Page 29 of The Edge of Always

Chapter Eight

If this were a movie, I’d spend an inordinate amount of time transforming into my best and most beautiful self before I met the man who left me broken-hearted on the edge of a cliff twenty years ago.

I’d do my hair. I’d have a smoky eye. There’d be a cocktail dress involved, possibly an off-the-shoulder one. I’d be Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, Belle in that gold ball gown. I’d burst out of my room to a catchy and uplifting soundtrack, ready to take on the world.

Unfortunately, it’s been some decades since I had any sort of sense that I could take on the world. And I haven’t brought a cocktail dress with me. I’m also late.

I’d felt drained this afternoon when I arrived back at my hotel – exhausted by so much feeling. I’d taken my pills and lay down for a short second, except the short second became several hours, and now I have no time. Not having enough time is a founding principle of my being. When I die, they’ll cut me open and it’ll be there, I’m sure, etched on my heart, ‘She didn’t have enough time.’

I quickly change into a crumpled black dress with little embroidered strawberries all over it. It’s cute, one of my favourites, and I’m wearing it for Paris, not Emmett, an essential point of clarity. I tie my hair up, brush my teeth, throw on my boots, and I’m good to go.

I’m panicked. My hands are shaking a little, as I fiddle with the key to the room. It’s a heavy metal thing, which I appreciate, but it makes a loud clang when I drop it on the floor. I hate feeling like this. I’ve spent a great deal of time cultivating zero feeling, zero emotion, and I’ve become very good at it, thank you very much. Paris, with its paintings and catacombs and Emmett, has robbed me of all my chill.

‘Bon soir!’ the receptionist calls.

‘Bon soir,’ I say back. ‘Have a nice evening.’

‘And you!’ She waves.

I’m hustling out of the hotel doors, ready to rock and roll with my headphones and Google Maps. It says that it’s a twenty-minute walk, and I am not a woman known for beating Google Maps. Still, I set off at a pace, missing almost all of Paris on an evening to stare at the little blue dot of myself as it moves slowly along the street. I have a sense that, around me, the streets are swarming. In Bamburgh, it’s quiet on an evening, like the village sleeps at night. In Paris, the opposite seems to be true. There are even more people outside, I’m sure of it. I’d stop and take it in if I could. But I’m already late, and I don’t want to think about how I’ll feel if Emmett has already left by the time I get there.

I scuttle onwards, ignoring the tightening feeling in my chest. I stop and wheeze for a moment, gasping for breath on a street corner, embodying the antithesis of Paris chic.

‘I’m fine!’ I call to a worried passerby. It must be bad.

I’m thirty minutes late by the time I get to the restaurant, defeated again by Google Maps.

It looks… fancy. One of those restaurants that just has a name. Maison, as opposed to any sort of indication as to what they might serve. I start trying to rub off the mascara that’s migrated under my eyes. There is literal heat coming off my face, but the restaurant looks dim. Hopefully, some darkness will serve to neutralise all the red.

I don’t give myself time to back out before pushing the doors open. But even with zero thinking time, I’m struck by just how weird it is to be here, meeting Emmett. Emmett and I never existed in any place other than Northumberland at any time other than summer. How can it be that we’re here, in Paris, in autumn? It’s like the axis of the world has tilted ever so slightly.

And we are here, in this place, at this time. Because Emmett is sitting at the bar. A waiter takes my shacket, but I hardly notice him. I’m drawn to Emmett, I barely see anything but him, and for a fraction of a second, he doesn’t see me. I’ve always been drawn to him, I think, as I make my way towards the bar, music from a pianist tinkling away in the background. It’s dangerous and powerful all at once, knowing how drawn to him I’ve always been.

But while in the past my love for Emmett excited me, thrilled me and lit me up with purpose, now the thought of all that emotion terrifies me. He might have had good reason, but still, he took my love and marred it, and oh fuck, what am I doing here? I should leave, right, right now.

‘Luna.’ Emmett spots me and smiles the smallest of smiles.

I’m frozen, two feet away from him. He looks delicious. It’s a messed-up, toxic thought to be having, but objectively, it’s the truth. He’s expensive and delicious, and I want to run my hands up his chest and over his shoulders. Wind them up into his hair. It’s shorter than it used to be, but still curly. Even my fingers are moving, twitching to get to him.

‘You came,’ he says.

‘I came.’ I slide onto the stool next to him.

‘I didn’t think you would.’

‘Neither did I,’ I admit. ‘But Mae… Plus, I want to hear about the painting.’ Emmett said he knew more about The Edge of Always and I’m greedy for that knowledge.

Something like the shadow of disappointment passes across his face as he tilts his head to the side, just a fraction, before he schools his features into something neutral.

‘Wine?’ he asks.

‘Yes please, just a small red.’

‘Our table should be ready soon.’

I can’t help but laugh.

‘What’s so funny?’ he asks, having a sip of his own wine.