Page 13 of Untamed Heart
The feeling was pure, unadulterated joy. The kind of freedom everyone dreamt of and few would ever really know.
And now, as I reached for my shampoo and started to scrub the last couple of days away, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt that.
In a daze, I got busy with packing, rolling up what few casual clothes I had. Most of my wardrobe was corporate wear, a dismal selection of well-made suits in various shades of blue or grey, just one pair of overly white trainers amongst the heels. My stomach rumbled but I ignored it, not wholly trusting the contents to stay put just yet.
I checked train times, realizing that if I got my ass in gear, I could make it to Paddington to catch the 12.15. Suddenly, systematic, neat packing turned into chucking anything and everything into my small wheelie case, and as I calculated that one week might turn into two at my parents’ place, I promptly emptied the sparse contents of my fridge into the bin, putting it outside. Eventually, my favourite Dior bag on my shoulder and my case at my feet, I stood at my front door. The silence was thick, broken only by the low hum of the fridge. Looking around, mentally checking off essentials I knew I couldn’t forget, I was struck by the flat’s emptiness. So few personal touches, so little life on display.
It was cold. A box, like many newbuild flats. But where others had made theirs home, mine was all hard surfaces, muted colours. Was this really me?
I shivered, quickly wheeling my case out into the hall and letting the deadlock click shut quietly. Calling the lift, I frowned at the carpet. Had they changed it? Since when had it been dark blue?
It wasn’t until I’d emerged on the ground floor and made it outside that I realized. I rarely ever saw the carpet in the daylight. Leaving and returning in the dark in all but high summer meant I’d never really noticed its proper colour.
Shame crept over me as I walked slowly to the tube. Despite the trainers and a whole array of plasters, my feet stung and ached at every step. They were cut to ribbons, patched and cushioned but still in pain. Much like the rest of me.
My phone buzzed and I pulled it from my bag.
How about Saturday for dinner? I’m still entertaining the American clients for the next two days, but free on the weekend. How was your dinner last night? Hungover? x
Kyle.
Bile rose in my throat. If I’d had any doubts about leaving, wondering if I should stay and just carry on, maybe even try to talk to him and sort things out, they died in that moment.
Entertaining the American clients.Right.
Approaching the tube station, I did a quick mental calculation. These clients had become a feature of his life, what, three or four months ago? I’d met two of them, two men, at after-work drinks with Kyle’s colleagues, but they’d mentioned there were another couple of people in the party.
The coincidence seemed too great. Whenever they came over, Kyle disappeared for days on end, was slow to respond to messages and dodged every attempt to arrange stayovers at his place.
Tears pricked under my eyelids again as I descended on the same escalator that’d carried me into a different life only yesterday.
I forced myself to breathe steadily, dabbing under my eyes at the make-up thatwouldlast for the whole damn day. Anger swelled and Hestia’s words replayed in my head, her one long stream of profanities melding with my own thoughts. The platform was empty for once, and as the tube roared in, I yelled, opening a vent to the rage.
The carriage was mercifully empty too, and I spent the first few minutes forcing myself to do breathing exercises and trying to picture the fields surrounding my parents’ home; the way the wind howled through the woods on top of the hill opposite. But somehow, the hill morphed into mountains. Huge, a thunderous grey against cerulean sky, pristine snow glimmering in the sunlight. The Rockies from my daydream, from my childhood.
Snapping my eyes open and leaning back in my seat, I focused on the tube map in front of me, next to the window opposite. I knew the route to Paddington without thinking, but just there, to the left of it, was Heathrow. Our trips to Wyoming had always started there, flying over to Denver first and then changing to a smaller plane for Jackson Hole.
As though conjured by my imagination, when the tube drew into the next station, three people stepped into my carriage, each hauling a large suitcase. A man, woman and teenage girl, all gratefully sitting down and chatting away with animated smiles.
The idea popped into my mind before I could even look away, London tube etiquette forgotten. In seconds my arms were covered in goosebumps, butterflies released in my stomach.
I should go. Back to Wyoming.
Stunned, I sat with the words clanging like a bell in the front of my mind.
The girl looked over, the intensity of my stare clearly making her uncomfortable. I gave a quick smile and looked away, back at the tube map again. Two more stops and I could change onto the Piccadilly and trundle all the way down to Heathrow.
Mind now racing, I reasoned I could afford the ticket; my carefully hoarded savings of the past year would barely be dented. I even had my passport in my bag, tucked into a travel case that I always took with me, alongside cash, railcards and various other travel necessities. But would Lil welcome me just turning up out of nowhere? I didn’t even have her number. Mum would, but I wasn’t sure if I could face a conversation with either of them.
‘This is a do it first, apologize later thing.’
Kyle’s well-used phrase arrived in my mind unbidden, and though it was possibly right in this case, the attitude behind them slotted in with last night with horrific ease.
I squeezed my eyes tight again, trying to force logical thought and reason. A week with my parents might help a little, but then, it might be stressful too. And after that week . . . well, I’d be heading straight back to London to pick up the pieces.
Maybe time away – truly away – would be better. Give me real time to think. Plus, I knew running a ranch was hard work – more hands were always better, and I could be free labour. My riding skills were a bit rusty, since I’d largely given it up ahead of uni, but they’d come back.
My heart leapt at the thought that Jasper might still be there, might still be able to enjoy me brushing his gleaming black coat, or scratching his neck in the place that made him doze off to sleep.
