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His phone buzzed again, and he continued to ignore it. He didn’t need to hear Liam telling him that he’d fucked up. He was aware, thank you very much. The rain continued to beat down relentlessly, and he ducked his head as far as he could and wished he’d thought to steal an umbrella and a pair of gumboots from the porch. After all, the Connellys already thought he was a cheat. Adding petty theft to the list couldn’t possibly make their opinion of him any lower, and at least he’d be slightly drier now.
In the distance, a dog barked.
Ambrose slumped along, grateful that the rain at least appeared to be easing up a little, and tried to figure out how far he was from the main road. He hadn’t paid much attention when they’d arrived because he’d never had much of a sense of direction anyway, but now he wished he’d taken in more of his surroundings. That way he’d at least know to look out for a tree shaped like a bent fork, or a stack of tires made into a sculpture, or any of the ridiculous landmarks country towns always seemed to possess in spades. Not that it mattered, because the only thing he could see was miles and miles of vines stretching out in every direction, the scattering of leaves drooping under the weight of the raindrops much the same way that Ambrose was drooping under the weight of this entire fucked-up afternoon.
The dog barked again, closer this time, and Ambrose turned his head curiously, only to be greeted by the sight of John Phillip. The dog was in the back of some sort of trailer, being towed by—Ambrose squinted against the rain—what looked for all the world like Grandad Billy, although it was hard to tell with the hood of his raincoat pulled up.
Ambrose stopped walking and blinked once or twice to clear the rain from his vision and make sure he wasn’t imagining things, but no, it was definitely Grandad Billy on his ancient tractor, towing a trailer with John Phillip in it, the dog’s paws set against the top edge of the trailer like a ship’s captain at the wheel.
And next to John Phillip, waving frantically, was Liam.
Ambrose’s heart lurched at the sight and tumbled over the next few beats. He shoved down the instinctive need to dive into the vines and hide, but only because there were snakes in there. The tractor continued its relentless, snail-like approach, although it appeared to have slowed in the face of a small incline, and Ambrose remembered—“a top speed of seven miles an hour”—combined with, “She’s retired.”
Had Grandad Billy gotten his precious tractor out in this weather just to come and look for Ambrose? His heart lurched again, only this time it was with something that might be hope. It seemed unlikely, but if Grandad was willing to get the Allis out, maybe they weren’t here to drag him over the coals and tell him what a bastard he was after all.
The phone in his pocket buzzed again, and Liam was holding his own phone up and making some sort of exaggerated gesture. The buzzing stopped at the same time the tractor hit a bump, and Liam lurched sideways and disappeared out of view, making John Phillip, who hadn’t budged from his spot, let out an impressive “Woof!” that echoed loudly.
Ambrose bit his lip in an effort to stifle a laugh, because he might be cold and wet and miserable, but the sight of Liam going arse over teakettle in the pouring rain on the back of an ancient tractor? Hilarious. As he watched, Liam pulled himself upright, wearing what might be mud all up one side of his face. Ambrose hoped it was mud, anyway.
Liam was shouting something, and Ambrose caught faint snatches over the rain. “…going? Not the…town…way!”
Ambrose shrugged helplessly, spreading his arms wide and sending a rivulet of cold water down his neck. He shuddered at the unwelcome flood. His phone buzzed again, and faced with the inevitable, he gave in and answered it.
“Where the hell are you going?” Liam said without preamble.
“I, um. I was walking to town,” Ambrose said. “Figured I’d get in first before your dad kicked me out.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Liam said, “You’re heading towards the dam, dickhead.”
Ambrose stopped walking and frowned at the track like it had been the one to betray him, and not his own terrible sense of direction. He’d reached the crest of the hill, and as he gazed ahead, he saw that Liam was right—at the bottom of the hill was a wide expanse of dark water, surrounded by long grass and stocky shrubs and not, as Ambrose had been hoping, the road into town. “So, what? You came to tell me to get the hell out of Dodge, but walk in the other direction?”
Over the drone of the tractor Ambrose faintly heard Grandad Billy saying, “Put it on the speaker, lad,” and his voice joined the conversation, tinny and faint against the backdrop of thunder and machinery. “Ambrose, get your sorry arse back here. You’re not in trouble, lad,” he said. It warmed something in Ambrose, to hear Grandad calling him lad the same as he did Liam, even if he probably only meant it in a generic way.
“We know that Marcus is the arsehole,” Liam added. “Neve dumped him, and Dad kicked him out.”
Ambrose stood frozen on the spot, and unexpected warmth flooded his insides. Did that mean that just for once, he wasn’t being cast as the bad guy after all? “But what about?—?”
What about the fact I’ve acted like an utter fuckwit this entire weekend? What about the fact I lied to your family? What about the fact I like them and want them to like me back and I’m not sure what I’ll do if they don’t?
The questions remained locked inside, because Ambrose was afraid to hear the answers, but Liam must have been able to read his silence because he said, “It’s fine, I promise. I told them about the fake dating, and that you’re not as big a dickhead as you make out, that it’s mostly an act.”
“Only mostly?” Ambrose couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Maybe he hadn’t fucked this up completely, after all.
“That’s not what I meant, idiot,” Liam said. “Anyway. Come back?”
“Yes, lad, come back,” Grandad chimed in. “This old body’s not made for going uphill in the rain, and I’m not talking about Adeline.” As he spoke, the tractor’s motor sputtered alarmingly before smoothing out again, but Ambrose took the hint and started walking back towards the tractor. Maybe it was because he was walking downhill, or maybe it was because Liam and his family didn’t hate him, but the rain didn’t seem as cold, or the walk as daunting.
Maybe the universe didn’t hate him after all.
But it didn’t love him either, because two steps later he lost his footing in the mud and went down in a flailing heap, arms windmilling uselessly as he tried and failed to save himself from landing on his arse. His phone went flying from his hand, but he could still hear Grandad’s guffaws of laughter coming from the speaker.
He lay sprawled flat on his back for a minute, eyes closed against the rain, and when he opened them again John Phillip’s face was inches from his. The dog barked and licked the side of his face, breath redolent with Pedigree, and that was enough to motivate Ambrose to drag himself into a sitting position in order to avoid a repeat. John Phillip barked again in approval and kept trying to slobber all over him. Ambrose swatted vaguely at his snout, then hauled himself to his feet, scooping up his phone.
He put the phone to his ear in time to hear, “…all right? You went down pretty hard.”
“Hard’s how I like it,” he said on reflex, and Liam snorted.
“Dickhead. Seriously though, are you coming back?”
