***
Being at Gabrielle’s house no longer felt like we were breaking rules. Adam got out of the car and I followed, not giving him a chance to open my door for me. We were almost at the house when I spotted two little red tulips jutting out from the rockery, bright against the mass of greenery that would be overflowing with flowers in spring. He saw them too and leaned down to pick them.
“No,” I protested.
He straightened up. “Why not?”
“I’ll tell you another time,” I promised, turning back towards the house.
“Not so fast, Coccinelle,” he said.
“I still have no clue what that means.” After my first attempt at translation, I’d been reluctant to research it again.
“I am prepared to make a deal with the devil. I will translate for you if you tell me why you just reacted as if picking flowers is a federal offence.”
As if on cue, my phone beeped. “Are you not going to reply?” he asked, studying me closely as I glanced at the message and retired my phone to my pocket.
I felt the colour fade from my cheeks and I wondered if I looked pale. “Its Nicole again.”
“The flowers,” he persisted.
“The translation,” I demanded.
Without warning, he dipped me backwards, so low my head was just inches from the ground.
“What are you doing?” I gasped.
His voice was serious but the smile was warm. “Ladybug. Coccinelle is French for ladybug.”
Adam loved small details. I’d all but forgotten the conversation we’d had on the beach where I’d confessed to saving ladybug wishes. I shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d remembered.
If a beep could sound urgent, that would have described the sound coming from my pocket. “Nicole must really need to talk to you,” he said, righting me. “Maybe you should call.”
I reluctantly took the phone and read the message. I struggled to look at him and he moved his head, trying to follow my eyes as they flitted everywhere but at him. No wonder he found it so difficult to read me. It was like watching him trying to navigate a road that I’d already smashed up.
I was about to do the unthinkable.
“It’s not Nicole,” I said. “It’s Mitchell. He’s at my house. He wants to see me.”
His lips formed a straight line. “So you’re going to drop everything and go running?”
“I have to put an end to this, Adam. Please understand.”
He nodded stiffly. He didn’t understand and unfortunately for me, I was too inept to explain it to him.
The journey home should have taken half the time that it would have in my old car but I drove ridiculously slowly. Caution and safety had nothing to do with it – I was buying time.
21. Memory Lane
I sat in the car longer than I should have, trying to prepare myself for the conversation ahead.
Mitchell leaned against the railing of our veranda with an unreadable expression on his face. It occurred to me that he probably wasn’t entirely sure it was me sitting in the Audi.
I enjoyed seeing him squirm for a short minute before getting out of the car and storming the veranda like I was about to charge at him. “You have five minutes and I shouldn’t even be giving you that.”
“I just want to talk, Charli. I’ve been trying to talk to you since this morning,” he said smoothly.
I could feel him standing behind me as I twisted the key in the lock of the front door. “You need to leave me alone.” I wanted to sound stronger and considered repeating the sentence with more anger – and maybe a growl. The gesture of throwing my keys down on the hallstand seemed to have the same effect.
“Calm down, feisty one. We’ll talk and then I’ll leave you alone,” he promised, reaching for my hand. I snatched it away.
“Four minutes,” I warned.
He smirked and walked through to the kitchen, unaffected by my hostility. “Do you still drink tea?” he asked, flicking on the kettle with the familiarity of someone who lived there.
“Can you please get to the point? I have better things to be doing right now.”
Mitchell sat down at the place usually reserved for Alex. “By better things, you mean the American?” I couldn’t pick the emotion in his voice. The expected tone of jealousy was absent, leaving me wondering if I’d become conceited as well as mean.
“Adam. His name is Adam,” I replied, trying to lose the attitude.
“So you’re going to shack up with him when your trip is over?” I raised my eyebrows. “Nicole told me.”
“I can’t wait,” I told him. “Have you been to New York?”
His lips formed a thin line. “Can’t say I have. I’ve heard that the surf isn’t that great there.”
“I’ll cope,” I muttered.
He leaned back in his chair. “Does he know you, Charli?”
It was a vague question but I understood perfectly.
“Completely.”
“Completely? Wow. Impressive.”
It was a bold declaration and he had every right to be sceptical. Mitchell knew everything about me by default. – knowing someone her whole life makes familiarity inevitable. To think I’d shared everything with Adam in just a few months would have seemed impossible.
