Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Something sharp shifted in Carl’s chest and he quickly tried to extract himself from the hold, but Poppy held him tight and Grayson was ducking away into the café by the time he was finally free.
It must look like Carl had decided for the fling; even though Grayson shouldn’t care about it, Carl felt nauseous. His heart galloped. He had a massive urge to explain.
Two pedestrians passed Carl and Poppy, heading into the bakery, and Poppy patted Carl’s arm. “Better help Leo out. Can we save the talk for later?”
Except, Carl couldn’t save it for later. It cribbled in his belly, rose up his throat, and burst out. “I don’t want there to be a later.”
Poppy stalled, frowning, and Carl tried again more calmly. “You seem like an interesting person, Poppy, but I don’t fancy you.”
He blinked and rubbed his jaw, glancing sidewards as he sighed. “It’s Grayson, isn’t it?”
Carl jumped. “Ha! No.”
Poppy’s eyebrow rose in disbelief.
Shaking his head harder, ignoring very loud, urgent whispers, Carl said, “It just . . . isn’t you.”
After a few beats, Poppy laughed lightly and shrugged. “I see. Worth a shot, I guess.”
Carl kept glancing over the road, and Poppy shooed him on. “Off you go, then. I’ve got to help Leo in the shop.”
Poppy retreated inside, and Carl clipped his way into the café, past patrons eating and answering trivia, and—where was Grayson?
“Looking for someone?” Carl turned towards the familiar voice. Linda, in the corner booth, eyeing him closely over a cream-filled raspberry lamington.
He shuffled over, still searching the café interior. “Have you seen Grayson?”
“He came, chugged down a glass of water, and left through the back.”
Had Grayson’s haste been to avoid him? Or had he wanted to give them space, and just happened to be thirsty?
Why was Carl thinking so hard on this?
It was like he hoped Grayson had hurried away in disappointment.
Stop being ridiculous.
Carl gnawed on his lip and plunked down on the seat opposite Linda. “What should I do?”
A question for the universe, really, but in her typical cryptic way, Linda answered. And her answer followed Carl around the rest of the day. “Ask yourself what makes a home. And you’ll get there. You’ll see.”
“I haven’t the courage to keep tramping forever, without getting anywhere at all.”
L. Frank Baum
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
Chapter Thirteen
What makes a home. What makes a home . . .
Carl spent the better part of the afternoon pacing his front porch, flicking through last month’s magazine. Linda—with this emphasis on ‘home’—must be a Taurus.
He slumped into the wicker chair, dropped the mag, and snatched a lavender frond tickling his ankles.
All this thought of ‘home’ had Carl knotted up inside. He’d run away from his. He’d convinced himself it was the best thing to do at the time, but . . . the truth was, he couldn’t hide here forever.
He took out his phone and reread the message he’d received from Jason. ‘Cousin’ Cora might soon be engaged to her boyfriend, who had two girls.
The unsaid plea for him to admit the truth to Cora had him panicking, but the mention of those two girls . . . that punched hardest. He jammed his phone back into his pocket and tore at his lavender frond.
“What’s that lavender ever done to you?”
At that curious voice, Carl swung his head around and leapt to his feet. Grayson came up the path, expression heavier than usual, with a bundle under his arm. For a flashing instant, that urge to explain today’s moment on the footpath with Poppy returned—
And quickly dissipated. Carl didn’t need to blurt all that out. It wasn’t like there was anything between them. Besides, his chest was still too full of his mum.
Grayson’s troubled gaze flickered to his and back to the shredded frond.
Carl ran his lavender scented fingers through his hair. “I was feeling . . . upset.”
“Was feeling?” Grayson stepped onto the veranda, expression shifting into concern, and Carl . . . liked that Grayson was able to put aside whatever worries he had to ask about Carl’s. It was kind and considerate and generous, and Carl’s heart absolutely did not thump a few beats faster.
He slumped back into his seat and rested his head back, staring into the middle distance between them. “Am feeling.”
Grayson dusted off an old stool and dragged it next to him. “Want to share?”
“You came here for a reason. Not this.”
“Do I need a reason?” Grayson swallowed, glancing away. He shifted the bundle to his lap and Carl recognised Sage’s wraparound dress—he’d left it at the school—along with the container from his burned soup.
Carl suddenly understood the bundle. It wasn’t something to return, or something he’d left behind. It was an excuse so Grayson felt he could visit.
Carl’s breath felt shallow and ticklish in his lungs. “Yes. You need a reason.” Grayson frowned and Carl leaned forward in his chair, fishing for eye contact. “But the reason can be to see a friend.”