A Healing Love
Copyright© 2025 by Marc Nobbs
Chapter 33: Whiskey, Not Bourbon
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 33: Whiskey, Not Bourbon - Paul Robertson's journey continues as his past and present collide at a star-studded movie premiere, where a connection that once terrified him reignites with passion that threatens to consume them both. Fighting to forge a new future for himself and stop drifting, Paul must finally become the man he’s always been afraid to be. A beautiful, bittersweet exploration of grief, social responsibility, the healing power of love, and learning that sometimes loving someone means letting them go.
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction
Marie called me at lunchtime on Thursday. I was in the canteen in The Union at the time with Emily, Amanda, Phil and Jem.
“Hey, Marie, what’s up?”
“I’ve been trying to arrange this meeting with Doctor Bennett, but I just can’t find a way to make it work. I’ve checked your timetable against hers and other than an hour after your lecture with her on Monday, there’s no slot that you’re both free and—”
“Marie,” I said. “Take a breath. This isn’t urgent. She’s the one who wants to speak to me, not the other way around. And she’s the one who wants something from me. So, she’s just going to have to be patient. We’ll fit her in when we can fit her in.”
“Oh, I thought that because she was—”
“No. Honestly, I’d rather not have this meeting, I’m only doing it to be polite. I’ll listen to what she has to say, shake her hand, and that’s that.”
“Oh, okay.”
“And I want you there. And probably David and Bobby too, if I’m honest. They’ll both probably have a completely different viewpoint from her, so it will be good to hear it. Look, you’re coming to the launch of the Trust next Wednesday, right?”
“Yes. As is David.”
“Do you know if Bobby will be there?”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Okay, well, can you find out? In fact, if he’s not planning to go, invite him. And invite Doctor Bennett, too. We can meet with her afterwards—maybe at Millie’s.”
“Millie’s?”
“My sister’s restaurant.”
“Oh, okay. Let me have the number and I’ll book—”
“No, it’s fine, I’ll call Vicky myself later this afternoon. It’s been a while since I spoke to her.”
I hung up the call, then said to my assembled friends, “Guys, sorry, I’ve got to run. I need to call someone about something that I really should have called a couple of weeks ago.”
Emily grinned. “Chrissy?”
I nodded.
Her grin widened. “Good luck. I don’t think she’s too annoyed with you.”
I stared at her. “You’ve spoken to her?”
“Of course. I speak to her every couple of weeks. Quite often it’s about you.” Her grin turned to a smirk.
“Am I in trouble?”
She shook her head. “No. But she has been waiting for you to call.”
“Well, she could have called me?”
“Yes, because your former girlfriend’s mother calling you while you’re with your current girlfriend wouldn’t be in any way awkward at all.”
“You have a point.” I paused. “Ems ... You are going to the launch on Wednesday, aren’t you?”
Her smile turned a little sad, and she said, “It’s for Clarissa.”
She didn’t need to say anything else. She’d be there.
It was cold outside—after all, it was still February—but the sun was shining, making it not unpleasant to sit on one of the benches around the edge of Campus Green to call Chrissy. I felt quite embarrassed when she answered. I should have done this two weeks ago when I promised Lana I would.
“Paul, good to hear from you. I was beginning to think you’d just turn up next Wednesday and ask what was going on and if there was anything you could do to help.”
“I’m sorry, Chrissy, I’ve—”
“I know. You’ve been a busy boy. Alannah told me. I like her, Paul. I’m so glad she’s one of the first recipients of The Award. I think Clarissa would have liked her, too.”
“You think?”
“Oh, yes. She’s a lot like Rissa, actually. Driven. Passionate. Independent.” She let out a huffing noise. “It’s ironic, really, that for nearly eighteen years I didn’t know my daughter was any of those things. It was only after she started to fight me over her relationship with you—fighting for her relationship with you, actually—that I realised just how special she was. I can’t believe I didn’t take the time to really get to know her the way a mother should until it was almost too late.” She paused, and I didn’t feel the need to fill the gap. Then she sighed. “You really did bring out the best in her, Paul. And even if I didn’t see that version of her for anywhere near long enough, I’ll always be grateful to you for bringing it out of her. Those last few months with you ... That was the happiest I’d ever seen her. Well, the happiest I’d seen her since her father passed away, at least.”