“It’s the truth.”
“He knows that you have the ocean in your blood?” I nodded. “And he thinks New York is the place for you?”
I continued nodding. Mitchell was quiet. The cogs turning in his head were almost audible as he searched for something else to put forward – something he thought I would never share with anyone. I waited in silence, safe in the knowledge that he’d come up blank.
“What about us, Charli? Does he know about us?”
“He knows, and there is no us,” I said casually. “There never really was. You made sure of that.”
He straightened up. “Tell me something? If I had stayed, would you still have chosen him?”
I leaned back. “He knows everything about me and even after all that, he doesn’t think I’m crazy. I love him, Mitchell.”
He smiled but looked like it took effort. “I never thought you were crazy.”
“That’s because you’re off kilter too.” I kept my tone light, shying away from the direction the conversation was heading.
Finally he looked at me. “I wish things were different, Charli. I should never have left you the way I did.”
“You should never have let me spend the night with you in the first place. Nothing changed until then. Everything fell apart because you weren’t brave enough to stay with me.” I said it too loudly, putting too much meaning in it.
I could see the frustration building. It took a lot to rile Mitchell. Having the Beautifuls as sisters gave him superpowers when it came to keeping his cool, but his calm demeanour was fading fast. “You were just sixteen.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “Your brother would have slaughtered me.”
“So you left.”
“What was I supposed to do?” he asked in exasperation. “It wasn’t fair to ask you to wait for me. I couldn’t ask you to come with me. What could I have done differently?”
“Not telling everyone that I was the biggest mistake of your life might have been a start. Your sisters buried me after that,” I spat, raising my voice to match his.
“I never said that, never,” he insisted, drumming his finger on the table.
“Of course you did. That’s what elevated my social status to skanky whore,” I replied bitterly.
“No. I said that leaving you here was the biggest mistake of my life.”
I allowed my mind to wander as I tried to process his words. My life had all but fallen apart because I chose to give everything to a boy who’d changed his mind. I’d spent a year hating him because of it. Now that I had finally heard his side of the story the anger was slipping.
“It doesn’t matter now.” I sighed. “None of this matters now.”
Mitc
hell nodded. “I’m not going to bother you again. I just wanted to make sure you knew the truth.”
The truth wasn’t supposed to hurt so much. It was a strange moment and the only comfort I drew was from knowing that even if I had never met Adam – if my life had remained on pause since the day Mitchell left – I would never have taken him back. Regardless of what Alex might think, my tolerance for risk just wasn’t that high.
22. Conte de Fée
Adam never mentioned Mitchell when I returned. I was relieved and hopeful that maybe we’d manage to get through the rest of the day unscathed. It worked for several blissful hours until there was a knock at the front door.
Adam leapt up like he was expecting it.
“Who would that be?” I asked, peeping over the back of the couch towards the front door.
“Dinner, I hope.”
Maybe I’d misheard him. No one in Pipers Cove delivered. Our café closed at five-thirty and that was considered late night trading. He stepped out and closed the door, making it impossible for me to eavesdrop.
Back inside, he dropped a box on the coffee table, sat beside me and draped his arm casually around my shoulder.
“Dinner is served,” he announced, grinning.
“Pizza?” I asked, leaning forward to lift the lid – just to make sure there was actually a pizza in there. “How did you do this?”
“I love pizza,” he said, drawing out his words and avoiding my question.
I wasn’t about to press him for an explanation. He must have paid a phenomenal amount of money to have it delivered from Sorell. We were about to indulge in the world’s most expensive pizza, but I didn’t care. The list of things I knew about Adam had just grown. He loved pizza.
“I didn’t know that.”
His cerulean eyes looked warm, totally unguarded. “That’s because I’ve never told you. I was under the misconception that trivial details were unimportant, but I’ve changed my stance.”
“Since when?”
“Since I realised how much I like the trivial details,” he replied, flipping open the box.
I picked up a slice, terrified by the thought of dropping it on the pristine couch. Noticing my discomfort, he disappeared to the kitchen, returning with plates and far too many serviettes.
“This is the nicest thing ever. Thank you,” I whispered, nudging him in the side with my shoulder.
He looked at me from the corner of his eye. “Ever?”
