Rewrite the Stars. Emma Heatherington
think of Emily, Kevin and Kirsty again inside. Kirsty is probably still talking to that group of strangers at the bar, and the nice-looking guy who bought me a drink just before I came outside might be still waiting for me at our table. Emily might be wondering where I am, but Kirsty will already be planning on a hot night with one of the doctors, not giving a shit that they’ve all only just met. So, if she can do it, why shouldn’t I have some fun too?
It is my third resolution after all, even if it’s not New Year for another couple of weeks. My mind swings like a pendulum – what should I do? Should I go? Should I go?
‘I think we could get into trouble, Tom Farley,’ I tell him. ‘A lot of trouble.’
‘I think you said that to me before,’ he whispers.
That’s it. I’m going.
‘Let’s get out of here then.’
He offers me his arm and I take a deep breath, laughing in nervous disbelief as we walk away, slipping and sliding on the white snow, giggling like two love-struck teenagers who are hiding from their parents. Or, in this case, my big brother who might not be so impressed that I’ve taken a chance with his ex-band-member.
‘I have to warn you though, you might have to listen to more of my country songs,’ I tease him as we plod through the cold winter night. ‘I’ve quite a few now for you to catch up on.’
He stops and looks at me. He turns me towards him.
‘I’ve wanted to do that for years,’ he says, and something tells me he’s serious. His thumb wipes a snowflake from my cheek. ‘I still know the melody to that one you sang for me, believe it or not.’
‘No, you don’t,’ I laugh in response but then he hums it, filling in the gaps with words he remembers, and I gasp at his recollection.
All of me, all by myself, longing for you, nobody else.
‘I can’t tell you how much you impressed me that day,’ he tells me, and we walk through the empty streets, the sounds from the bar fading into the distance and the cold biting our smiling faces.
‘I can’t believe you remembered my song,’ I say to him. ‘Wow.’
He takes my hand and the touch of his skin rushes through my veins, making my head spin a little. I can’t decide if I’m more terrified or excited with the decision I just made, but I’ve got a feeling, or so I keep telling myself, that this really is going to be a good, good night in a way that I would never have expected. That, or else I’m going to be in a whole lot of trouble for something I know nothing about.
The box-sized bedroom I wake up in the next morning is so tiny that I can reach out and touch the wall from anywhere in the single bed. Navy curtains hang loosely on a long narrow window as condensation drips down on the inside, and a radiator below is lined with multi-coloured socks and white boxers that sit in a zig-zag row. I can smell burnt toast and hear muffled voices downstairs.
Where the hell am I?
I peep under the covers, afraid of what I might see, but I know by the heat in my body that I must be fully clothed. I’m wearing a Ramones T-shirt that is definitely not mine, a pair of old-school tracksuit bottoms and a pair of mismatched fluffy men’s bed socks, which explains why I’m so cosy and toasty. I check the time on my phone. It’s just gone ten in the morning. Gosh, I slept like a baby.
‘Knock, knock. Can I come in?’
Tom pops his head round the door, enters the room and sits on the edge of the single bed as I run my hands through my hair, trying to recollect coming in here in the first place last night. Everything about this room, everything about him, is so new yet so familiar.
‘Tom?’ I say.
‘Still me, Charlie,’ he replies. ‘You sleep OK? Were you warm enough?’
I go to speak but I can’t. He keeps calling me Charlie even though I’ve warned him it could get him a slap on the wrists if he ever meets my parents again.
‘Where the hell are we?’ I ask. He laughs a little, and then leans over beside me. I can smell his aftershave. It’s very … oh God, he looks even better in daylight.
‘You told me last night you’d wake up and ask me that,’ he says, resting his hand on top of mine. I want to move it, but I can’t. ‘Don’t look so scared, babe. We had fun, but nothing more happened. Well, lots of good stuff happened actually, now that I think of it.’
I take a moment and have a good long look at him, feeling myself relax a little now as the night before unfolds in my hazy hungover memory.
‘I remember,’ I whisper and close my eyes, recalling now his muscular strong arms and the musky smell of his soft skin, almost feeling again now the way he touched me so tenderly.
‘I practically carried you to bed here in my deluxe spare room,’ he says and we both burst out laughing. ‘I carried you right over the threshold and even gave you some clothes to sleep in. So much for a hot-blooded night of making up for lost time. You were very tired.’
I can’t help but giggle at the thought of it all.
‘So much for it all being meant to be,’ I say, covering my mouth with my hand. ‘Sorry to disappoint you but once a convent girl, always a convent girl.’
He lifts a pillow and pretends to fight me, and we wrestle until we fall into a kiss that brings me right back to the night before. I inhale every part of the moment, delighted for once in my life that I was too pissed to turn this into a shitty one-night stand, especially not with someone I’ve dreamed about for so long. All things considered, I’m very, very proud of myself. Sober me may not have been so resilient, but I’ll never admit that to him, of course. Plus, he’s an excellent kisser – his lips are warm, soft, gentle but firm in all the right places at all the right times.
‘Well I guess some things are worth waiting for,’ says Tom, fixing my hair round my shoulders when his lips part from mine. ‘You have been worth waiting for. I still can’t believe you’re here with me now.’
‘Me neither,’ I whisper. We didn’t end up under the covers together, but we had a very good night. A very, very good night.
‘Brunch?’ I say, remembering now how we had made plans.
He nods. ‘We’re a bit snowed in for now though and could be for a while,’ he says, his green eyes twinkling again just like they did last night. He reaches across and peeps out the curtains to prove it.
‘It’s coming down heavy,’ I say to him. ‘So, what do we do now?’
‘Well, it’s not every day you bump into the girl of your dreams in a dead-end pub in the backstreets of Dublin five years later, so why don’t we start the day off slowly with a really fancy instant coffee, some toast and just enjoy each other’s company?’
I smile in agreement, recalling how he played guitar last night while I danced in my bare feet drinking wine in the poky living room and singing into empty beer bottles. I sent my sister Emily and friend Kirsty a text at the time to say I was OK and told them I’d met Tom actual Farley and had gone to a ‘party’. I begged them not to tell Matthew but neither of them replied, meaning they were probably too busy having fun themselves to care. Now I’ve got missed calls, which means Emily is probably panicking. I’d better call her, but not just yet …
‘So you don’t want to ever perform your own songs, then, just write them?’ Tom asks me as we lie there on the bed, still chatting over an hour later, too warm now with the duvet draped around our legs. Two empty cups and a plate full of crumbs sit beside us on the floor. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed tea and toast as much in my whole life. We’re a bit squashed but it’s cosy and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere