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Back Afterlove
Chapters (86)
  1. Title Page
  2. CONTENTS
  3. Love
  4. Before
  5. One
  6. ONE
  7. Two
  8. TWO
  9. Three
  10. THREE
  11. Four
  12. FOUR
  13. Five
  14. FIVE
  15. Six
  16. SIX
  17. Seven
  18. SEVEN
  19. Eight
  20. EIGHT
  21. Nine
  22. NINE
  23. Ten
  24. TEN
  25. Eleven
  26. ELEVEN
  27. After
  28. One
  29. ONE
  30. Two
  31. TWO
  32. Three
  33. THREE
  34. Four
  35. FOUR
  36. Five
  37. FIVE
  38. Six
  39. SIX
  40. Seven
  41. SEVEN
  42. Eight
  43. EIGHT
  44. Nine
  45. NINE
  46. Ten
  47. TEN
  48. Eleven
  49. ELEVEN
  50. Twelve
  51. TWELVE
  52. Thirteen
  53. THIRTEEN
  54. Fourteen
  55. FOURTEEN
  56. Fifteen
  57. FIFTEEN
  58. Sixteen
  59. SIXTEEN
  60. Seventeen
  61. SEVENTEEN
  62. Eighteen
  63. EIGHTEEN
  64. Nineteen
  65. NINETEEN
  66. Twenty
  67. TWENTY
  68. Twenty-One
  69. TWENTY-ONE
  70. Twenty-Two
  71. TWENTY-TWO
  72. Twenty-Three
  73. TWENTY-THREE
  74. Twenty-Four
  75. TWENTY-FOUR
  76. Twenty-Five
  77. TWENTY-FIVE
  78. Twenty-Six
  79. TWENTY-SIX
  80. Twenty-Seven
  81. TWENTY-SEVEN
  82. Twenty-Eight
  83. TWENTY-EIGHT
  84. Eleven Months Later
  85. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  86. Copyright

And that’s how we spend our afternoons, talking and kissing in our café, at our table by the window, like we have no place else to be. We do, though. With mocks approaching, I should be in the library or in study group, circling the vectors that translate B to A. At least, that’s where I’m telling my parents I am, which they don’t think to question. If anything, they’re pleased I’m being so diligent. I feel bad, lying to them, but then I see Poppy again and I don’t care.

I should. Adara keeps saying that we’re in our ‘honeymoon period’ and I’m waiting for it to pass, to get bored of wandering the streets every day. For this to mellow into something normal, whatever that is. But it hasn’t, because everything is an adventure to Poppy. We’ll climb mountains, one day. Swim seas. Fall asleep under the stars as the moon watches over us.

We’ll indulge every whim.

And I can’t wait.

images

Before we know it, it’s almost Christmas. We take a selfie under the lights on North Street that spell out LOVE and sit in our café talking about next year, about all the things we want to do, and I go home with the smell of gingerbread latte in my hair and a lightness in my heart.

Poppy helps me pick out a present for Rosh – a Studio Ghibli satchel I know that she’ll love, and I help her choose some bath salts from Neal’s Yard for her grandmother. But whatever we do, there’s a jewellery shop on Kensington Gardens – opposite the place that sells the sheepskin rugs – that we always seem to find ourselves outside. There’s a gold bumblebee necklace in the window that she wants for Christmas. She’s been dropping some serious hints to her parents about it, so each time we go and it’s still there she smiles with relief, then her shoulders sink as she realises it’s because they haven’t bought it yet. Her mood shifts after that so we go to our café and I buy her a gingerbread latte and we talk and kiss, talk and kiss, talk and kiss, until she comes back to me.

Every afternoon is a series of firsts. The first time I cry in front of her. The first time I feel her cheeks warm under my fingers. The first time her hand slips under the collar of my school shirt, her thumb pressed to my throat as though seeking out my pulse.