“Maybe not ever,” I amended. Unable to look at him, my focus locked on one of Gabrielle’s pictures on the far wall.
Adam dropped his half-eaten slice of pizza back in the box and brushed his hands together. “I have something to show you outside.” He stood, extending a hand to me.
The minute he started leading me towards the door I had some idea what I was in for. It involved a cold shed and a big ugly boat.
“Adam, no,” I protested, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt with my free hand.
He stopped. “I’ve spent the entire afternoon trying to work up the courage to show you this,” he said.
His statement intrigued me. Unless he’d filled the hull of the boat with venomous snakes I doubted he had any need for courage.
“Let me get my coat.”
“You won’t need it,” he assured me.
I felt the temperature drop before we’d even reached the door. The windows at the back of the house emanated frigid air.
He took a small step towards me, dissolving the space between us, and I stretched my arms up, linking them around his neck. “It’s much warmer in here,” I murmured, with a pouty look that was meant to be seductive but probably just looked strange.
“I’ll keep you warm. I promise.” He kissed the corner of my mouth, sending a shudder through my body. Suddenly hypothermia didn’t seem like such a bad way to go. I held his hand as he led me towards the back door.
As expected, it was bitterly cold, but there wasn’t a wisp of wind. Adam kept a protective arm around me as we stumbled across the lawn. My eyes were shut at his request, making walking tricky.
Releasing his hold, he brushed his fingertips across my eyes. “Open your eyes,” he whispered, shifting me slightly as he positioned me for the big reveal.
Opening them for a fraction of a second was long enough to catch a glimpse of something totally unexpected – a flicker of light in front of me. Something about my expression made him laugh.
“I know you saw it,” he accused.
Ignoring him, I drew in a breath and opened my eyes fully.
We were in the back yard, far away from the shed. At the edge of the dew-soaked lawn, backed against the garden rockery, stood a tiny tent adorned with a string of coloured lights. Adam had navigated us through an obstacle course of long extension cords that snaked back to the house.
“When did you do this?” I asked in disbelief.
“After you left, this afternoon.” Even in the muted light, his smile was grand.
The lights sparkled like little coloured stars. The backdrop of the fussy cottage garden made a magical setting. I snaked my arms around his waist. His hand slipped under my shirt, rubbing my back. My body went rigid at his cold touch.
“It’s perfect.” I kissed him as high I could reach without stretching, pressing my lips to the base of his neck.
“Not perfect, exactly. The Santa lights weren’t quite what I was looking for but I had to work with what I had. Who knew Gabi had such a penchant for tacky Christmas decorations?”
He led me to the tent, releasing me only to unzip the opening. “After you, Mademoiselle.” His accent alone made me wish I were strong enough to drag him in after me.
The light didn’t quite cast far enough. It was blacker than black inside and I hesitated. “Hold on,” he said, leaning inside to retrieve a torch. The tent was instantly transformed into a tiny dome-shaped palace.
A mattress took up all the floor space. I cringed as I pictured him dragging his cousin’s furniture across the saturated lawn, folding it awkwardly as he forced it through the small opening of the tent.
Kicking off my shoes, I crawled inside and buried myself in the mass of bedding to keep warm. Adam followed me in, shining the torch on the roof, maximising the amount of light.
He lay on his back, stroking my hair as I rested my head on his chest. His eyes were fixed on the illuminated canvas ceiling. All of my focus was on the cardboard box in the corner, by his feet.
“Adam,” I said, concentrating on the sound of his heart beating.
“Charlotte,” he replied, formal as ever.
“What’s in the box?”
“I’m going to show you who I am.”
“And that requires courage?” I asked, mimicking his formal tone.
“More than I’m used to,” he admitted.
His eyes never left the roof of the tent. I lifted my head, propping my chin on his chest but he wouldn’t meet my gaze. Changing tack, I threw my leg across his body, pulling myself on top of him, forcing him to look at me by holding his face in my hands.
“Tell me what’s in the box,” I demanded.
His hands locked around my wrists. “You might have to move first.”
I didn’t want to, but curiosity was winning out. Reluctantly I freed him to retrieve the box – which he did with the slow speed of someone trying to diffuse a bomb.
