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We had left the house earlier in the day than usual when we go out. Mostly to beat the buzz of the 9A.M spree that steals Monday mornings away from those sorts of people who like to live slowly, gentle strolls by the beach, flicking through dusty books in a library.
It wasn't like that for us though, the Basdens. There wouldn't be the usual fuss of the keys clattering to the driveway as the car door unfavorably jams; all the papers worked on for weeks loosening - from some storm has made its way to England, for what reason, I don't know, I mean don't these storms come from hotter places? - and obscuring the windshield of whatever car had chosen to drive down your road at that specific moment. It also wasn't the case of waking up imperceptibly early or late (whichever one, they give the same effect), arranging soft walks with friends in the sun-dappled Hampstead Heath while dogs pant and trot beside you, occasionally jumping up to see why you're eating an ice cream before midday.
Instead, spring rays had beat down through the windshield in Tom's car, warming the metal of the seatbelts and the gearstick from the chilly start from the early hours. Luckily, the car had manoeuvred smoothly through the lack of hold-ups, and found itself a spot a short walk away that miraculously didn't have the words 'permit holders only' looming over it in black letters.
I open the boot on my tip-toes, Tom tucks the rolled up blanket under his right arm as I then gather the carrier bag. He shuts the boot with one swift motion and keeps a steady hand on my shoulders as we walk through a large parting of two hedges, with the faint wink of the locking car doors from where he had pressed his thumb on the button without looking. He looks down at me, that linger of concern in his eyes and the set of his brow that never seems to leave. It's almost like he enjoys watching me take in the familiar sights of the park, how walkers and runners are guided by a smooth pavement through the kept grass and broad trees. I wouldn't bet money on it that he doesn't enjoy it.
Tom strokes my shoulder once, and pulls away to unravel the blanket. It cascades down onto the grass, a small wind lifting edges as if to peek under the soft expanse to all the bugs living underneath.
"This good? Shouldn't be too muddy..." He mutters, lifting an edge with a worn trainer. He takes the carrier bag and puts it in the middle of the blanket so it doesn't fly away and ruin somebody else's picnic. At least someone's learned from the last time.
I sit down opposite Tom, himself lowering slowly, and help him unload the contents, the small smile that tugs at my mouth blossoms into a full-blown grin when I see his reaction to the item we had brushed fingers over accidentally. The item he didn't see hiding behind the pack of sausage rolls when we loaded the bag up at home.
"Little one," he starts, a disbelieving grin plastered on his face. When I pretend to be interested in a tree beside me, Tom laughs lightly, "Y/n. What's this doing in here?" The pink and yellow can of cream soda sweats in his hand.
I peer at the can as if I've only just noticed. "That's weird. Must've fallen in..." I look up toward the high blanket of leaves and branches sheltering us.
Tom gives a huff. "I'll let you off. For now. You're lucky I know that trick." There's a beat where he rummages in the bag, lifting up packets and tinfoiled foods, brow slightly furrowed. "Have you swapped the ham sandwiches for that?" He's swiftly proved wrong. I hold the tinfoiled squares up from where they were hiding behind the bag. They're pulled out my grip and put where he can see them.
"No more hiding food, sweetheart. Do you know why?" He raises his eyebrows, awaiting my response.
"Because... I dunno, because if I forget about them, the pork pies could be left behind... all the poor, poor animals eating them could die happy. And it would be all my fault." I point a cheese twist at him. "Death by pork pie."
"Well, no." Tom gives me a funny look and points a finger to the blanket. "I don't want to leave at the end of the day and find out there's a whole six pack of mini quiches gone off in the sun." He says sternly, ignoring my beginning of a protest; his mouth tugged in a small smile to show he's not completely disappointed.
"When they could've all gone into one person's stomach?" I say drily, unfurling a sandwich and taking a bite.
"Of course." He shrugs, ripping the quiches open. "You don't like them. The foxes don't like them. The dogs- okay, maybe the dogs like them. But your dad does."
I hum vaguely, my plastic plate on my lap weighted with an assortment of picnic food. Tom bites into a mini quiche but the crescented leftover gets knocked out his grip by a passing walker adorned with all those high-tech fitness bands and clothes and attachments.
"Let's get out the way of this man's speedwalking routine that we've so rudely interrupted." Tom says loudly in a passive-aggressive tone, dusting stray blanket wool off the face-planted quiche. His eyes linger in a mock glare to the back of the man's head. An explosion of flaky cheese twist erupts as I laugh into my hand. Tom allows a short laugh. It transforms his face in the best way; I noticed that it always does: the usual low set of his brow lifts like he can't believe he's laughing at something as ridiculous, his eyes shut as if he savours the joke in his head, the expanse of the corners of his eyes to his temples creases in pure joy. And if someone is very lucky, they might see the flash of teeth he hides in closed-mouth smiles for photoshoots and interview thumbnails.
Tom must have known my train of thought, where it had led to, as he sets down his quiche - on a plastic plate this time, he's not losing the other half - and pats the space beside him on the tartan blanket. His eyes are soft, understanding, even despite what just happened. Like he's willing to forgive anyone just for me. For his girl. I shuffle over, to where Tom is resting against the nearest tree, expecting the usual motion of his arm cushioning around my shoulders and squeezing me into his side. But, as I move my plate and the bag, the expanse of his forearm and his hand tugs me backward so that my back fits against his chest.
I'm enveloped by both of his arms, criss-crossed over my waist as his legs bracket me in, shielding me from the park. Like I'm 5 years old again, attempting to run away because I had thought the sound of a crane was a dragon. Silly, really - any other dad would have laughed, but Tom had held me tightly, cradling my head against his stomach, my short arms wrapping around his legs.
I'm not young enough to believe that the buzz of cars and buses outside the park are great, monstrous creatures coming to get me. And I'm sure Tom knows that. He knows I'm grown up now. But the way his legs curl around me tell otherwise.
"My girl's all warm..." He mutters in my hair, his lips a soft pressure. I can feel his voice hum in my whole body. His thumb rubs soothingly on my side, as if coaxing my body to relax though it wasn't tense in the first place. And suddenly the rest of the park didn't matter really. The half bitten quiche on the plate didn't matter. Neither did the meeting mums and dads matter, even as they eyed us up while talking about how great of a primary school they chose for their child; edged with competition and unnatural tension.
I look to my side on instinct, as I feel another kiss on my temple, light, dusting over my hairline. I can see his mouth in my peripheral vision, hovering as if waiting for my reaction. Or a green light for more. My lips part. His hands wander around my sides, tugging me back further until his whole chest is completely against my back.
The wind parts my hair, guides it around my shoulder so that Tom can press a kiss to my cheek. It's slightly damp from where he wet his lips just a second before. I don't reach up a sleeve to wipe it off.