being here doesn’t feel like a coincidence.

“What do you want?” I ask, standing up from the bench, my lunch instantly forgotten.

“You recognise me, don’t you, love?” says the man in a strong inner-city accent.

I repeat my question, stammering this time. “Wh-what do you want?”

“I know you followed your boyfriend the other night. I know you saw me. That was a mistake on your part, love. You tell your boyfriend that I know who you are now, and if he tries to mess me around again, I’ll be coming for ya.”

I stare at him, open-mouthed, as he gets up from the bench, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He doesn’t say anything more, simply walks away. That evening when Jay comes home, I practically drag him into my room so that we can talk. Speaking nervously, I tell him about my encounter with the man in the park. He watches me the entire time, brows furrowed, before letting out a string of curse words.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he swears, clenching his fists, the tick in his jaw starting up.

“Do you think we should call the police?” I say, worried. I know I agreed not to ask him any more questions, so I refrain from asking who exactly the man is.

He walks away from me, pacing the room, then comes back and tenderly runs a hand down my face, his eyes drinking me in. There’s a storm in his expression, turmoil.

“No, he won’t come near you. I’ll take care of everything. You don’t need to worry.”

Looking back at him, I swallow hard and nod.



As the week passes, I get less and less sleep, and not for a good reason. Every night I lie awake, my heart pounding as I will Jay to come to me. He doesn’t, though. In fact, he seems to have backed off substantially. He hasn’t said a word about breaking up, but he’s been distant, and it’s killing me.

Does he not want me anymore?

Has this got something to do with the man in the park?

I only get to spend time with him in the evenings when he comes to sit by me as I design and sew. I see him at breakfast and dinner, but Dad is usually there, so it doesn’t really count. We can’t talk about things with Dad there.

It’s Friday and Michelle’s meeting Jessie, so we’re not doing our usual night out. She hasn’t told Jessie the depth of her feelings yet and has decided to play it by ear. Since she’s unavailable, I plan an evening of dressmaking. I’m working on a new tea dress design that I plan to make in several different sizes and with several different patterned fabrics. I found it in one of my mother’s old design books, and got really excited as I thought of ways to put my own spin on it.

When the dresses are done, I’ll hang them on my mannequin, photograph them, and put them up on Etsy. This is an ambitious project. Normally I make things to order, or I just make one dress, a unique design for one person to own.

With the week I’ve had, though, I’m feeling the need for something that will consume more of my brain space. That way I won’t have the chance to think about Jay.

Speak of the devil. He walks into the room as my pencil scratches at the paper of my design book, scribbling down measurements. He sits on the other side of the table, grabs an apple out of the fruit bowl, and starts to eat it. I glance up once and instantly regret it. His eyes are dark with a look I’ve come to recognise as need.