Page 59 of Always Be My Pumpkin

‘It depends,’ she says gently. ‘You can’t choose – not fully – unless you know what your options are.’ She tilts her head. ‘Gracie, you know it’s okay to ask for what you want.’

But sometimes, I want too much, expect too much. I don’t say that, because I don’t want her to worry, and it’s the first time we’ve talked about Dad in ages, and I get the feeling she’d like to talk more.

‘Could we look through that photo album again, the one from when I was little?’

Mam’s eyebrows draw together. I know it’s not really what she meant, but I’m not ready to talk about Flynn, and it is me asking for something I want. Small steps.

‘Of course.’ Her face brightens and I breathe a sigh of relief that I haven’t upset her, and that she seems happy for us to share more memories of Dad. She reaches for her phone. ‘And I must show you what I came across when I was in Paris.’

She scrolls through her photos and clicks on one of Dad, holding an oversized picture book with five bright orange pumpkins dancing across the front. He’s singing the pumpkin song at the top of his voice as I squeal and grab at the pages. I’d forgotten she had that. We used to look at it all the time before he died, and Dad would laugh as he recounted how my excited squeals almost drowned out his singing. We even showed it to Flynn.

‘You were looking at that in Paris?’

She smiles. ‘I wanted to show Cal.’ She hesitates. ‘He makes me happy, Gracie, but that doesn’t mean I want to forget Jimmy. I wanted to share those memories because they make me happy too, even when they make me sad.’

It’s the first time in a while that I’ve heard her say his name, she usually says your dad, and I like that she knows it’s okay to remember that she lost him too.

I smile back. ‘Do you have any more?’

We spend the rest of the evening leafing through her album and scrolling through more photos, talking and remembering. And I feel lighter, like a weight has lifted from my heart. Because Mam’s right, I do know Dad loved us, but I needed this conversation, these memories, to really feel it again.

And I realise that choosing to listen to the likes of Moll and Barty made me doubt, and hold myself back, when I should have opened up to Mam and told her how I was feeling. When I should have listened to my own instincts, and to real friends, like Flynn and Pat. I always knew deep down that Dad loved me. I just needed to listen to what I knew to be true, in my own heart. And I need to start doing that more from now on.

27

It’s Saturday morning and I’ve finished cleaning Hazel Cottage, my belongings stacked by the door, ready to be loaded into Sarah’s car. I take one last look around the bedroom, the daisy print duvet, the space between the bed and the wardrobe where he stood that first time . . .

And I feel Flynn everywhere. His eyes on my face, warm breath on my body, his teeth gently grazing my neck, and his hands holding mine as he asked me, is this what you want, Gracie?

Is this what you want?

I slouch down on the floor by the wardrobe, my head between my knees, and I let my tears flow. It feels like a dam has been broken, one I’ve been working hard to build for so many years, and I need to let it out before Flynn comes back. Because he’s everything I want, but I have to let him go.

I’ve no idea how long I’ve been sitting here when I hear Sarah call my name. I pull myself up, close the window, and make my way out on to the landing. And I have to lean against the wall and count my breaths to stem the tide. I close my eyes, and there’s Flynn in that towel, with that mischievous smile, singing ‘Good Luck, Babe!’ as if he’s singing it for me. And I think, no matter how hard I try, no matter how long I wait, I’m not sure I’ll ever stop feeling this.

‘Take your time,’ Sarah says gently when I reach the bottom of the stairs. ‘There’s no rush, I’m free until lunchtime.’ She’s standing in a stream of morning sunlight pouring through the open door, and I pause on the stairs. I should have splashed cold water on my face to rinse my dried-in tears, tame the fiery blotches on my cheeks. But I don’t need to pretend with Sarah, and she wouldn’t want me to.

‘I’m ready,’ I tell her, and she reaches to lift one of my boxes. I make my way across the room and I’m halfway to the door when my phone pings with a message. A really long message. From Flynn. He’s called a few times, and I’ve let it ring out, and I haven’t called back. I haven’t told him I’ve posted him a letter. He should get that next week.

He sent a text on Thursday to wish me luck. I replied: thanks. He messaged back: let me know how it goes, but every time I think about texting or calling, I picture Natalie by his side, watching, and listening, and worrying if I’m about to come between them again. I scroll down through his message.

Hey, Gracie, hope all went well on Thursday. Sorry I keep missing you, but I know you must be busy with your interview, and the festival, so I understand. It’s been a battle here but we’re getting there. Mom is on my side and she’s taking no arguments from Dad about the property. I’m finding it hard to believe, but she tells me she’s been feeling this way for a while and she’s done living by other people’s rules, and if things keep going the way they are here, she’ll be moving back to Oakwood, and Dad can make up his own mind if he wants to follow. It feels like a miracle, maybe one of those Samhain spells you told me about. A reset, a new beginning, just what we all need. And as I mentioned, everything went well with Natalie, way better than I hoped. I’ll tell you all about it on Friday when I’m home. Miss you, Flynn, xx

Miss you too. And you’re not even gone. Not really, not forever, not yet.

Then I wonder what he means about Natalie and how it went better than he hoped. Maybe she hasn’t asked him to cut me out of his life. But if she hasn’t, that means he hasn’t told her what happened between us. Yet. And when he does – and I know he will, he’s Flynn, after all – then it’s only a matter of time.

‘I think that’s everything,’ Sarah says as she strides back in and scans the room. ‘Are you leaving the keys?’ She points to the set on the coffee table by my phone.

‘I might hold on to them, in case,’ I say, although in case what, I’m not sure. I’ve cleared and cleaned, and everything of mine is packed into Sarah’s car. ‘Flynn has his set with him, and I can drop these to Pat later in the week.’

‘Okay.’ Sarah nods. ‘Have you got a hoodie or a cardigan? It’s cold out.’

‘Everything’s in the car. I’ll be fine for a few minutes.’

‘Here, borrow this, Flynn won’t mind.’ She lifts his navy plaid shirt from the hook behind the door, the one he wore the day he came to her house to pick me up.

I shake my head in protest, but she throws it straight at me and I grab it with both hands as it lands on my face. I’m wrapped in a blanket of soft flannel, inhaling pure Flynn, citrus, and forest, and sweat from the last day he wore this, cleaning up the mess the Stringers made. I bury my head and breathe deep. I want to take it all in, every scent, every memory, the clean and the dirty, the funny and the messy. I want to tuck them all away and keep them in a safe, quiet corner of my heart so I’ll have something to hold when he’s gone.