Page 27 of The Last Casterglass
“Would you?” Oliver asked, and Seph heard how sceptical he sounded. All right, maybe that wasn’t how she’d been acting. In fact, it was the exact opposite of how she’d chosen to live her life—being sullen and rude rather than admitting she cared. Pushing people away rather than daring to let them in.
“I would,” she answered honestly, “but I don’t think I’ve been brave enough to try. It’s easier to be cruel than kind, in an awful sort of way.”
He stilled, then turned to face her, his expression barely visible in the gloom. “Easier how?”
She shrugged uncomfortably, wondering how they’d ventured into such deep and intimate territory so quickly. “Well, just, you know, if you act as if you don’t care so much, then…people can’t hurt you.”
Feeling like she’d said way too much, she hurried deeper into the barn, peering at a stack of about a dozen chairs all tangled together. “I think it’s mainly furniture in here. Maybe we should try the next barn.”
“They can still hurt you,” Oliver said quietly, making her jump because he’d come up right behind her without her realising. “They just might not know it.”
“Well…same difference, I suppose.” She was back to mumbling, her gaze fixed on the jumble of chairs, her face burning.
“I don’t think it’s the same at all. It’s worse, because you have to suffer in silence. You can’t tell anyone how you really feel.”
Which was what she’d realised the other day. Her own worst enemy indeed. “Is that how you are?” she asked, her voice a bit croaky.
Oliver considered the question. “Yes, I suppose it is, but I act like I don’t mind because I’m so pleased, rather than because I don’t care. My cousin Jack used to tease me for being such a people-pleaser. He’d ask me if I was so afraid that people wouldn’t like me, which stung quite a bit, mostly because he was right.”
“But I’m sure everyone likes you,” Seph protested, genuinely surprised by his admission. “You seem so confident, and friendly, and…I don’t know. Nice.”
He let out a rather hollow laugh. “Yes, too nice. People seem to sneer at that, for some reason. Call me—well, what you called me. Which was why it hurt.” They were both quiet for a moment, and Seph was glad of the dark. She’d been mortified that he’d overheard her the other night, but now she just felt sad. “I’m not bringing that up again to rub your nose in it,” Oliver continued quietly. “Just to explain where I’m coming from.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “And I am sorry—”
“You don’t need to say it again.”
“I know. But I am. More than I was before, even because I didn’t realise. I thought—well I convinced myself you’d brush it off, that you were just being nice because you felt sorry for me.”
He took a step closer to her so she could see his face. “Is that what you really thought?”
“I suppose it’s what I’ve always thought. About everyone. Which shows an awful lot of insecurity, I know.” She let out a wobbly laugh that trailed off into silence because Oliver was looking at her so intently.
“I don’t feel sorry for you, Seph. I admire you. You’re remarkably strong, considering what you’ve had to deal with in your life.”
“It’s not like I’ve had any real tragedy or trial,” she protested. Even though she’d acted as if she had. “I’ve just had a massive chip on my shoulder,” she confessed. “Because I felt so lonely.” She could hardly believe she was saying these things. It felt wonderfully liberating and completely terrifying at the same time.
“I don’t think you do now,” Oliver told her. “Or at least you’re getting rid of it. Come on.” He reached for her hand and Seph let him take it, thrilling to the slide of his palm across hers. “Let’s check out the other barn.”
He kept hold of her hand all the way to the next barn, but in a way that seemed careless, as if he’d forgotten about it, while Seph felt as if she were holding a stick of dynamite. Was her hand sweaty? Clammy? Hot? Her heart had started beating hard and when Oliver let go to open the door of the barn, she surreptitiously wiped her palm on her dungarees. It had been sweaty, while his had been nice and dry.
“This looks more promising,” he called over his shoulder. “I see an old tractor and—I think—a garden gnome.”
“That was Olivia,” she told him with a laugh. “She bought a whole set from a garden centre that was going out of business, just in case.”
“In case of what?” Oliver bent down to inspect the pile of gnomes. “This is magnificent,” he said wonderingly. “There’s a whole army.”
“Just what you need in a crisis.”
“Absolutely.” He glanced up at her, his teeth flashing in the darkness. “I could spend the rest of my life in these barns and be happy.”
So could I, Seph thought, as her heart did another one of those funny little flips. What was happening to her? She turned away, discomfited by the strength of her own feelings. “Let’s see if we can find that cider press.”
It took half an hour of searching, hefting garden furniture and getting rather dusty, but they finally located an ancient press in the back of the barn, underneath a tattered marquee that had been used for her parents’ twenty-fifth anniversary party, decades ago.
“It looks a bit battered,” Oliver remarked critically, “but at least it’s not rotten. I might be able to get it working.”
“Do you know how to operate a cider press?”