The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend (28 page)

There was nothing so alive, nothing so constantly changing, as the autumn she was now experiencing in Broken Wheel. Every morning, she witnessed an explosion of leaves, wind and colour.

Summer was still refusing to loosen its grip, and there was still the occasional warm day, but the balance had shifted. The world around her was moving relentlessly towards winter and towards the end of her time in Broken Wheel.

When George came to pick her up, she stepped from beneath her blanket and headed slowly for the car. She responded to his attempts at small talk wearily and with one-word answers. Dark clouds were looming above the town and the wind was whipping at the trees, but not even that managed to make the bookshop feel warm and cosy. Instead, it felt small and claustrophobic and frighteningly meaningless.

She stood watching the leaves being ripped from the trees outside. It was as though winter took a step closer with each leaf that fell to the ground, as the branches turned bare and empty and her life in Broken Wheel whirled away with the wind.

Maybe it was just as well she would be going home, she thought. She had experienced Amy's town, toasted Miss Annie, met Andy and Claire and … well, everyone. And she had given them books. Perhaps her work here was done.

But it was strange, when it came to the people. However hard she tried to repay her debt to them, they always seemed to be finding new reasons for her to feel grateful. It was as though she was fighting a losing battle, trying to pay back the interest on her interest.

The conversation with Caroline had shaken her. She hoped that Caroline hadn't seen right through her. She had tried to conceal what a shock it had been, the realisation that she would have to go back to Sweden – and so soon at that.

Four weeks left before she had to return to Sweden. The image of Amy's comfortable house, the quiet charm of the bookshop, and the people around her – these all shone in comparison to the hazy outline of a flat in Haninge; another bookshop, if she was lucky. She couldn't really picture it, and that scared her.

When had she stopped thinking about Sweden? She tried to remind herself that her family was waiting for her there, but if she was really honest that wasn't a particularly effective argument.

She didn't think anyone would care when she returned to Sweden. She wouldn't even have anyone to talk to about everything that had happened here: the bookshop, her new friends, this sudden and unexpected feeling of belonging somewhere. Her parents didn't care, and wouldn't want to hear anything about it. Her sister probably wouldn't even have noticed she had been away if Sara hadn't sent her a postcard.

She walked around the bookshop while she tried to stop thinking about Sweden. There was nothing for her to do but she couldn't sit still.

Then her eyes landed on one of the books on the shelf in front of her. She laughed. At least she had found the perfect book for Grace. Strong women who built this country.

Not even Grace would be able to resist this book, she thought to herself as she pulled on her jacket and ran the few metres over the road in the wind to the diner.

She didn't have the energy to talk to Grace today so she simply threw the book down onto the counter with a triumphant smile and a ‘strong women!', before running back out again.

It was still her bookshop. It
was
.

But the effect wasn't quite the same any more. She quickly grew restless again and realised she would have to force herself through the rest of the day.

Maybe she should close early, she thought.

At five, she was still in the bookshop, watching an approaching rain shower. It hit the far side of the street first and for a moment it was as though they were assessing one another, Sara and the approaching storm. The rain seemed to be hesitating to approach her.

Then it began. Small drops at first, like some kind of advance guard, before it closed in on her, pattering against the steamed-up window until Broken Wheel was nothing more than a blur outside her little world.

She waited half an hour for the rain to stop, but by then she could no longer bear the sight of the cosy bookshop, complete with rain lashing against the window. She grabbed Amy's raincoat, turned out all the lights and stood in darkness for a moment. Main Street was deserted.

Fitting, she thought. It was fitting.

She stepped out into the rain. It was lucky to have a rainstorm just when you needed one, she thought. She passed Grace's and saw her standing alone at the counter, drinking liquor as though the diner was still a bar. She had a glass and a bottle in front of her, and Sara could see the book she had given her leaning against the bottle. She could have sworn that Grace was actually laughing at it.

At any other time, such a sight would have cheered her up, but now she didn't even pause. She simply bowed her head and continued on her way out of town.

The cornfields surrounded her, following her as she went. The rain sounded different when it landed on the greenery of the fields, heavier and more mellow, almost like summer rain. Only the chill on her cheeks reminded her otherwise.

When she finally came to the road leading off to Amy's house, she kept on walking. She couldn't bear the silence and emptiness awaiting her there.

You don't belong here
, she thought. It was stupid to think she did. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She raised her face to the rain in quiet obstinacy and kept on walking, the water and the cold finding their way into her legs.

Deep down, she knew she was heading to Tom's house. For some reason, despite the rain, she felt like she would be able to talk to him about this. He might be moving to Hope, she thought, but he must still care about the town. Surely he must? He must be able to understand how sad it would be to leave them all behind.

When she reached his house, she stopped. Suddenly, it felt intrusive to turn up like this. But she remembered how they had sat together in the bookshop, their conversation in Amy's hallway. About needing to keep working. Belonging somewhere.

She needed to talk about all this with someone. And at least Tom would keep their conversation to himself, she was sure of that.

She knocked on the door. The hallway was dark, but the light in the kitchen was on. No one answered.

Faced with the prospect of more rain and the walk home and the fact that the door, when she tentatively tried it, was unlocked, she decided that it was perfectly normal to go indoors for a while before she headed back.

She moved cautiously down the hallway. It led to an open-plan living room, with a kitchen and dining area at one end.

‘Tom?' she said. Again, no one answered. She hung up her raincoat, kicked off her shoes and took a few more steps.

She looked around, her curiosity about Tom's home making her forget everything that had been on her mind.

Though perhaps home wasn't the right word. Everything was strangely impersonal, and very, very neat.

