Fault (Define Book 3) Read online

  When I got back to the house, I stood on the front step and mentally got in character. I was confident, happy, relaxed. Well, she was.

  “Hi, Max!” I listened carefully to my voice, trying to gauge if it was too artificial, as I went into the lounge. I sat with him and took my Kindle out, determined to look the role of relaxed housemate when Noah returned. “I’m reading Great Expectations, Max. I bet you’ve read it before, haven’t you?” His smile told me he was a fan. “Do you want to read it together?” He nodded in excitement before muting the television. I pulled a footstool over and sat next to him. “Do you want me to go back to the start? I’m only a few chapters in, so I don’t mind.” He shook his head and patted my arm with his hand.

  I don’t know how long I was reading aloud, but Max’s hand remained on my arm throughout Pip’s visits to Miss Havisham and his burgeoning infatuation with Estella. However, as soon as Noah entered the room, I was drawn back out of Pip’s world just by his presence.

  I stretched and looked at Max. “It’s good so far. But tell me, is there going to be a happy ending?” He tapped his nose with his good hand and gave me a wicked smile. “Ooh, that’s not fair. More tomorrow?” He managed to mumble something that resembled a yes before smiling in Noah’s direction. His own was as forced as mine.

  “Had a good day?”

  “Yeah, I went to the library and got a phonecard for Mum. And now I’ve discovered the joy of Charles Dickens. So all’s good. You?”

  “Yes, thanks. I had a really productive afternoon and shifted some of the boring tasks so I can concentrate on my next column. Pasta okay for dinner?”

  Max and I gave our approval and Noah left the room. I couldn’t stop myself breathing a sigh of relief at having survived. Max patted my arm, and I looked at him, certain he was telling me something with his eyes.

  I escaped to my room once dinner was over, using the excuse of needing to write to Mum, even though I had already decided to just put a photo I had of Josh and me in with the phonecard.

  I was starting to doze off when there was a quiet knock at my door. I could no more stop myself from turning that lock than I could from feeling excited that Noah was on the other side. Not wanting to showcase my vest top and sleep shorts, I opened it enough to poke just my head out.

  “I thought you might want this, as you didn’t come back down,” he said, holding out a glass of water.

  “Thanks.” I took the glass, unsure if he was just being thoughtful or if it was an excuse to knock on my door. “I didn’t sleep very well last night so I thought I’d have an early night.”

  “Oh, I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said, turning away.

  “Noah, was this the real reason you knocked my door?”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted as he turned back to me. “I wanted to check you were okay.”

  “I’m fine. I guess it’s going to feel a bit weird between us for a while, isn’t it? Friends again?” I stuck out my hand in the way we were forced to after a falling-out at primary school. I swear his hand trembled as he took mine in his.

  “Friends.” He let go and ran his fingers through his hair. “’Night, Grace.”

  “’Night.” I closed and locked the door, knowing I was a long way from feeling fine about being friends, but at least it was a step in the right direction.

  MY EMOTIONS CALMED down over the next few days and we soon settled into a routine where Noah and I spent next to no time together without Max. My favourite part of each day was when Max and I would sit together, him listening as I read Great Expectations aloud. Noah seemed to acknowledge that he was a distraction and would leave us to it, his return signalling the end of the session.

  Riding back from a full day at work, I was conscious of how different it felt returning to the security of somewhere I felt safe, where there would be no strangers to worry about. Going home.

  “Hi! Have I got time for a shower before we eat?” I called out as I shut the front door.

  “Can you come here first?” Noah called from the kitchen. Intrigued, I followed the sound of his voice and found him doing something that looked painful to a half-roasted chicken. “You’ve had a letter,” he explained, nodding in the direction of an envelope on the corner of the counter. “It’s from the prison. I thought you might want to take it upstairs with you.” He put the chicken into the oven. “Dinner will be about an hour so take your time, okay?” I could have kissed him out of nothing but gratitude for his thoughtfulness. Instead, I gave him my biggest smile before running up to my room.

  Proud of my ability to delay gratification, I put the letter on my bed and headed straight to the shower. After scrunching some mousse into my hair and pulling on leggings and a tee shirt, I allowed myself to sit on the bed and pick up the envelope, the address written in handwriting that was achingly familiar.

  After the experience of the phone call, I suppose it was inevitable that I would be disappointed by her letter. Well, it was an exaggeration to call it that. The envelope contained the VO form I’d asked for but nothing else, not even a thank you for the money I’d sent. I refused to give in to the tears that threatened to fall, admitting that it was unlikely to be the last time Mum didn’t deliver what I hoped for.

  “Everything okay?” Noah asked when I went to help him serve dinner.

  “She’s sent the Visiting Order I need to go and see her.”

  “That’s good. When are you thinking of going?”

  “I’ll ring up and see when I’m allowed to go. I don’t know if I get much choice.”

  “As long as it’s not a Monday, I can take you. Only if you want, of course,” he added. Of course I did.

  “Are you sure? What about Max?”

  “He can come with us and keep me company whilst you see your mum. Or he could go to the day-care centre for the afternoon. He loves a bit of extra attention from the women there. I’ll see what he wants to do once you have a date. What did she have to say?”

