This Book Made Me Think of You(84)

“Alfie, stop.” She reaches a hand out, placing her palm on his chest. She can feel his heart beating hard and fast beneath the thick, scratchy warmth of his sweater. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”

He looks down at her, his eyes hesitantly searching her face.

“It really was all Joe’s idea. I just helped a bit. I know Prudence meant well, but I wish she hadn’t said all of that…”

Without quite realizing what she’s doing, she takes a step closer until they are standing just a step away from one another, the next interview playing on the screen above them but neither of them listening.

Alfie seems to catch his breath, then says, “I don’t want it to change the way you think about Joe’s gift. I know how much the year of books means to you. I don’t want to take away from that.”

His voice is rough, and she can feel his breath, catch his coffee and wool smell cut with a hint of eucalyptus.

“It does change the way I think about the gift.”

He blinks down at her, his expression pained, and she suddenly wants to reach up and smooth out the lines on his forehead. She swallows hard and manages to keep her hands where they are, one on Alfie’s chest, the other at her side.

“It makes total sense now, actually. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it until now. Of course, there’s no way Joe would have thought to recommend Emily Henry. Or Elizabeth Gilbert. The year of books could only have existed because Joe knew me and you knew books. None of all this would have happened without both of you. I’m just sorry I didn’t realize it sooner. Because if I had I would have known to thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” His voice catches.

“But I want to.” She tilts her head up to his, feeling the heat of his eyes on her. As she looks at him, she sees everything he has done for her over the past year. The conversations where he has listened to her open up about her grief and has shared his own pain with her like an offering. A cat-themed window display. A tent in the park. Dry socks at the airport. A rucksack full of food. And now this.

She reaches across the space between them for his hand.

“Thank you, Alfie.”

His fingers slip through hers and squeeze. His lips part slightly and she leans closer, her chin tipping back, eyes on his.

“Are you ready for me to show you both out?” comes a voice in the doorway. Tilly jumps backward, almost knocking over a chair. Alfie steps back, too, clearing his throat. An assistant is waiting, looking at them a little strangely.

“Yes, we’re ready,” Alfie says, taking another step, putting even more space between them, never meeting Tilly’s eye.



* * *



—

When Tilly arrives home, there are dozens of messages waiting for her congratulating her on the interview: from her parents, from Harper, and dozens on social media in response to a story she posted of herself outside the BBC studio. But all Tilly can think about is Alfie and that moment in the greenroom. What would have happened if the assistant hadn’t walked in? What did Tilly want to happen? She has no idea. Or perhaps, even more terrifyingly, she does.

It hits her who might be able to help her sort through the complex tangle of her emotions.

Tilly sends a group message to Lola and John from the Paris Grief Gang.

Random question, but have either of you dated since losing your partners? Because I think I sort of nearly kissed someone today. And now I’m a mess.





Fifty-Two




Her phone begins immediately to vibrate. When she answers, it’s to Lola’s face, beaming at her from a brightly lit Parisian street, the sound of traffic in the background.

“Tilly! Tell us everything.”

A second later, John connects, dressed in tweed and looking slightly startled against a backdrop of ornate bookshelves that Tilly recognizes as his library with its view over the Eiffel Tower.

“How wonderful to see you both, dears,” he says, reaching for a floral teacup and raising it in greeting.

“Hi, John. Now, Tilly, tell us about this kiss.”

“Almost kiss,” Tilly corrects, feeling her cheeks grow hot.

“He sounds like a great guy,” says Lola, stepping out of the way of a group of tourists gathered on what Tilly thinks she recognizes as the Pont Neuf. “I mean, he brought you dry socks after your camping trip.”

“He is a great guy.”

“And handsome too,” John chips in, making Lola laugh. “What?” he says with a shrug. “I watched your interview together. He’s a very good-looking young man. And he clearly knows his books, too, which is always a plus.”

“Maybe,” replies Tilly, emotion trapped in her throat. “But…he’s not Joe.”

Tears well in her eyes in the silence that follows.

“No,” Lola says softly. “And I bet that feels confusing.”

Tilly nods, wiping her face and pulling her knees under her on the sofa. “Before, when I thought Alfie had a girlfriend, I could tell myself that we were just friends. But if I’m honest with myself, there have been…other moments.” The feel of his firm hands on her bare skin, stopping her from tripping into the canal. The two of them alone in the bookshop after the book club, sharing wine, knees almost touching. Him sitting beside her in the tiny tent he’d helped her put together, his warmth and his smell. The relief of seeing him at the airport and how she hadn’t even thought about it before she’d thrown her arms around him, sinking into the reassuring feeling of his solid chest.