Emma Heatherington - Rewrite the Stars

My songs about you are gathering dust under my bed, I long to admit to him. My breathing is slowing down now, yet I still can’t believe this moment is real.

‘I still love to write and sing,’ I say with a smile, straightening up and fixing my coat up around my chin. ‘But yes, my main collection nowadays does come in the form of “The Farmer Wants a Wife” and other such playground hits.’

‘A teacher then,’ he says. He’s disappointed. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s a super career, but I always thought you were destined for even greater things.’

I’m shaking. I’m totally sobered up now. I look around me to make sure there’s really no one else around and clench my nails into my hands tightly to make me feel like it’s real life. I want to scream in delight. I want to jump with joy, but most of all I feel like I could cry with the knowledge that this is indeed, very real.

‘Yes, I teach little people their ABCs and I love it,’ I tell him eventually, trying to keep it sane. ‘I’ve just quit for the Christmas break so I’m out on the lash, but I never, ever thought that I’d bump into you.’

He laughs and flicks his cigarette like he doesn’t know what to say next. He is equally as flummoxed as me. We stare at each other, examining the moment, trying to absorb that so much time has passed, yet here we are still sharing the same breath-taking moment that has hit us right in the heart all over again. Well, at least that’s how I feel, anyhow.

‘And you? Are you still drumming?’ I manage to ask him. I’ve no idea how I’m even holding a conversation right now.

‘Not much since your brother kicked me out of his band four years ago,’ he laughs nervously in response. Then he whispers, ‘How is Matt anyway? Is he OK?’

There’s a big pause and swift change of mood. Oh, if only he was OK. How I wish that my brother was OK.

‘Matthew’s doing as well as he can,’ I say, looking at the ground. I could divulge so many more gory details of how absolutely not OK he has been, but blood is thicker than water and I would never let my only brother down. ‘He doesn’t really talk about those days any more, Tom. He doesn’t talk about any of the band.’

‘I thought as much,’ says Tom, kicking imaginary stones on the slushy ground.

‘I did ask about you all for a long time,’ I confess, ‘but eventually I copped on that it was more or less a closed subject. I’ve a feeling he doesn’t like to talk about you guys very much any more. Sorry.’

Tom bites his lip and looks away.

‘It really all did turn out so terribly wrong,’ he says, his face scrunching into a puzzle as he looks up to the snow-filled sky, giving me an opportunity to drink him in. He still looks like he could be a real rock star in his biker jacket, his dogtooth black and white scarf and his faded blue jeans. He still smells like I want to pull him closer to me. He still sounds like the man who speaks right to my soul and the one who I never could get off my mind, no matter where in the world I’ve been after meeting him for just a few hours some five years ago.

‘So where have you been?’ I ask him, pain leaching into my voice. For so many years I’ve longed for him, pined for him. I travelled the world to try and shake him off, eventually laying his ghost to rest easy in my mind, but he never really ever left my heart. I know that now more than ever.

‘I’ve been …’ he laughs and scratches his head. ‘I’ve been everywhere trying to recreate what Matt and I tried to do all those years ago, ironically. I’ve been trying to make it big in music but every time a door opened for me, another one shut in my face. Maybe you were right to ignore me and my big dreams of music, but I’m happy for you, Charlie. You look happy. You look just as gorgeous as you did that first time I saw you with your guitar, your beautiful songs, your silly pyjamas and DM boots that matched mine.’

He remembers it all. My God, he actually remembers it all, but if only he knew how much it was killing me to see him again. He hasn’t changed a bit and yet he looks so different at the same time. His eyes are a little more tired but still dreamy enough to wash me away. His lips still catch my breath as I watch them move as he speaks. His hair is shorter now but still magnetic enough to make me want to reach out and touch it, and his arms still look like they were meant to hold only me. I’ve so many questions I want to ask him. Did he ever think of me like I did of him? Did he feel what I felt that day in my humble living room five years ago or was it all in my loved-up imagination?

‘What on earth are you doing here, Tom?’ I ask him. It’s the bravest question I can ask him out loud. ‘Like, seriously, how did you even find this place?’

He laughs at my bewilderment at finding him here.

‘No one our age ever goes to Pip’s Bar,’ I emphasize, ‘especially not in the run-up to Christmas when there’s so much fun to be had closer to town. This is really, really strange to bump into you here of all places.’

My cigarette isn’t as appealing as I thought and I want to stub it out already, but that would be very uncool.

‘True. I suppose it’s hardly Vegas, is it?’ he laughs.

He looks back at me with dreamy, sparkling eyes that crinkle at the sides. They don’t dance and flirt at me as much as they did before, but there still is something that makes my head spin a little more than the buzz of the beers I’ve been on. There’s still chemistry between us. I knew I wasn’t imagining it all those years ago.

He takes a deep breath.

‘It’s a long story why I’m here,’ he tells me, blowing a long line of smoke out in my direction. ‘Maybe I was looking for someone.’

I should have known.

‘Maybe I was looking for you?’ he says.

My eyes widen. I take a step backwards. I can’t tell if he’s joking or serious but I’m too afraid to ask.

‘I never thought I’d be so lucky, but lo and behold, here I am, talking to you, you’re talking to me, and we’re freezing our asses off at the same time on possibly the coldest night of the year,’ he says. ‘Plus, you’ve locked us out. It could be serendipity after all?’

His voice is deeper now, like it’s been well-lived-in, making him sound a lot older than he looks, which I reckon must be a few years over thirty since I’m now the grand age of twenty-seven.

‘I love that,’ I tell him.

‘What? Being locked out in the cold?’

‘Very funny,’ I say with a nervous giggle. ‘I mean, I love serendipity.’

‘Me too.’

‘You know, fate … going with your gut instinct … believing that things are meant to be. In fact, you’ve just reminded me of my third resolution for next year, which is a pretty good one.’

‘And that is?’ he asks me.

I stand in just a little bit closer to him for effect, urging myself not to make it so obvious I’m still mad about him and have been for all this time. I so want to touch him, just his jacket would be enough. The attraction I have for him is intensifying more than I ever knew could happen and I’ve all sorts of emotions clogging up my head.

‘My resolution is to take more chances in life,’ I explain, my eyes widening at the thought, even though if my mother heard me, she’d go mental. In her eyes I’ve always been one to live life close to the edge. ‘I’m going to put things in the hands of chance and fate, you know. Take more risks in life. Go with the flow. Be true to myself and not suppress the real me to please others.’

He glances towards the door, and then looks behind him. There’s a gate at the back of the small yard we’re standing in but, apart from that, it’s just us, some bins, some steel barrels and a very snowy sky.