  “Not much” was as much as I would admit. “This smells lovely.” He allowed the change of topic, and we were still talking about cooking as we carried dinner through to Max.

  OUR EVENING ROUTINE had quickly adapted to include Grace. After tidying the kitchen, the two of us would sit on the sofa whilst Dad watched the news. I’d usually work on my laptop and Grace would read. I say I’d work; mostly I would try not to work out what she was reading by the changes in her breathing, by the rise and fall of her chest. Sometimes, she would squirm a little or stroke her neck and I found myself imagining exactly what she was reading. Which did nothing for my concentration.

  “Don’t think I’m rude, but I’m going to put my earbuds in so I can watch a film on my phone.”

  “Not in a reading mood tonight?”

  “No. Just fancied something different.” As she untangled her earbuds, I closed my laptop. I wasn’t in the mood for working anyway.

  “What are you going to watch?”

  “I don’t know yet. I was going to see what I could find.

  “We could put a film on the TV if you want. That would be okay, wouldn’t it?” When I looked at him, Dad nodded his agreement. “I’ve got Netflix. I’m sure you could find something on there.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to disturb you both.” If only she knew how much she disturbed me with every move she made.

  “Of course I am. Here you go.” I handed her my phone, opened to the app that let her scroll through the films on offer. The television screen switched to mirror what was on the phone. “Clever, huh?” I said when I caught her impressed smile. “See anything you fancy?”

  She raised her eyebrows at me before looking back at the screen.

  “What about 10 Things I Hate About You? I’ve not seen it before, but my drama teacher raved about it when we studied The Taming of the Shrew. And you know. Heath Ledger.” The look on her face told me she was enjoying baiting me.

  I didn’t bite. “Good choice. It’s a great adaptation. Dad, you’re going
to like this.” We all sat in the dark, engrossed, until the film paused of its own accord and a message screen opened up:

  Will: I’m in Brum next weekend. Fancy a night out? Beer? Girls? Boobs?

  Shit, shit, shit. In my desperate attempts to switch the television screen back, I managed to drop both my phone and the remote. I scrambled to pick them up to the sound of Grace’s laughter. She got to the remote first and handed it over to me, unable to hide her grin. I put the film back on but kept the phone in my hand until the credits rolled.

  Dad stood and waved goodnight, but I didn’t move, my head and heart still torn. My feelings for Grace were getting clearer by the day. It was what to do with them that worried me.

  “Who’s Will?” Her question broke the silence that had settled after Dad left.

  “One of my mates from uni. He works in London, so I don’t get to see much of him. That’s probably a good thing, as you could see from his text.”

  “Are you going to meet up with him?” Her face was unreadable.

  “How can I? Will thinks midnight constitutes an early night and is disappointed to remember anything that happens. No, those days are over.” Truthfully, I didn’t really miss the drunken haze of uni life, but I did miss the feeling of being completely and utterly free of any responsibility.

  “If it’s because of your dad, you don’t need to worry. I’m here so he wouldn’t be alone. Have a night out. You deserve it.”

  I ran through the feasibility of her suggestion. Maybe a night out would give me enough distance to make my decision about Grace easier. Maybe Will was right, and some beer and boobs would lighten my mind.

  “Really? You’d be okay by yourself?”

  “I wouldn’t be by myself. I’d have Max looking after me,” she added with a wink. “Of course I’d be okay. It’s only for a few hours. Tell him now before you change your mind.”

  “Thank you.” I tapped out a reply and then put the phone down. “You’ve made such a difference to Dad, Grace. I don’t think you’ll ever know how much you’ve transformed his life.”

  “Yeah, well, it works both ways. I’m so grateful for everything you two have done for me. God knows what my life would be like if I had ended up staying in one of those dumps I looked at. It seems to me like you’re the one who hasn’t gained anything from the deal.”

  I took a deep breath before replying. “How can you say that? You’ve changed both our lives, Grace. God, just the ability to have a proper conversation with someone, or to be able to switch out of carer-mode for a few hours, makes such a difference. I like you being here. I like being with you.” I knew my words were open to misinterpretation, but my brain was still trying to pretend that platonic remained an option.

  “I like being with you too,” she said, her tone light, her mouth smiling. But I could tell there was still something worrying her, like this tiptoeing around our feelings was bothering her as much as me. But spilling my emotional guts wasn’t an option. Yet.

  “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.” She stood, silently daring me to ask her to stay there longer, to tell me the words I hadn’t been brave enough to say myself.

  “Goodnight.” For her sake, I had to end this one step forwards, one step back of our dance. She had enough uncertainty to cope with already.

  When she left the bathroom, I was waiting at the top of the stairs. She sat next to me which made it easier to ignore how little coverage her sleepwear provided, but also made me all too aware of every millimetre of contact between her side and mine.

  “Are you okay?” Her voice was muted, even though Dad was two closed doors and a sleeping pill away.

  “Kind of. Can we talk?” I had hoped it would be easier to say what needed to be said without looking at her. I was wrong.

  “Talk away.”