“Chrissy, I...” I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. I would have shrugged—it’s what I always do in awkward situations—but this was a phone call, so there was no point.
“I’m sorry, Paul. I’m sure you didn’t call to listen to me talk about Clarissa.”
“Er, no. I ... Er ... I called to ask what I could do to help.”
Chrissy barked out a laugh. The kind of joyous laugh that Clarissa used to have. Damn, I missed her. I didn’t hurt to think about her anymore, but I tried not to anyway because I missed her every time I did. Life was so unfair. Clarissa should have lived a long, happy, full life. Instead, she burned brightly for far too short a time—like a firework, lighting up the world for an instant and then gone.
“Well, Paul, there’s not much for you to do other than turn up and deliver your speech. I assume Alannah told you about the speech?”
“She mentioned it, but ... Chrissy, I’ve never given a speech in my—”
“I know, Paul. I know. But we’re not looking for some grand emotional speech about how much Clarissa meant to you, or a political statement about how unfair it is that some people can easily afford a comfortable university experience while others cannot.”
“So, what do you want then?”
“I just want you to tell everyone present how you promised Clarissa you’d do something good with the money she left you, and that The Trust was your idea—you can credit your friends if you want, in fact you probably should as it’s part of the story—and why you wanted to do this. Talk about how you and Clarissa were going to go to university together, and with this Award, it’s almost like she still gets to go.”
I frowned. “So, you want me to tell everyone that I came up with the scholarship as a way to give Lana money after—”
“No, Paul. You can’t do that. Alannah would never forgive you. Just say that it was something you’d been thinking about for a long time and finally plucked up the courage to take the idea to Will, who then brought it to me. I’ll take over from there and explain the rest.”
“Okay. So ... I suppose I’d better write something then.”
“Yes, that would be a good idea, wouldn’t it? Paul, can I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“Ask Alannah to help you. She has a way with words.”
“Are you saying I don’t?”
“No. I’m saying she does. I told you, she’s a lot like Rissa. She’ll help you write a powerful, but appropriate speech.”
“Okay.”
“And run what you write by Emily, too. Alannah didn’t really know Rissa, so Emily might catch anything ... You know?”
I nodded. “Yeah, okay.”
“Oh, and once you’ve written it, practice giving it. Do it in front of some of your friends. You want to be ready to get it right on Wednesday.”
“Okay. I will.”
“One more thing, Paul, before I let you go. I’m sure you don’t really have the time to chat with an old woman like me. You must have a lecture or something to get to.”
“Yes, actually, I do. But you’re not old. And I’ll always find time to chat with you.”
“No, you won’t. But I appreciate the sentiment. Anyway, Paul, on Wednesday, can you get here early? There have been quite a few developments with The Trust, which I’m sure Alannah has already told you we’re shortening to simply The Clarissa Trust, and I need to run through them with you. Actually, I need you to agree to them before they can go ahead.”
“Why do you need me to agree? I thought I’d already agreed for you to run it.”
“Yes, but appointing new Trustees requires the agreement of all existing Trustees—You, me and Will. Will has already agreed, so I just need you to.”
“New trustees? Who?”
“I’ll explain on Wednesday.”
The idea of making a speech terrified me and played on my mind for the rest of the afternoon. The closest I’d ever come to speaking in public was taking part in an assembly one time back in Micester High. And I had no idea how to go about writing one, even if Chrissy had told me pretty much what to write.
I thought about the speech I’d seen someone give most recently—Lexi’s lecture just the night before. She’d been so at ease standing in front of a room of people and speaking. At least, outwardly she seemed at ease—I have no idea how she felt inside, maybe her tummy was turning somersaults the whole time. But she’d certainly been a complete contrast to Henry, who’d introduced her. He’d projected confidence in spades, but the way he’d gripped the lectern was a sure sign it was an act.
