A Healing Love
Copyright© 2025 by Marc Nobbs
Chapter 37: Scars and Saviours
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 37: Scars and Saviours - 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
The journey back to Westmouth on Sunday evening was ‘quiet but joyful.’ That’s the best way to describe it.
The atmosphere was quiet because all six passengers on the bus were tired. It had been a long, draining weekend, both physically and emotionally. And joyful because not only had ‘A Woman’s Work’ won the award for best song, and Chloë had got the nod for Best Supporting Actress for her role in ‘Of Mars and Men,’ but Kayla’s performance with the string quartet (and some subtle backing from Blackfriars’ Nightmare) had received a thunderous round of applause from the celebrity audience. By far the biggest ovation for any of the five nominated songs.
All five of the performers on the bus were still high on adrenaline by the time we dropped four of them off on campus.
And I think it’s fair to say I reaped the rewards of the elation Carly was still feeling when we got back to my bedroom.
As I lay on my back afterwards, Carly cuddled up beside me in peaceful slumber, I finally had time to reflect on the bombshell she’d dropped at breakfast the day before. Even though I knew how hard she’d been working and how quickly the album seemed to be coming together, I’d still hoped to keep her with me for the maximum time allowed by my funding deal for the album. Yet deep down, I’d always known that was a pipe dream.
But two weeks! It wasn’t enough. It was never going to be enough. And would it even be two whole weeks? Her invitation to perform at the Oscars wasn’t unexpected, but the ceremony was in exactly two weeks. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table. It was about one-thirty. That meant the ceremony would be well underway at this time, two weeks from now. But when would Carly need to be there? Saturday at the latest, surely? And wouldn’t she need to rehearse? She’d told me that while the British Academy wanted a ‘unique’ performance, the American Academy wanted the ‘full fat’ version of the song, with Carly backed by as big an orchestra as they could get on the stage. Wouldn’t she need to rehearse with that orchestra beforehand?
Does that mean catching a flight on Friday? Or maybe Thursday? How long was the flight to Los Angeles? What was the time difference? Would she have to leave as early as Wednesday?
My mind was a whirl. The same thoughts were going round and round, and I just couldn’t get to sleep. I couldn’t quiet my mind. It almost felt like it did after all those encounters with women in my year in the United States and my first year in Westmouth.
Almost.
The thoughts going round and round in my head then were a lot different. Hell, it was a different voice in my head then, not my own.
But the fact was, I was tired. Eventually, I did drift off to sleep by concentrating on Carly’s gentle, rhythmic breathing. She was so peaceful and beautiful, and I loved her so much.
That was my last thought before sleep overtook me.
I loved her so much.
“She’s worth loving. She’s a sweet girl.”
It had been a long time since I’d been here, in this place. Almost every other time I’d been here it had felt ... artificial. Fake. The grass was always too green and the sky too blue. Everything was too vivid—like a TV with the colour saturation settings on maximum.
But not today. Today, the saturation settings were turned way down. Not all the way—the world wasn’t black and white—but everything was... washed out. Like that old, faded photograph that Chrissy described at the Trust launch.
Everything except for her.
Clarissa glowed with an inner light so bright it almost hurt my eyes.
Perhaps it wasn’t that the world appeared washed out and faded. Perhaps it’s simply that Clarissa’s light shone so brightly, rendering everything else pale in comparison.
We sat on a picnic blanket beneath the old oak tree in the corner of the field. The sun shone brightly, and a few wispy white clouds drifted across the sky. Clarissa resembled an angel in a flowing white dress of satin and lace.
The Angel who lived in my heart.
My wounded heart.
“She is, isn’t she? Sweet, I mean.”
Clarissa smiled. “Sweet. And sexy. Oh, so very sexy.”
I said nothing. I didn’t think there was any way to respond to something like that. I smiled and shrugged.
“Paul, you don’t have to worry about offending me. I know she’s sexy. You know she’s sexy. There’s no point worrying about how I will feel if you admit that. I mean, apart from anything else, I hear everything you think anyway.”
I shook my head.
“You hear everything I think.”