  “You were right, you know, about there being something between us, something I was trying to ignore. I like you. A lot. More than I expected to. But I’m not going to do anything about it. I want you to know that. Because I can see you feel it too and that part of you wants something to happen, however wrong it might be. But it won’t, and I don’t want you to get hurt by hoping.” There. It was said.

  She stared straight ahead, her body rigid. Silent. Just as I was about to ask her what she was thinking, she stood.

  “Okay” was all she said before walking to her room.

  I willed myself not to call her back. Why? Did I want her to beg me to change my mind?

  The sound of the lock on her door angered me. Why did she still feel the need to lock it? Did she think I would hurt her? Scratch that; I had hurt her, just not in a way a locked door could protect her from.

  I was unsure if declaring my intentions so brutally was the right thing to do but I needed to hear myself say those words, to promise not to give into these feelings.

  Lying in bed later, the urge to knock on her door and revoke every word I had said rippled through my blood. It forced energy into my muscles, firing the neurons that would make me put one foot in front of another until I was stood in front of her.

  I didn’t.

  I couldn’t.

  But I wanted to. Desperately.

  Grace had become every metaphor I had ever studied. All of a sudden, Neruda, Shakespeare and Browning made so much more sense. My choices, my decisions were no longer just about Dad; they belonged to her too. And it scared me. How could one girl become so important so quickly?

  Maybe I was lonely. Maybe I was desperate. But something meant she was now a critical part of me, whether it was the right thing for her or not. And I knew it wasn’t. The rest of her life was such a mess that the last thing she needed was someone else to think about, to worry about. But how could I consider cutting her out of my life? She had become as vital to my existence as my heart, my lungs.

  Did I love her? It was madness to even consider that word, with all of its loaded connotations. But if admitting the strength of my feelings for her was jumping off a cliff, I was certainly staring at the rocks below, arms outstretched to aid my flight.

  THE NEXT FEW days were filled with awkward silences and superficial conversation. Dad even tried to ask me about it with a questioning glance in Grace’s direction when we were in the lounge one evening. I shrugged it off, feeling awful at the insinuation that it was somehow her fault. I hid upstairs, pretending to work but finding that all the words my brain could muster belonged to her. I’m sorry. I was wrong. I want you. Please.

  By the weekend, we all needed a break from the tension that simmered behind every action, every polite question. Will’s invite had become a saviour and, as I took the train into Birmingham, I decided to do all I could to forget.

  We started with drinks on Broad Street and, whilst the memory-fogging qualities of the alcohol were welcome, every time I caught a swish of auburn hair I was back at home. With Grace. Will was only interested in telling me about his latest promotion, his new company car, blah blah bah, but at least that saved me from having to talk about me and the mess my life was.

  By late evening we had found our way into a nearby club, and home seemed even further way. As the bass throbbed through me, Will manoeuvred us into a group of girls, all long legs, short skirts and high heels. A brunette was draping herself around him, leaving her two friends apparently competing for my attention. It wasn’t much of a competition: the blonde was fake with a capital F, so my smile was angled towards her raven-haired friend. That was all the encouragement she needed and she pressed herself against me, rocking her hips into mine with the beat. Her heels meant our eyes were level, and I could read every come-hither look she gave me as we danced, every tempting graze of her hand.

  Somewhere in the darkness of my drunken mind, she seemed like a way to distract myself, a way to push away thoughts of anything deep and meaningful. When she asked if I wanted to go back to hers, I fake-smiled and kissed her, doing all I could to not think that she tasted wrong, that she felt wrong, that all of it was wrong.

  The cab drive
r who took us to her flat in the student district received a generous tip for getting us there safely whilst enjoying the view of her hitched-up skirt as she ground herself into my lap on the back seat. Of course, I was turned on and enjoying the feeling of her skin, her touch, the pressure of her on me, however wrong I also knew it was.

  My dick managed to keep my brain in check until we were stood in her room, her hands pulling down the zipper on my jeans as her tongue wrapped around mine. Her hands, with their pointed, fire-engine red nails. The wrong hands. And just like that, I knew I had to get out of there.

  “Stop,” I said, putting my hands on hers and trying to pull away. “I can’t do this.”

  “It’s okay, I’ve got condoms,” she replied, trying to kiss me.

  I took a step back. “No, I mean I can’t do this. There’s someone else. I need to go.”

  “What? You can’t just leave. Not yet. I don’t care if you’ve got a girlfriend. This is a hook-up, not a fucking marriage proposal.” She put her hand on my dick, tracing one of those red nails down the length of my zip.

  “Well, I’m not interested in either. Sorry.” Her indignation was justified, so I took the slap she gave me and walked out.

  It took me an hour to walk back to the train station, only to find that the last train had gone and the next one didn’t leave until six in the morning. Four hours. Four hours to sit on a bench, sober up and think about what I had done.

  Why was I doing this to Grace? To me? To us?

  I GENTLY CLOSED THE front door behind me and made my way through to the kitchen, craving rehydration. Stood at the sink, I felt her approach before she even spoke.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I replied, not trusting myself to turn around, forcing my hands to grip the edge of the sink as tightly as I could.

  “Did you have a good night?” She moved next to me, filling the kettle. I still couldn’t look at her.