Then I thought back to the speech Will had given to his staff last September, when he’d had to deliver the news that the office had been earmarked for closure. I wasn’t supposed to be at that meeting—my invitation was an oversight—but it changed the course of my entire life and led to me setting up Wintersmith so I could ‘save’ the firm and everyone’s jobs.
Will had not possessed an easy confidence during that meeting. Confidence? Certainly. The sort that comes with a lifetime’s experience. Yet, he was angry and frustrated—you could see that by the way he paced across the room and hear it in his voice, which was strained, his words curt and clipped—he didn’t want to deliver that news but had no choice. The way he’d thundered powerfully and punctuated each word with his fist when she spoke about his people and his firm, expressing how much he believed in them and how he ‘would not let them down,’ reflected that. Those were his words, and they demonstrated how responsible he felt for the people who worked for him.
What kind of speaker would I be? I had no idea. I knew I wouldn’t have Lexi or Will’s confidence, but would I be able to put on act like Henry had? Or would I fumble over my words or struggle with the emotion of speaking about Clarissa?
But first, I needed a speech to deliver, and Chrissy had been right, Lana seemed like the perfect person to ask to help me write it.
So, I stopped by her flat in Campus Heights on the way home after my last lecture of the day.
It was Lily who opened the door when I got there.
“Oh, hey, Paul. Stopped by to apologise for ditching me last night?” She grinned, her eyes twinkling, then flicked her hair with her hand.
“Erm, no. Sorry. I’m here to see Lana, actually.”
Lily raised an eyebrow. “Really? Well, she’s in her room. Go on through.”
Much like when I’d lived in Wintersmith Hall, all the residents of this eight-bedroom flat usually propped open their bedroom doors when they were in, and Lana was no exception. I tapped on the open door before entering. She was sitting at her desk, working on something, and turned around to see who it was.
“Paul? Hi. How ... Is everything okay?”
I nodded. “Everything’s fine. I just ... Lana, I sort of need your help.”
“With your speech?” In response to my questioning look, she added, “Chrissy sent me a text.”
“Oh, right, well ... Yeah. I’ve got no idea where to start.”
She smiled and nodded her head towards her bed. “Sit down.”
I’ve said this before, but a student’s bedroom is a very personal space, and it says a lot about that person. Back during my first year, my bedroom in Wintersmith was a cold, unwelcoming place, with no posters on the walls or personal items littered about to give it character. I remember thinking it felt like a motel room—the kind I’d stayed in during my trip around America. Whereas now, my room was a lived-in bedroom. It was my home.
The two times I’d visited Emily in her room, once after my ‘loss of sanity’ disappearing act this tie last year and then again in the autumn to ask for advice on starting my business and investing in Will’s new law firm, the room had very much been her, with posters on the wall, photos on her pinboard above her desk, a chaotic desk—organised chaos—which clearly was used a lot, and as many dirty clothes on the floor around her wash basket as in it.
I remember one particular photo on Emily’s pinboard that, at first, I hadn’t been able to look at. A photo I’d taken of her and Clarissa after our A Level exams—both of them looking so happy and carefree.
I didn’t have any photos at all in my room save for one, in a frame on my bedside table, of Mum and Dad.
I missed both of them every day, too.
By contrast, Lana’s room wasn’t messy. Nor was it as stark and cold as my Wintersmith room had been. There were posters on the walls, and she did have some photos on her pinboard, of both her old schoolfriends and new university friends, and there were a couple in frames too—one of which I assumed was of her with her parents. But on the whole, it was neat and tidy. Everything had its place, and everything was in its place. From the books standing on end between bookends on her desk, to pens and pencils kept in a tub in the corner of the same desk. There were no clothes on the floor or spilling out of her chest of drawers and her wardrobe doors were closed, hiding away whatever was inside. It was a warm and welcoming place, but it was also fastidiously tidy and efficient.