She smiled. “Don’t overthink it.”
We were silent for ... I don’t know how long. There was no pressure to speak. The sun was warm. The breeze was cool. It was almost perfect here.
Almost.
I sighed. “What are we doing here? Why now? It’s been ... How long?”
My Angel smiled. “Forever. And no time at all. Time has no meaning here. And it means everything.”
“You’re being cryptic again.”
She shrugged.
“But what am I doing here?”
“You tell me. You’re the one who brought us here.”
“To talk about Carly?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“I don’t know. It feels ... weird. Talking to you about Carly.”
“Or Vanessa. Or Paige. Or Hannah. Or Alannah.” She grinned. “I get it. But it really shouldn’t be.” She paused. “Look, Paul, do you remember what I said to you the last time we were together here?”
I stared at her, trying to dredge up the memory of that dream.
“You said...”
“Yes?”
“You told me that you lived in my heart, but that it was wounded. That there was a great big gaping hole in it. And that you needed me to heal that wound so that you could live in my heart forever.”
“Exactly.”
“And you also said that I couldn’t heal properly with you around. That’s why you left me.”
“That’s true.”
“But you’re back.”
She nodded.
“So, what does that mean?”
She raised her eyebrows but didn’t say anything.
Neither did I.
I think I knew what it meant. I just didn’t want to say it. I don’t know why. Was it that saying it out loud would make it real? And what did that mean? If it was real? Can a wounded heart be broken? I don’t think it can—it’s already broken, how could it break any more?
But a heart that’s healed...
“Paul,” Clarissa said. I looked at her. I hadn’t even realised I’d looked away. “You always knew this girl was going to break your heart. Right from the moment you saw her again at the top of The Shard. And you certainly knew it when she moved to Westmouth and the two of you became so close, so quickly.
“That fire that lit between you in Nashville never really went out, did it? For either of you. And then when you met again in London ... That day when you took her to all the tourist spots, it was as if you poured petrol on the burning embers of that fire—woosh, and the fire burns as brightly as it ever did.
“But this is a good thing, Paul. Because you’re right, this time last year, you could never have had your heart broken, because it was already shattered into a million tiny pieces. But now...” She smiled and tilted her head. Just the way Carly did. “Now, I can live happily in your heart forever because it has healed. Oh, it’s not perfect. There’s a scar now where the gaping wound used to be. But that’s not a bad thing either, because that scar is the piece of your heart that will always belong to me.”
She sighed. She stared right at me, her eyes so blue and so full of love.
“Paul, you’re going to get your heart broken.” She reached over and placed her hand on my chest. “And that’s because your heart is healed. Because you are once again capable of loving someone the way they deserve to be loved.”
I stared at her, tears welling in my eyes.
“But I don’t want to get my heart broken.”
“No one ever does.”
“I don’t want her to leave me.”
“But she has to. You know that.”
I looked down and blinked, squeezing out the tears from my eyes.
“I want her to stay.”
“But if she stays, she won’t be the woman you love.”
I looked up at her. “What do you mean? She’ll still be Carly.”
“But not the Carly you love. The Carly you love is ... She’s sweet, yes. But she’s also super talented, and driven, and creative. And if she stays here with you, it will kill that drive and stifle that creativity. If she stays here with you, then, not right away but eventually, she’ll no longer be the Carly you love. And she’ll resent you for it. And you’ll resent her.”
Neither of us spoke for what felt like forever.
Then Clarissa said, “It’s harsh, Paul, but if you really do love this girl—and I know that you do—then you have to let her go.”
I woke on Monday morning, spooned up behind my Alabama Sweetheart, took a moment to breathe in her sweet scent, and then hugged her tightly against me. I didn’t want her to leave, but I knew she had to. And I knew I had to let her go.
So, I decided then and there to spend as much time with her as I possibly could until she left.
Even if it meant missing some lectures.
But just lectures. I knew I could get the notes from Imogen and not miss out. But I wouldn’t be able to skip seminars. It’s one thing to be a missing face in a crowd of over a hundred people; it’s another when the group is only thirty strong and you’re usually one of the most talkative people there. I wouldn’t be able to miss my tutorial either—there were only five of us in that group and, again, I was the one who usually made the most contributions to the discussions.
