Page 85 of Leaning In

Tom had seeded the idea of helping with the classes a few months ago, back when we had dinner at Michael’s, but I’d convinced myself I wasn’t good enough at art anymore. But over the last few weeks things have changed.

I signed up because I wanted to, not because I thought I had to do it to be good enough. A few weeks ago I couldn’t walk into a pottery class without standing outside deliberating for ten minutes. Today I stood at the front of a room coordinating an art class and nobody died. It felt amazing.

“You’re quiet,” Tom says, as he unlocks his front door, a football bag over one shoulder.

“I’m plotting next week’s session. I was talking to Priti, and maybe we could do printmaking.”

“I’m sure the kids would love that.”

“It’s going to be messy, so they’ll definitely like at least one aspect.”

Tom chuckles and drops his bag in the hall. “I’m glad you had fun. Was it everything you’d hoped?”

“More.”

I walk to the living room and collapse on the sofa, needing a moment to decompress after the chaos of the morning. Tom sits next to me, and I stretch over to give him a kiss.

What was meant to be a gentle peck deepens, his hands tangling in my hair and mine burying their way under his jumper and onto the skin of his back.

I move to straddle him, and he tugs at the hem of my shirt.

“Fair warning, there’s paint everywhere,” I say, and he laughs and grips the hem again, pulling it over my head.

His gaze drops immediately, heat flashing across his face before he leans in, hands sliding over my waist.

“Christ, Buttercup—”

My laugh disappears into his mouth as he kisses me, slower this time, like he’s in no rush whatsoever. Which is dangerous, because Tom taking his time with me is rapidly becoming one of my favourite things on earth.

***

Later that afternoon I sit cross-legged on Tom’s sofa, wearing one of his jumpers, working on a new design. I like the shape of our weeks. Saturdays are parkrun and hanging out with friends, Sundays are the community centre, him doing football and now me doing art. Tuesdays I do my design course, and therapy is on Thursdays. Most nights we end up at his kitchen table, buried in our own projects, but side by side. A large number of my clothes have migrated to his house, along with my toiletries and hairdryer.

“You know,” Tom says casually, rummaging through the kitchen drawer, “it would probably be easier if you just had your own key.”

Distracted by my art I almost miss what he said. “What?”

He tosses something towards me and I barely catch it. It’s a silver key with a Fulham football club key ring.

“Tom…” I gaze at it, feeling nervous even though I’m not sure why. It’s just that nobody’s ever given me a key. They’ve never stuck around long enough. The only people with keys to my flat are my mum and my sister.

“You basically live here already,” he says with a shrug. “And it’ll save you texting me to ask if I’m home yet.”

I turn the key over in my palm. He flips on the kettle and then looks at me nervously. “Only if you want it. I know it hasn’t been that long, and I’m not trying to move things faster than you want. But I don’t really do things by halves, and I’m not going to pretend I feel casual about you just because the calendar says I should."

I stand up and cross to the kitchen, kissing him before he can say anything else. I love the faith he has in our relationship. It’s only been a month but I feel so certain of him too, so secure. And I love it.

“I want it,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

His cheeks are pink, and he ducks his head slightly, sorting out tea bags and mugs. “Well. Good.”

I smile, still turning the key over in my hand as I head back towards the sofa. My phone buzzes loudly against the cushions, but I ignore it, picking my sketchbook back up.

It starts ringing again, and I still don’t answer. I can see it’s Mum and I’m not in the mood to speak to her right now, not on my blissfully relaxing afternoon. I’ve had a lovely day with Tom and I don’t want to ruin it. I don’t need a call that’s going to raise my blood pressure.

Unfortunately, I don’t manage to decline the call fast enough when it starts buzzing again. Tom catches sight of the name of the caller as he comes over with two cups of tea and cocks his head.

“Why are you ignoring her?” he asks. “It could be something important. Or maybe she wants to catch up?”