that it would have made an iota of difference. Because he’d blown it.
After they’d been freefalling she’d practically locked herself away up here and he’d let her, because she’d been fizzing with a contagious energy that made him want her more every day. Then he’d seen the fear, the resolution as she’d fought it, and he hadn’t dared ask. He’d just shared her bed and shared her body, but too many times she’d not been there, locked away as though she was trying to prove something to them both. And he’d been too scared to pry, to prove her right, and risk her walking away. Even though all he’d wanted to do was tell her it was OK, that he wanted to share, not take away. The one time he’d pushed the point, every sinew in her body had seemed to tighten and she’d gone as brittle as an eggshell on him. And he’d let her. Fuck.
So this was her domain, the place he’d only been allowed in briefly before. He leant to one side, flicked open a sketchpad, and the real Hayley jumped back at him. The Hayley that was present in all her pictures except that one she’d done for him.
His gaze travelled over the ones strewn on the floor; sketches in charcoal, rough drafts in colour. They were good, they were her. She didn’t need more space, more time without him. He could back off, but he didn’t want to. And he really didn’t need to. Unless it was just that she wanted him to …
He leant back against the wall and closed his eyes. Maybe she couldn’t do that one picture for him because she didn’t want to. And now he’d really screwed up; he’d told her she was crap, proved to her that she’d been right all the time. Except she hadn’t. And he might not want a relationship, but he didn’t want to let go either.
‘Hey.’
Like the mystery she was she’d come up the stairs without a sound. Her light scent invaded his senses just as her soft voice tweaked at his conscience. He was being unfair, and whatever the answer to this was he wasn’t sure he had it. ‘It’s OK, you don’t have to worry about throwing me out. I’ll leave you in peace.’ He held both hands up in defeat.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said …’
‘That it sucked? But it does, I know it does.’
‘But it’s my fault.’
‘No, no it isn’t. That’s why I’m sorry.’ He opened his eyes, but didn’t dare move another muscle as she walked over to him, her bare feet moving soundlessly on the wooden floor.
‘It isn’t your fault, Tom, it’s my fault.’
* * *
Hayley stared at him, sat on her studio floor, surrounded by her sketches, and her throat tightened painfully. My fault for not believing, my fault for overthinking things. Running had been the easiest thing to do: running from him, running from herself and all the things that sent her into a state of frozen panic. The picture had never been right, but she’d battled on with it. It was too self-controlled, too careful. She’d been scared to let him into her life; she’d been too scared to let him into her head, into her painting. She’d wanted to capture him, but she hadn’t let herself. How could it be a reflection of him if she spent all her time trying to shut him out of her thoughts? ‘I’ll fix it, Tom.’ And then I’ll try and fix us.
‘What do you mean?’ He was looking at her warily, his eyes narrowed. ‘You’ll run away, that’s it?’
‘No, I’ve stopped running. Well, I’ll try and stop. Just give me a couple of days.’ He looked sceptical, and for a moment there was a look of something she couldn’t pinpoint, couldn’t identify, and then it hit her. Square in what might have been her belly but could well have been a smidgen higher. He looked defeated, and it was so not how he was supposed to look. ‘Trust me, can you trust me?’ Like I’m trying to trust you?
He nodded; pulled himself back up to his feet. ‘These are good, brilliant, in fact.’ He waved at the sketches.
‘I
After they’d been freefalling she’d practically locked herself away up here and he’d let her, because she’d been fizzing with a contagious energy that made him want her more every day. Then he’d seen the fear, the resolution as she’d fought it, and he hadn’t dared ask. He’d just shared her bed and shared her body, but too many times she’d not been there, locked away as though she was trying to prove something to them both. And he’d been too scared to pry, to prove her right, and risk her walking away. Even though all he’d wanted to do was tell her it was OK, that he wanted to share, not take away. The one time he’d pushed the point, every sinew in her body had seemed to tighten and she’d gone as brittle as an eggshell on him. And he’d let her. Fuck.
So this was her domain, the place he’d only been allowed in briefly before. He leant to one side, flicked open a sketchpad, and the real Hayley jumped back at him. The Hayley that was present in all her pictures except that one she’d done for him.
His gaze travelled over the ones strewn on the floor; sketches in charcoal, rough drafts in colour. They were good, they were her. She didn’t need more space, more time without him. He could back off, but he didn’t want to. And he really didn’t need to. Unless it was just that she wanted him to …
He leant back against the wall and closed his eyes. Maybe she couldn’t do that one picture for him because she didn’t want to. And now he’d really screwed up; he’d told her she was crap, proved to her that she’d been right all the time. Except she hadn’t. And he might not want a relationship, but he didn’t want to let go either.
‘Hey.’
Like the mystery she was she’d come up the stairs without a sound. Her light scent invaded his senses just as her soft voice tweaked at his conscience. He was being unfair, and whatever the answer to this was he wasn’t sure he had it. ‘It’s OK, you don’t have to worry about throwing me out. I’ll leave you in peace.’ He held both hands up in defeat.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said …’
‘That it sucked? But it does, I know it does.’
‘But it’s my fault.’
‘No, no it isn’t. That’s why I’m sorry.’ He opened his eyes, but didn’t dare move another muscle as she walked over to him, her bare feet moving soundlessly on the wooden floor.
‘It isn’t your fault, Tom, it’s my fault.’
* * *
Hayley stared at him, sat on her studio floor, surrounded by her sketches, and her throat tightened painfully. My fault for not believing, my fault for overthinking things. Running had been the easiest thing to do: running from him, running from herself and all the things that sent her into a state of frozen panic. The picture had never been right, but she’d battled on with it. It was too self-controlled, too careful. She’d been scared to let him into her life; she’d been too scared to let him into her head, into her painting. She’d wanted to capture him, but she hadn’t let herself. How could it be a reflection of him if she spent all her time trying to shut him out of her thoughts? ‘I’ll fix it, Tom.’ And then I’ll try and fix us.
‘What do you mean?’ He was looking at her warily, his eyes narrowed. ‘You’ll run away, that’s it?’
‘No, I’ve stopped running. Well, I’ll try and stop. Just give me a couple of days.’ He looked sceptical, and for a moment there was a look of something she couldn’t pinpoint, couldn’t identify, and then it hit her. Square in what might have been her belly but could well have been a smidgen higher. He looked defeated, and it was so not how he was supposed to look. ‘Trust me, can you trust me?’ Like I’m trying to trust you?
He nodded; pulled himself back up to his feet. ‘These are good, brilliant, in fact.’ He waved at the sketches.
‘I
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