Wish You Weren't Here (A Romantic Comedy)

Chapter Twenty Four

Lewis doesn't return to the suite until late. When he finally appears, I'm sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling my legs in the water, and debating whether I should text him. I've resisted all day, and it's been a struggle.

"Are your imaginary friends back?" His teasing voice from the patio doorway alerts me to his presence and causes me to realise I've been muttering out loud to myself again.

"Yeah," I murmur, hoping I'm not blushing. I can't resist a quick dig. "They came to keep me company because I was lonely."

"Aw, did you miss me?" Kicking off his shoes, he lowers himself down beside me, and I pass him the bottle of prosecco I've been swigging directly from. His words are deliberately light. Casual. When I turn and look at him, though, I can tell once again that my response is incredibly important to him.

"Yes," I say simply. He sighs happily, body relaxing, eyes briefly fluttering shut, and I use this opportunity to trace my gaze over his features. The tanned skin. Mussed-up hair. Those adorable freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose. His dark stubble heavier than I've ever witnessed it. He's so gorgeous it almost hurts to watch him - like staring into the sun for too long. Cocoa coloured eyes shoot open, catching me completely in the act of studying him, and he groans quietly.

"Christ, when you look at me like that, Ruby . . . " he trails off, shaking his head. "You could have texted or called, you know," he says finally, looking away. "I'd have come back in a heartbeat."

"I wasn't sure if you would," I admit. "I thought you might have needed the space to think too."

Rather than replying immediately, he tilts his head back to drink some fizz, perhaps to prolong our time underneath this cloud of truth. Or maybe he's just thirsty. "For me, there's nothing to think about," he states eventually, his voice unbelievably soft and sincere. It curls itself around me like a hug, and I allow myself to let the warmth heat me up from the inside. "I've always known exactly how I feel."

Then why don't you remember me? And why did you leave with another girl directly after our "first meeting"? I desperately want to ask, and if this is Honesty Hour, I really should make the most of it. But the questions sit there on my tongue, wrap themselves around each other like vines, and refuse to come out. As if my brain - or my heart - is scared of what his answers might be. Instead, I hum quietly in response, unable to look at him again.

"You want to hear something crazy?" Lewis asks me, finally, and I nod, eager for any sort of reprieve from that damn vortex of introspection I keep getting sucked into. He takes a deep breath. "When I was younger, I actually quite enjoyed going to confession."

"That's a bit . . . apropos of nothing," I comment, tilting my head up towards the sky. It's dark now, and the stars are starting to twinkle above us.

He laughs, dimples flashing irresistibly. "I don't think I've ever heard that phrase used outside of a Sheryl Crow song."

"I don't think I've ever actually used it before either," I admit, taking the bottle back from him. "I've apparently been saving it for a special occasion."

His laughter gets louder, and I find myself joining in. "So you actually liked confession?" I prompt after we recover. "As in . . . When you tell the priest your sins? I'm just making sure we're on the same page here because I hated confession. I could never really think of anything particularly bad to confess to, but I always felt like I had to say something . . . So I'd make a few sins up and then feel bad for lying. Which kind of defeated the purpose!"

"You've clearly always been a good girl," he says with a cheeky wink. And god, something way down below flutters furiously when he says "good girl". But I force myself to concentrate on his next words as his face grows more solemn. "I was . . . quite mischievous, let's just say. I did a lot of typically stupid things as a kid. And then some even sillier things as a teen. So it was actually quite good that I could just . . . Lay my sins out there, get my prayer penance and feel . . . absolved."

"Ah, the classic 'don't ask for permission beforehand: ask for forgiveness afterwards'," I nod. "I learned that lesson from watching Love Island."

He winces at that. "I'd never use it in that particular context - I've never cheated on anyone, for the record - but yes, I guess that's the hymn sheet I was singing from."

"And did it really make you feel better?" I ask curiously, swivelling back to face him. "Confessing?"

"Definitely." His eyes meet mine again, and he grins. "Temporarily, of course, though. Because it would only be a matter of time before I needed to go back to that bloody confessional and admit to another handful of sins."

A few beats of silence thud between us.

"You're probably wondering what the point of such a random anecdote was, right?" he asks eventually.  I realise he's moved closer now, only as he slips his arm around me and pulls me in. I find myself in almost the same position I was last night, head resting comfortably against his shoulder.

"It did cross my mind," I manage to say. It's hard to think particularly hard when I'm intoxicated by the coconut scent emanating from his skin.

"Because . . . " He swallows hard, his arm tightening around me. I feel him trembling slightly. "I think I've got a lot of things I want to tell you. Things I've been bottling up for a long time. About the past. I don't think I'm quite ready to open up completely yet. But I want to be ready. Because I think telling you will finally help me move on."

"Why me?" I ask quietly. A cymbal crashes violently somewhere in my heart.

"Because . . ." He says again, hesitating only briefly this time. "Despite me trying to resist, trying to fight it, over the . . . last few years, you've somehow became one of the most important people in my life." I hear his breath catch as he brushes a butterfly light kiss against my hair. "I care about you, Ruby; I can't even find the words to describe just how much. And I want you to know me. I want you to know everything."

The cymbal has stopped moving, but my heart is still reverberating from the after-effects. I press my head into his chest and hear his frantically beating, too. The intensity in his words temporarily pushes the air from my lungs. Is this what total organ failure feels like?

He moves then, turning and gazing directly at me. His beautiful face painted with every possible shade of vulnerability, his eyes shadowed with shyness. "Is that okay?" he asks softly. "When I'm ready to talk . . . Will you listen?"

"Of course," I whisper, without hesitation. Relief replaces the previous emotions as he carefully tilts my head up towards his, slides his fingers into my hair, and brushes his lips softly over mine. We both sigh in apparent delight, but neither of us makes a move to deepen this particular kiss. It remains in the shallows, hovering on the surface. Gentle. Tender. Unhurried.

It seems there is no longer any rush.

And, for now, there's no longer a need for more words, either.

I'm not sure how I went from thinking I'd never get back into this story after my holiday to getting two chapters written in two days . . . But sometimes miracles do happen!

I'd love to know your thoughts. ❤️