Even her bed was neatly made.
She opened one of her desk drawers and took a single piece of paper from it, then closed the drawer and came over to sit next to me.
She handed me the paper.
“What’s this?” I looked at it. “You’re already written the speech for me?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s just ... like a template. It’s got the basic structure of the speech, everything Chrissy wants you to say, but you need to rewrite it in your own words—so that it sounds like you rather than me.”
“I ... I don’t know what to say.”
“I think ‘Thank you’ is usually appropriate,” she said, smiling. She really did have a lovely smile.
I smiled back and with as much sincerity as I could put into my voice, I said, “Thank you.”
Her eyes flicked down, then back up to mine. “You’re welcome.”
We sat, holding each other’s gaze for what felt like an eternity. Then she blinked. And gently shook her head as if to clear it.
“It shouldn’t really take you long to rewrite,” she said. “I don’t think there’s very much you’ll need to change. I tried to make it sound like you, but I don’t think I succeeded. It’s really hard to write as someone else.”
I started to read through it. It was very good. Some parts were quite concise, some were quite poetic. But Lana was right, it didn’t read like something I’d write or sound like something I’d say. But she was also right that it probably wouldn’t take long to make it sound like me.
“You’ve done a really good job, here,” I said. “Really good. Are you sure you don’t want to give the speech?”
She smiled again. “I can hardly stand up and tell everyone how much I was in love with Clarissa, now could I? I wasn’t the one in love with her.”
I smiled and nodded. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“I’ll email the document to you to make it easier to rewrite, but Paul, when you do rewrite it, just remember that you’re going to be reading it out. Don’t use ... I don’t know ... I want to say ‘big words’ but that’s not what I mean. You need to keep the language simple. Don’t overcomplicate it or use words that might be difficult to get out, which, yes, does mean don’t use too many ‘big’ words.”
I nodded.
“After you’ve finished the first draft, read it out loud to yourself. Or to Carly or Imogen or Mark.” She paused. “Actually, not Mark, he’ll just take the piss out of you.”
“He will. But he’ll also be honest afterwards.”
“True. But read it out and if you find yourself stumbling over any of it, then change it and use an easier word.”
“Is this advice from the girl who beat the President of The Westmouth Union in her first debate?”
She shrugged. “How do you think I beat him? It wasn’t with ‘big words.’ Simple language gets what you want to say over much more easily than ‘big words’ that not everyone understands.”
“Okay. Got it.”
“And Paul?”
I raised an eyebrow in question.
She put her hand on her chest. “From the heart.” Then she put her hand on my chest. “It has to come from the heart. Even...” She removed her hand and looked down.
“Even what?”
She looked up. “Even how angry it made you when you heard about my dad. How betrayed you felt by the Germans who bought the company. The bigwigs are coming over from Germany—”
“They are? Why?”
Lana stared at me. “Hasn’t Chrissy told you about the sponsors?”
I shook my head. “What sponsors?”
“It should come from Chrissy, not me. But the point is that a couple of executives from WolfgangHaus will be there, and it’ll be good to say you felt betrayed. To let them know. A lot of people in Micester felt the same way.”
“Are you telling me to make a political point?”
“I’ve told you before, Paul, everything is political.”
“Maybe, but this shouldn’t be. Not this.”
She looked disappointed but nodded. “It was worth a try.”
I smiled and shook my head. “You and politics. I don’t know. It’ll get you into trouble one day.”
“If the cause is just, it’s worth getting into trouble.”
I rolled my eyes. “Look, I better go. I’m going to have to do this tonight because I’m going to Birmingham with Carly tomorrow.”
“For her concert? She asked me to play my cello again, but it’s a long way to go to perform for just one song.”
“I get that. Well, thanks for this. Again.” I waved the paper at her. “Can you email it to me now so it’s there when I get in?”
“I’ll do it straight away. And if you want me to look at it again when you’ve finished, just email it back.”
“Will do.”
“Bye, Paul.”
I smiled at her again. “Bye.”
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