There wasn't a single bookcase, not even for a CD or DVD collection. As though he was deliberately attempting to avoid anything that might reveal something about him, or transform his house into a home. The furniture was neutral in colour and shape, and all of the surfaces were clean and free of dust.

There were no photographs, no dirty dishes or half-read books thrown down wherever he had happened to be reading them; no clutter of old pens, small change or receipts.

In the kitchen there were two plates on the drying rack and three empty beer bottles in a row on the counter.

But it was the windows which really dominated the room, making the boundary between the indoors and outdoors seem indistinct. The panes shook gently whenever a gust of wind blew against them. It made Sara feel surprisingly powerless against the weather, as though she were still outside. But there was also something comforting in it, having the night and the darkness so close.

Beyond the dark cornfields, she could see the lights from Broken Wheel through the rain. She could also see lights on in Amy's house. She must have forgotten to turn them out that morning.

She almost always did. It was less lonely coming home to a brightly lit house, as though Amy's house was waiting for her.

In Tom's house, Broken Wheel was constantly present, she thought. Surrounded by the timeless landscape, the corn, the clouds towering up above it, and the lonely barns out in the fields; everything which, long ago, had been part of life around here.

Eventually, she went back to the living area and slumped down onto the sofa. When the silence became too much, she stood up and turned on the radio in the kitchen. She went back to the sofa. She suddenly felt extremely tired, and very far away from home.

She did the only thing she could under the circumstances.

She fell asleep.

When she woke a few hours later, the restlessness had passed; sleep had made her body calm, warm and heavy. She stretched out until her foot nudged a leg.

A leg.

She sat up and looked around in confusion. Tom. She was at Tom's house. Under a blanket. He must have put it over her when he came home and found her asleep on his sofa.

Before he had fallen asleep on the sofa himself. She smiled. He was unbelievably handsome when he slept.

She reached out and touched his leg before she could stop herself, then she got up and leaned over him. There was a hint of stubble on his chin and cheeks, the lines around his eyes were less pronounced, and his expression was almost peaceful.

‘Tom,' she said gently, her face close to his.

He moved and opened his eyes. If he was surprised to see her so close to him, he didn't say anything.

It all happened so incredibly slowly. So slowly it made her wonder whether the kisses in films were exaggerated at all, whether those long, drawn-out, hesitant moments before a kiss also existed in real life.

When she realised what she was doing, she backed up quickly. She sat on the sofa, trying to think of something to say.

It was useless. She tried smiling instead. Which was slightly easier.

‘Sara,' said Tom. He was looking at her with an uncomfortable, penetrating gaze. ‘I'm not interested in a holiday romance,' he said unnecessarily brutally. He continued, though he had already made himself absolutely clear and she was completely unable to say a thing. ‘I've done it before. And long-distance relationships.'

Of course he had. She hadn't. She had never had a proper relationship at all. She had tried once, but it hadn't been a success.

She instinctively moved further away from him.

‘If we fall for one another it'd be … irritating,' he said. ‘And if we don't fall for one another then it'd be pointless.'

It was obvious that he wouldn't fall for her, she thought. Surely he didn't think she was so … unrealistic as to think that. But still. She couldn't help but feel a slight hint of righteous annoyance that he had described a fling with her as pointless and irritating.

She held her head high and said: ‘Of course you're not going to fall for me.' Because she assumed things couldn't get any worse, she added: ‘But I don't see why it would be pointless or irritating.'

He reached out and gently turned her face towards him. Slowly, almost unconsciously, he stroked her cheek, her jaw, her throat with his fingers. His touch was so light that she wasn't certain it had actually happened. Except for the fact that his hand was now resting against her collarbone and neck.

‘Do you really think –' he said quietly, before breaking off.

‘What?' she said. It came out more as a croak.

He pulled her towards him and without really knowing how or who had taken the initiative, she fell back on the sofa until she was lying with him heavy on top of her. She could feel his breathing in her body.

She reached out and touched the skin right above his waistband, while she still had the chance. ‘Still' because she would be going back to Sweden sometime soon. But also because she knew that he didn't really want her, and so she needed to make the most of the time she had.

He recoiled slightly when she kissed him. It was almost imperceptible, but she could feel it in the way that his weight above her shifted. She tried to sit up, but then he kissed her back, slowly and gently at first, then more roughly. His body pressed down onto her again, his hand moving over her shoulder, jaw and hair in quick, intense movements.

The kiss died out and they lay there for a moment, looking at one another.

His breathing was short and heated. Almost as though they had actually had sex. The thought didn't help her own excitement levels in the slightest.

She closed her eyes and imagined all of the ways she wanted to touch him, how she wanted him to touch her. Take me, she wanted to beg him. She arched her back so that she was closer to his body. Her arms were around him, their legs were entwined so that she was pressed against his thighs. She moved her hips and felt an urgent, excruciating need that began somewhere deep inside and spread out until every part of her was, in some way, touching him.

She knew she wasn't any good at this whole sex business. She always felt so self-conscious and had somehow always known that she didn't have any … natural talent for it. But for once, her body seemed to know exactly what it wanted. For once it seemed to be quite certain. Maybe because she had never wanted anyone as much as she now wanted Tom.

For some reason, that thought made her sad. It was like the cruel joke of a bored God: creating that much longing only to leave it unsatisfied.

‘Damn you, Sara,' said Tom, as though he had been thinking the very same thing. He didn't sound angry.

‘Go to hell,' she replied in the same tone of voice.

‘Do you really think,' he said, ‘we could stop ourselves given the slightest chance?'

They didn't have sex. But still, when Sara left, she could remember the things they had done and the words they had said, the way his body had pressed against hers, and she sighed, half contented and half frustrated. Hands down, it had been the best sex she had never had.