Last Train Home

Four

•❅──✧❅✦❅✧──❅•

Growing up, I would always think of snow as fairy dust; a fairy flies across the sky and drops all her dust on the ground so you can have the day off to play around in their magic. As I stare out of the train window at the perfect blanket of fairy dust that covers all the grass outside, plus the magic colour of the sky, it looks peaceful as hell. It makes me want to run to the train doors, open them and dive into the magic fairy dust.

But Wyatt pops the cork on the prosecco instead, and I glance at his wide smile as he sets the bottle in between us.

"You stole it from that idiot, you get the first sip," he announces.

I chuckle and take a sip of the cold bubbles without argument. "I mean, I'm not going to argue, but I did tell you I was running from my problems."

"Ironic. I'm running to my problems, you're running away. We meet on a train and bond over that," he says and takes a sip from the bottle.

I nod. "We're both just... escape artists, just in the opposite ways!"

He chuckles. "Will you be his best woman?"

I shake my head and sip more prosecco. "No way. Honestly, I never want to speak to him again. It's about time I get over him in all honesty. I've pushed away feelings and focused on only him since I was, well, forever. He screwed me about too much now."

"Good answer. Go and grab life and all that. Screw him, he's a piece of shit," Wyatt answers.

"What about you? What're you going to do now? Are you done in France? You staying in Cardiff?" I ask.

He nods. "I've essentially quit. My friend gets it, obviously. He said whenever I'm ready he'd hire me again, but I might stay closer to home whenever I'm ready. I have savings to keep me going. We just don't know what will happen. I've heard of people who have these diagnoses and then they live for years. But... it could go the way the doctors have predicted."

"I'm so... I don't want to keep saying this, it probably sounds so awful, but I am really sorry," I whisper.

He smiles and sips the alcohol. "You don't sound awful at all. I haven't digested the news yet, so it's good to talk about it, you know?"

When my hand fits in his without thinking, it amazes me how comfortable I feel with him. But it's not quite enough for what I want to convey. I move to sit on the faux velvet seat beside him that matches the deep green of the prosecco bottle he's drinking out of.

"Tell me about her, your sister," I say quietly. "If you want to."

He puts the bottle down, and I watch his blue eyes zone in on me, his face lighting up as if he's been asked to discuss his favourite hobby or book. I take the bottle and sip from it. We're halfway through the bloody thing.