“I’ve been waiting for this parcel for days. I intended telling you everything…even before you yelled at me,” he explained. He tore the strips of packing tape off ridiculously slowly, as if it was causing the box pain. It was causing me pain, the same kind of torture that Alex inflicts on me when unwrapping his birthday presents one strip of tape at a time.
“So what is it?” I asked impatiently.
“A few of my favourite things,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as he plunged his hand into the mass of Styrofoam beads.
“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens?”
Pushing the
box aside, he leaned forward, kissing me hard enough to push me back on to the mattress. He covered my body with his, kissing a line from my lips down to my neck.
“No kittens or roses,” he murmured.
“Adam, the box,” I reminded. I craned my neck and wrapped my arms tightly around his neck, pulling him tighter against me – hardly an appropriate reaction considering I was trying to get his mind back on the task at hand.
He groaned, burying his head in my shoulder. A breathless giggle escaped me and I let my arms fall limply to my side, leaving him with the option of moving or crushing me to death. Thankfully he rolled off me, turning his attention back to the mystery box. “Close your eyes,” he instructed.
“It’s dark, Adam. How much darker do you need it to be?”
He smirked and I wished I could see his eyes better in the low light. He placed something small in my hand, closing my fingers around it. I grabbed the torch and uncurled my fingers.
“A memory card?” I asked, more than a little confused.
Adam didn’t wait for my reaction, nor did he explain why he’d given it to me. The next item left me even more bewildered.
Wordlessly, he took the tiny card from my hand and pushed it into a slot on the side of the machine he was holding. I vaguely shone the torch in his direction, waiting for an explanation.
“This is a digital projector,” he said finally, glancing at me.
“Like an overhead projector?” I asked, thinking of the antiquated machines used for presentations at school.
“Exactly.”
“Don’t you need a screen?”
He tapped the side of his head with his forefinger. “You’re so much more than a pretty face, Charlotte.”
Hopefully he saw me roll my eyes but the speed in which he made his way for the door of the tent made it unlikely. I leaned forward, watching him from the doorway as he dashed to the clothesline. He unpegged a large white sheet that unfurled like a sail on a yacht. He weighted it down with some rocks from the garden – no doubt gathered in the planning stages that afternoon.
I laughed as he extended his arm and took a bow, as if it was the finale of some grand production rather than the beginning. He balanced the projector on a block of wood he’d stolen from the woodpile and hurried back to the tent.
“Very resourceful,” I exclaimed, still laughing.
He grinned back at me. “I’m learning to use my imagination. I have a great teacher.”
He connected the cords, crossed his fingers and flicked the switch. The projector flooded the sheet with a bright white light. A round of applause seemed appropriate – until my overzealous clapping reminded me that it was the sort of gesture the Beautifuls would make.
“Are we watching a movie?”
“Not exactly.” Rolling to the side, he reached for the box again.
“There’s more?” I asked.
“Of course there is more. It wouldn’t be much of a show without snacks, would it?”
Perhaps the element of surprise was the game. If so, he was definitely victorious. Styrofoam beads fell like snow as he upended the contents of the box on our makeshift bed. Amongst the snowy mess lay an assortment of junk food, most of which I’d never heard of.
I picked up a drink. “Dr Pepper.”
Adam unscrewed the lid and handed it back to me. “Try it.”
I hesitantly took a sip, fairly convinced by the smell that I wasn’t going to enjoy it. Something in my horrified expression amused him as I forced myself to swallow the ghastly liquid.
“That is vile! It tastes like the cough medicine Alex used to force on me as a kid.”
“Okay, so you’re not a fan.” He managed to compose himself long enough to speak before dissolving into laughter again.
I reached for something else.
“Doritos.” My tone was triumphant – and rightly so. I’d eaten them a million times before, usually while watching some sappy movie of Nicole’s choice on a Friday night.
“Not so fast, Coccinelle.” He ripped the bag from my grasp just as I opened it, sending chips flying around the tent. “These are my favourite. You’ll have to fight me for them.”
“You can buy them here, you know.”
“They’re not the same,” he replied.
I pulled a face. “These are the foods you like?”
“Sometimes I am, tragically, more American than French,” he admitted, putting his hand to his heart and speaking with false sorrow. “I like all these things except the chocolate. I can’t stand chocolate.”
He picked up a bag of chocolate, waving it in front of me.
“You don’t like chocolate?” I asked outraged.
