He grabs the hand I pushed him with and drags my body into his. Our mouths are close, and I think he might kiss me. Instead, something passes behind his eyes and he lets go, backs away.

“I’ll make you something to replace it. What do you want? Eggs?”

I study him, wondering why he didn’t kiss me, wondering what the thought was that I saw come over him. “Yeah,” I reply. “Eggs sound good.”

***

The next day as I’m sitting on a bench, eating lunch in the park close to the office, a man comes and sits down beside me. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, thinking I know him from somewhere but not being able to put my finger on where.

“Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?” he says casually.

“Yeah, it’s great,” I say, and take a bite out of my sandwich. I don’t really like it when strangers try to make conversation with me. The next thing I know, the man is taking a strand of my hair and smoothing it between his fingers. I startle and move away quickly, turning to look at him properly now. My hair falls through his hand.

It’s the man Jay met up with in the docklands, the one in the suit with the neck tattoo. My eyes widen as I take him in. His being here doesn’t feel like a coincidence.

“What do you want?” I ask, standing up from the bench, my lunch instantly forgotten.

“You recognise me, don’t you, love?” says the man in a strong inner-city accent.

I repeat my question, stammering this time. “Wh-what do you want?”

“I know you followed your boyfriend the other night. I know you saw me. That was a mistake on your part, love. You tell your boyfriend that I know who you are now, and if he tries to mess me around again, I’ll be coming for ya.”

I stare at him, open-mouthed, as he gets up from the bench, a newspaper tucked under his arm. He doesn’t say anything more, simply walks away. That evening when Jay comes home, I practically drag him into my room so that we can talk. Speaking nervously, I tell him about my encounter with the man in the park. He watches me the entire time, brows furrowed, before letting out a string of curse words.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he swears, clenching his fists, the tick in his jaw starting up.

“Do you think we should call the police?” I say, worried. I know I agreed not to ask him any more questions, so I refrain from asking who exactly the man is.

He walks away from me, pacing the room, then comes back and tenderly runs a hand down my face, his eyes drinking me in. There’s a storm in his expression, turmoil.

“No, he won’t come near you. I’ll take care of everything. You don’t need to worry.”

Looking back at him, I swallow hard and nod.

As the week passes, I get less and less sleep, and not for a good reason. Every night I lie awake, my heart pounding as I will Jay to come to me. He doesn’t, though. In fact, he seems to have backed off substantially. He hasn’t said a word about breaking up, but he’s been distant, and it’s killing me.

Does he not want me anymore?

Has this got something to do with the man in the park?

I only get to spend time with him in the evenings when he comes to sit by me as I design and sew. I see him at breakfast and dinner, but Dad is usually there, so it doesn’t really count. We can’t talk about things with Dad there.

It’s Friday and Michelle’s meeting Jessie, so we’re not doing our usual night out. She hasn’t told Jessie the depth of her feelings yet and has decided to play it by ear. Since she’s unavailable, I plan an evening of dressmaking. I’m working on a new tea dress design that I plan to make in several different sizes and with several different patterned fabrics. I found it in one of my mother’s old design books, and got really excited as I thought of ways to put my own spin on it.

When the dresses are done, I’ll hang them on my mannequin, photograph them, and put them up on Etsy. This is an ambitious project. Normally I make things to order, or I just make one dress, a unique design for one person to own.

With the week I’ve had, though, I’m feeling the need for something that will consume more of my brain space. That way I won’t have the chance to think about Jay.

Speak of the devil. He walks into the room as my pencil scratches at the paper of my design book, scribbling down measurements. He sits on the other side of the table, grabs an apple out of the fruit bowl, and starts to eat it. I glance up once and instantly regret it. His eyes are dark with a look I’ve come to recognise as need.

His jaw moves as he chews on a bite of apple, and I look away quickly. There’s something about the hard lines of his jaw working that I find extremely difficult to resist.

A long, tension-filled minute passes. “What ya doing?”

“Working on a new design,” I answer, voice tight. When my eyes meet his for a second, his lips start to curve at the ends. I want to slap him for finding me amusing.

“Cool. You want to model it for me when it’s done?”

“Not particularly.”

“Well, okay, then.” The loud crunch of him biting into the apple fills the room.

I put down my pencil and sigh. “Could you go eat that somewhere else? I swear, you must be the noisiest apple eater in the history of time.”

One shoulder goes up in a shrug. “I like it here. And I love eating apples.”

The way his voice lowers on the second sentence gives off the hint of an innuendo. It riles me up enough to respond harshly, “I’m sure you do, Jason. I’m sure you love eating all different sorts of apples.”

Jesus Christ, did I just say that? Kill me now.

“Actually, I’m loyal to just the one apple,” he counters.

The way his eyes dance and shine makes me want to laugh. I hate how he does this to me. Our conversation right now is verging on the ridiculous. Still, I don’t let it drop.

“You can’t be loyal to only one apple. Once it’s eaten it’s gone, and you need to go find a new one.”

“Oh, I could eat my apple over and over again without ever feeling the need to find a new one.”

“Maybe your apple doesn’t want to be eaten. Maybe your apple is tired of your apple-eating ways.”

He leans forward, one elbow resting on the table, his gaze growing even darker. “On the contrary, my apple loves to be eaten. In fact, my apple is a little cranky right now because she hasn’t been eaten in a while.”

The bloody cheek of him! I want to reach across the table and give him a good, hard slap. Instead, I calm myself and school my expression into a neutral mask. I remember his words from that night at the outdoor cinema.

Please don’t push for more, even if it feels like I want you so badly it hurts, even if I’m the one doing the pushing.

Is this what he’s doing now, pushing?

“I didn’t realise apples had genders and emotions.”

“Yeah, well, you learn something new every day.”

I don’t say anything more. Instead, I pick up my pencil and return my attention to the paper in front of me. Even though I’m not looking, I can practically feel the amused grin on Jay’s face being levelled directly at me.

I sketch an outline of the dress. All the while I can feel his gaze on me like a hot touch. Jay continues eating his apple, and it irritates the hell out of me to know he thinks he won our little veiled argument.

A period of time passes before Jay starts to speak again. “I’m moving into my new place tomorrow.”

His words surprise me. Somehow I’d managed to forget he was moving out. I’d been more focused on the incident with the man in the park and the fact that he’d withdrawn from me. A sudden and excruciating pain hits me right in the chest. I put my hand there, trying to rub it away.

“Oh, right. Where are you moving?” I don’t look at him, because if I do, my strength might crumple.

“Grand Canal Dock.”

“Ooooh, very fancy!” I declare, trying to cover up my pain with a joke. “Are you going to get yourself a job at Google, too? That way you’ll be a stone’s throw from the office. You can enjoy all the perks of being a minion of the evil empire with excellent dining opportunities right on your doorstep.”