summary: he won't ask you to wait if you don't ask him to stay. so he'll go back to london and the so-called friends who'll write books about him, if he ever makes it, and wonder about the only soul who can tell which smiles he's faking. and the heart he knows he's breaking is his own, to leave the warmest bed he's ever known.
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Jamie Tartt was not the type of man to fall in love. He didn't think he was capable of it. Something about his heart, maybe. Something about how his dad made him feel like love was a weakness. That if he ever opened himself up to a person like that, his dad would be disappointed, and where there came disappointment... If he was a poet, he could probably say it more eloquently. But Jamie Tartt was a far cry from a poet. The best he could say was that he couldn't love—no matter what, no matter who.
And maybe that's why it stung, just a little bit, when his mum mentioned you.
He had come back up to Manchester for the holidays—something he seldom did, in an effort to avoid his dad. But he missed home, he missed his mum. And, besides, it was the holidays. There were no games to be played. No training he had to attend. It was kind of sad to be at the bars and clubs on Christmas. What else was he to do besides go home? Was there anything left for him in London? So, he came and prayed that James Tartt would be nowhere to be found.
He was lucky in that regard, but all luck runs out eventually.
"I saw that girl you used to go to school with when I went to the shop yesterday," Georgie said when Jamie came down for dinner. Jamie grabbed one of the rolls Simon made, scarfing it down before grabbing a second. He watched his mum as he chewed, wondering where she was going with this. "Oh, what's her name? The one who always had her nose in a book? You remember, the girl you always followed around like a puppy."
Oh, Jamie remembered you. He remembered you quite well. You were his first actual girlfriend, back before he became a famous footballer. You didn't care much for football, or the fact that Jamie's right foot had been kissed by God and that he was well on his way of making a career out of the only thing he cared for. Well, okay, you did care about him achieving his dreams (had they been his dreams? or had all of it been something his father pushed on him? fuck—this is why he doesn't come home for the holidays. it makes him think too much). But you cared more about him. You cared about how rocky road was his favorite ice cream flavor. You cared about how Disney movies were his favorite—and not the newer shit, the classic stuff. You cared about how he liked to be held and have his hair played with. You cared about how Jamie would try to read the books you loved just to try to understand you more. You cared, and he couldn't, and that's why it ended.
He muttered your name before shoveling another forkful of food into his mouth.
"That's right! Sweet girl, she is, you know? Anyway, apparently she's opened up this cute little book shop."