“Not one little bit.”
I dramatically swept my forehead with the back of my hand as if I in danger of passing out. “I don’t know if we can go on. I’m not sure I can be with a man who doesn’t like chocolate.”
He leaned forward, kissing me as I fell onto my back. Corn chips and Styrofoam beads crunched beneath me. “I could convince you otherwise,” he suggested.
“How?” I asked, surprised that one word could take all the breath I had in my body.
“I’ll show you...” I was convinced my heart was about to punch through my chest “...later,” he added, breaking my hold and leaving me gasping for air. He pulled me back into a sitting position and drew the thick blankets around us.
“Are you ready?” His voice was a little shaky. The nerves were taking over. He rifled through the packets of chips and chocolate bars, finally locating the remote control. He clicked a button, pulling me out of the darkness and into his world.
The next half hour was a whirlwind tour of New York City. He showed me pictures of everything, from clichéd tourist spots to places only people who lived there knew about, pausing between pictures to answer every question I asked.
Still awed by the bright lights of the Manhattan skyline, I wasn’t expecting the next photo that flashed up. I stared at the candid picture of Adam with his arm draped around a pretty brunette woman, but I felt him looking at me. They shared the same unusual blue eyes, but even with that hint, I couldn’t make the connection. I frowned, leaving him no option but to spell it out for me.
“That’s my mother, Fiona,” he said quietly.
“She’s beautiful,” I said truthfully.
He clicked, forwarding to another picture.
“And this is my dad,” he announced.
So much for the distinguished, slightly greying man in his fifties that I had pictured. He’d already told me that his father’s name was Jean-Luc. That information alone conjured up a scary image of a powerful, intimidating man. But the handsome man in the picture looked more like someone my brother would hang out with. His perfect smile was a carbon copy of his son’s, making the resemblance undeniable.
“There was no chance you were ever going to be ugly.” It wasn’t something I meant to say out loud. Adam seemed embarrassed, clicking through the next pictures too quickly for me to see any of them.
“My brother Ryan is the ugly one,” he said, smirking.
“Really?” I asked, thrilled at the prospect of discovering the Décarie black sheep.
“No, not really,” he replied, embarrassed again.
“Adam, how come you two don’t have long-winded French names?” I asked, curiously.
He took no offence to my strange question. “Like you do, you mean?”
“Very funny,” I scowled, pretending to be cross. He was right. Charlotte was one of those tragic French names that should have been made obsolete centuries ago.
“Our mother is a stubborn Londoner,” he explained. “That might have played a part.”
“Your mum’s English?”
He nodded.
“You’re just a wealth of information tonight, aren’t you?” I teased, surprised by his candidness.
“That was my plan, Charlotte.”
The way we were both huddled in the tiny doorway of the tent, su
rrounded by a ton of blankets, made it impossible to think we could get any closer. He proved me wrong, edging close to murmur in my ear, “Do you want to see where I live?” And with a click of the remote we were inside his house.
Gabrielle had assured me there were no castles in New York. I wasn’t so sure. Our whole house would have fitted into the lounge of the Décarie home. Opulent was not a word I used often, but I could think of no other. Insecurity twisted in my stomach like splinters of glass.
No wonder he was calling on courage to share this with me. I’d never been more tempted to run away. He reached for my hand, holding it tightly. He probably thought I was about to bolt too.
He’d laid it all out for me, just as I’d begged him to do. How I handled this moment would determine whether I was strong enough to make the leap with him.
Harder than surrendering my heart and more intimate than sharing my body was facing up to my own truth. False bravado was my forte. If there was to be a moment of admission – a point where I told him I wasn’t able to go through with this – this was it.
He looked at me as if he expected me to do just that.
“Adam,” I began, my tone too grave for him to draw any positivity from it. “I just don’t know if I can be with someone who doesn’t like chocolate. I might need some more convincing.”
The remote bounced off the wall of the tent. Pinning my hands behind my head he straddled my body, leaning down close.
“I love you, Charli Blake.”
My soul gave me no choice but to believe him. I didn’t know if I could fit in to his world but I did know that Adam didn’t belong in a tent in the backyard – and yet here he was, for no other reason than he loved me.
Looking into his jewel-like eyes I could see every possibility, and none of them scared me.
