In a small town nestled between shadowy pine forests and grey fields, where the wind chased dry leaves through the streets, life moved slowly, like a river winding through lowlands. Near the end of his workday, Tom’s phone rang—a tune his girlfriend, Charlotte, had picked—breaking the silence. He answered and heard her voice:
“Tom, I’m at the spa. Come pick me up—you know where.”
“Right, be there soon,” he replied shortly before hanging up.
Tom knew Charlotte spent at least two hours at the spa, so he took his time. After parking his car nearby, he ducked into a café to pass the time.
“She’ll call when she’s done,” he thought, settling at a table. A waiter took his order straight away.
Tom ate, scrolled through the news, watched a few videos, but still, no call. “Wonder how much she’s spending today?” he mused. Not that it mattered—her father, a wealthy businessman, footed the bill. Charlotte never held back.
They’d been together seven months, sometimes staying at his modest flat. But when his “cramped space” bored her, she retreated to her parents’ lavish countryside estate. An only child, she’d never known want. She’d introduced Tom to her parents, but her mother, Margaret, looked down on him. A simple software developer, 27—what could he offer? Charlotte had likely convinced her mother to stay civil, but the coldness lingered. Tom always felt out of place there.
Deep down, he knew Charlotte wasn’t the one he’d dreamed of. Yet the idea of marriage nagged at him, especially after her father’s words: “Make my daughter happy, and you’ll want for nothing. Disappoint her, and you’ll regret it.” The threat was clear.
Charlotte was capricious but stunning. Tom didn’t see why she needed hours at the spa—she was already flawless. Smart, witty, but spoiled by her father’s money. The day before, she’d announced:
“Tom, we’re flying to the Maldives in ten days. Dad’s paying. I need a break.”
“From what? You don’t work,” he’d said, baffled.
“Dad will sort your work leave—don’t worry.”
Her words grated. Their relationship felt increasingly strained. Tom sensed they were from different worlds, yet he’d still planned to marry her. Nursing his coffee, he suddenly heard:
“Tom—is that you?” A man across the room grinned like an old friend.
“James?” Tom shot up, recognizing his childhood mate. “Blimey, it’s been—what—twelve years?”
“You’ve filled out, mate!” James clapped his shoulder. “Look proper grown now.”
“Same to you,” Tom laughed. “What brings you here?”
“Waiting for my sister, Emma. She’s at the Royal Academy—final year. There’s a recital today, but I can’t stand classical, so I ducked in here.”
“Emma? How is she?” Tom brightened.
“Brilliant! Village girl made good—got in on talent alone,” James said proudly.
“I’d love to see her!”
“I’ll ring her in half an hour—we’ll fetch her. Join us, if you’re free. You here alone?”
“Waiting for Charlotte, my fiancée. She’s at the spa—should be done soon.”
“Perfect, Emma and I’ll swing by,” James said before leaving.
Tom lost himself in memories. Summers at his gran’s village, where James and Emma lived. Their orchard, the lake, the river. Fishing, campfire cookouts, guitar songs under the stars. Emma, a skinny girl with dark braids, had been his first crush. “Wonder what she’s like now?” he thought, smiling absently.
“Smirking at nothing’s daft,” Charlotte’s voice cut in.
“Finally,” Tom said, scanning her for changes after three spa hours.
“Well? How do I look?” she simpered.
“Fine,” he said.
“Fine?” She scoffed. “Do you know what this manicure and facial cost? I’m radiant, admit it.”
“As always,” Tom nodded, avoiding an argument.
“Let’s go to mine—guests are waiting,” she declared.
“Can’t. Made plans with old friends—they’re coming here.”
Charlotte pouted, ready to fuss, but James and Emma walked in. Emma rushed to hug Tom:
“Tom! Ages! Look at you—proper handsome now!”
He froze, struck by her grace—warm hazel eyes, effortless charm. Reluctant to let go, he tensed as Charlotte said coolly:
“Hello.”
“This is Charlotte, my fiancée,” Tom said. “James and Emma.”
“Alright, love?” James grinned.
The trio reminisced while Charlotte sulked, pointedly ignoring them. Tom recalled the orchard, the lake, those endless summers.
“I’d rather be under a Maldives palm,” Charlotte snipped. “Dad’s pool’s bigger than your puddle anyway.”
“Fish still bite in yours?” James teased.
“Only on plates at restaurants I frequent,” she shot back.
The conversation died. Emma said, “Tom, visit us in the village.”
“Absolutely,” he said, glancing at Charlotte. “This weekend.”
Charlotte huffed. “Fine, I’ll endure this backwater.”
“Don’t bother,” Tom frowned. “It’s all bugs, woods, lake. You’d hate it.”
“I’ll bring mineral water—doubt yours is drinkable.”
“And a microwave for your caviar,” he muttered.
The village welcomed them warmly. A feast beneath the apple tree, sizzling skewers. Tom felt alive, like a boy again. Charlotte whined:
“Tom, the grass scratches. This meat smells odd. A mosquito bit me! Sun’s in my eyes!”
“Enough, Charlotte,” he snapped. “Enjoy it or go inside.”
“It’s stuffy,” she griped, but fled indoors.
By the lake, fishing rod in hand, Tom asked:
“Emma, got a boyfriend?”
“No, split ages ago. Why?” she smiled.
“You’re just… lovely. Effortless.”
“And talented,” James added. “Knit you a jumper, bake pies—proper homemaker.”
“Unlike your missus, who’s all talk,” Emma laughed.
“True,” Tom admitted. “No pies there—just posh dinners.”
“Learn to bake, then,” James teased.
Tom stayed quiet, imagining a cold, sterile life with Charlotte. On the drive back, she declared:
“Never taking me there again. Maldives next week.”
“I’m not going,” Tom said flatly.
“Then you’ll lose me,” she warned.
“So be it,” he said.
Silence hung till they reached the city. Tom thought, “The orchard, the lake—that’s home. I won’t marry her. Her father’s threats mean nothing; her mother never wanted me.”
Dropping her off, he met her glare:
“Last chance—coming?”
“No. The village suits me better. We’re not right.”
“Goodbye,” she spat, storming off.
Tom exhaled, free. He dialed:
“Emma, I’ll be there in two days. We’ll talk.”
“Alone?” she asked softly.
“Of course,” he said, heart lifting.
“Can’t wait,” she whispered.
When Charlotte’s father called, Tom declined it. Some moments were too sweet to spoil.
Sometimes the right path isn’t the easiest—but the one that feels like home.
