The Cure

Chapter 57

She was running home to tell Nate. She had been oblivious to the lashings of early summer rain through the darkening skies, that had soaked her dress as she splashed muddy puddles up the backs of her legs.

She averted her eyes when she passed the graveyard, concentrating on the metrical striking of her feet beneath her, the smell of wet, hot tarmac, the choreographed swooping of hastily-erected umbrellas about her; the roar of evening traffic, the rhythmic bleep of pedestrian crossings. Life's understated sonata.

Nate had just come back from his shift, and hadn't even closed the door to their flat when she barrelled in, making him jump as he toed off his shoes; she threw herself into his arms, her breath coming fast.

He caught her with a small grunt of happy surprise, not even flinching as she wetted his scrubs with her soaking dress, holding her so tightly.

'Where've you been?' He asked as he released her, chafing her damp arms. 'Through a fucking carwash?'

A long kiss had been her only reply, and he hummed low, pleased, taken aback; with a pang of guilt, she let him kiss her for as long as he liked, which was always longer than she permitted; she allowed herself to relish the feeling of his strong arms about her, pulling her closer, his warmth seeping onto her wet skin as his tongue slipped sweet into her mouth.

His eyes creased at the corners when he pulled away, taking in her shimmering eyes and sunny smile.

He hadn't seen her smile properly in a long time.

'What are you so excited about?' He murmured, ducking his chin to find her glittering gaze.

She recounted the strange turn of events as he turned about the loft, running her a bath and pouring two glasses of rosé, the scent of jasmine and good wine, the sound of Britpop floating through the air.

He perched at the edge of the tub, sipping as she chattered with increasing exhilaration amongst the bubbles, of Mr. Hargreaves with his funny, bulky bag of tricks, his shaky videos, his business card, his moody meeting.

She skipped the part about the cigarettes. One cranky finger-wagging was enough for today.

Nate's brow was furrowed when she finished, his expression guarded; she swallowed.

'Sorry I didn't tell you sooner,' Lola mumbled finally, when he didn't immediately reply.

'That's OK. Though I'd have liked to have gone with you.'

She rolled her eyes. 'Of course, you would.'

Nate's eyebrow tilted upwards. 'I'm just glad he didn't start talking about nice underwear and how you feel about home movies.'

She leaned her slippery forearms on the rim of the tub, resting her chin on the back of her crossed hands as she looked up at him, finding his expression uncertain. 'You think he's a creep, too?'

'Not sure I like the sound of it,' he replied, tilting his head as he considered, turning the battered business card back and forth between his fingers, then glancing ruefully at her.

She knew what sound he meant. The sound of too-good-to-be-true.

'You mind if I come?'

'Knowing you, I won't have much choice.'

He twisted a lock of her damp hair around his finger. 'And you didn't sign anything?'

'Think I'm an idiot?'

'As a general rule.' He ducked, laughing as she scooped up a handful of bubbly water and splashed it towards him. 'What does the contract say?'

'I haven't had time to read it.'

'How come?'

'Well, I ran back straight away—'

He narrowed his eyes. 'Why? What happened?'

'—nothing.'

'Did he scare you?'

'No.' She wasn't scared. Not of Hargreaves, anyway. 'I – well, I wanted to come home and tell you.'

Nate ducked his head, and was trying not to smile, now; she fought against the warm bubble swelling in her chest, threatening to burst onto her lips; she nudged his thigh with a wet elbow.

'Yeah, OK, you don't have to look so smug—'

'What?' Nate pressed his lips together, his eyes glittering as he took another sip of wine. 'I just like when you call it home.'