Conversation became sparse over the next few hours as talking gave way to a quieter form of communication. Warm beneath the covers, secure in his hold, my skin tingled as he ran his fingers down the length of my arm. Lacing his fingers through mine, he brought my hand to his mouth and kissed it. My body felt too unhinged to move – not that I wanted to – so I concentrated on stringing a coherent sentence together.
“Do you have a garden?” I asked.
He seemed used to my questions now, just answering them instead of frowning and looking at me like I was odd. “A huge garden. It’s called Central Park.” I could tell he was smiling. “I’ll take you there every day if you want me to...under one condition.”
“What?”
He shifted beneath me, moving my head from his chest back onto the pillow.
“You haven’t told me about the flowers.”
I’d forgotten. I should have known he’d remember.
“Peter Pan – it’s my favourite book of all time. I must have read it a hundred times as a kid. Not the Disney story, the original version,” I explained. “J M Barrie wrote about fairies.”
“Go on,” he cajoled, grinning.
“He wrote that when the first baby laughed for the first time, its laugh broke into a thousand pieces and they all went skipping about and turned into fairies.” I recited the quote as best I could remember – a good effort considering his gaze was scrambling my brain.
“You buy into that theory?” He already knew the answer but I replied anyway.
“I had to. Fairies can’t live unless a child believes in them. And every time a child claims not to believe, another fairy falls down dead. I didn’t want that on my conscience.”
Despite my deliberately ominous tone, he laughed. “Of course not. So what does that have to do with flowers?”
“Well, being pro fairy comes with certain responsibilities,” I explained. “So I researched everything I could, determined to protect the endangered fairy population. I became very proactive. Poor Alex was forced to plant hundreds of tulip bulbs in our garden every winter because fairies use the flowers as beds for their babies.”
“So picking the flowers probably is a federal offence,” he said finally.
“Equivalent to child endangerment, I’d say.”
“And have you ever actually seen a fairy?” he asked.
“Fairies generally come out at night, so unfortunately not. We’ve always had scheduling conflicts. I’m more of a morning person. Alex used to tell me he saw them all the time, but there’s a chance he was lying.”
“Maybe we could work on that. Do you think many fairies hang out at Central Park?”
“I’m not too familiar with American fairies but I know the French are big believers.”
“Really?” he asked, amused.
“Sure. Take La Dormette de Poitou for instance.” I stumbled over the pronunciation. “She’s a sleep fairy. It’s her job to make sure children have sweet dreams.”
“I’m not surprised a French fairy would be your favourite,” he teased, tightening his grip around me.
“I never said she was my favourite. My favourite happens to be Italian. Basadone. He rides in the wind and steals kisses from unsuspecting women.”
“He sounds creepy if you ask me. The French fairy is obviously much classier.”
“Not all of them. I haven’t told you about Bugul Noz from Brittany. That poor creature is so ugly that humans and fairies reject him. Even the animals stay away from him because he’s so hideous. People have keeled over from the sheer shock of seeing him. I can’t even describe him to you because he’s so awful looking.”
“Poor guy,” he said, battling to keep a straight face.
“Don’t you fret.” I patted his chest condescendingly. “I’m fairly certain he’s not related to the Décaries of Marseille.”
Without warning, he rolled to the side, covering my body with his. The look he gave me was strange, like he was looking beyond my eyes, searching for something. Self-consciously, I looked away.
“Why won’t you look at me?” he whispered, pinching my chin between his finger and thumb, forcing me to meet his gaze.
I hoped it was too dark for him to see me blush. “Because it’s all a bit silly, isn’t it?” I mumbled.
“I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. You’d never have another moment of self-doubt as long as you live.”
“Everybody should believe in conte de fée,” I whispered.
Adam stared at me as if I’d just insulted him. Finally, he raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Charlotte, how can you maintain that you don’t speak French when you throw words like conte de fée into casual conversation?”
“Fairy tales,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
“I know what it means. I’m just surprised that you do.”
“I know all the important French words.”
“And what are they?” he quizzed.
I ticked them off on my fingers. “Bonjour, conte de fée and croissant.”
His laugh echoed through the tent and I couldn’t help laughing with him.
As if on cue, the batteries in the torch began to fail. The light flickered. Adam fumbled for the switch and with one click we were in the dark.