I went over my timetable in my head, trying to work out what I could skip and what I couldn’t. And every moment I thought I could get away with, I’d spend at the studio with Carly.
As my mind was whirling, I was still hugging Carly tightly against me.
And it had caused her to wake up, too.
She sighed.
“I love waking up with you holding me.” She paused. “I’m going to miss it so much.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”
I drove Carly to Riverbank Studios after we’d gotten up and had breakfast, then went back to campus for my Economics lecture with Lexi. I figured that, given our unique teacher/student relationship, hers was the one module whose lectures I couldn’t miss.
Also, Imogen wouldn’t be in that lecture to take the notes for me.
I had an hour’s break after that lecture before a seminar for one of my Law modules, so the morning was pretty much a write-off. But I agreed to pick Carly up after that and take her for lunch, then spend the afternoon watching her work.
She was thrilled by that.
And that’s how the whole week went. If I couldn’t avoid it, I attended my set lectures or seminars, and I attended my weekly tutorial, but I spent all the time I could at the studio, and I actually learnt quite a bit about the process of recording a song.
I also had the opportunity to talk ‘business’ with Harry and, to a lesser extent, Ellie. I was correct in my initial assessment—Harry was the business and technical brains of the operation, while Ellie was very much the creative heart and soul. It worked well for them. They each owned forty-five percent of the business, with the remaining ten percent held by two investment trusts—Bobby’s WestInvest trust, in which I also had some money invested, and another trust called East End Investments, about which, try as I might, I couldn’t find out anything at all.
In fairness, I hadn’t looked that hard, mainly because I didn’t really know where to look. But the way Harry spoke about it the first time I’d asked him about his investors worried me. It made me question my investment in Riverbank.
However, the deal was reached after some relatively straightforward negotiations, and Wintersmith Media was all set to acquire ten percent of the business—five percent from Harry and five percent from Ellie. This arrangement would still leave them firmly in charge, but my ten percent would be vital should any disagreements arise between them. Though I didn’t think there ever would be because they worked too well together for that, I found it intriguing that they’d chosen to set things up that way.
I, or rather Wintersmith, was going to ‘lend’ Riverbank the funds it needed to set up its own record label, and we’d already agreed a deal to record Blackfriars’ Nightmare’s first album.
I also had another couple of ideas I’d wanted to discuss with Harry, and while he was sceptical at first, by the end of the week, he’d agreed to at least explore my ideas.
But the main aim of the week was to spend as much time as possible with Carly, which is exactly what I did. I took her out for lunch every day. I also took her out in the evenings. When she wasn’t singing in the recording booth, she would cuddle up next to me on one of the sofas in the control room.
It was a really, really enjoyable week.
But it was tinged with sadness throughout because we both knew it was our last full week together.
But before having to deal with Carly leaving, we had one more weekend concert to enjoy.
In Mark’s home town.
Manchester.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been this far north,” I said as the train pulled out of Crewe station. “I might get a nosebleed.”
Mark rolled his eyes and grunted.
It was about six-thirty on Friday evening. We’d left Westmouth about three and a half hours earlier and were now a little over half an hour from Manchester.
He’d wanted to drive us ‘home’ in his car, but there was no way I was going to let Carly get in that death-trap for five hours and suggested the train instead. Mark had ultimately agreed to this, but I could tell he wasn’t all that happy about it. But I was paying for his and Imogen’s train tickets, hotel room, and they were both getting backstage passes to the concert. I’d bought tickets to the concert with the same backstage passes for his family and some friends too, so he’d just have to suck it up.
I knew I was basically using my wealth and, I suppose, my ‘influence’ to get my own way, but whatever, right?
The four of us sat at one of the tables—Carly and I facing the direction of travel with Mark and Imogen opposite us. Carly and Mark had the window seats. Four empty paper cups from the refreshment cart sat on the table, long since drained of coffee. One of the cups served as a waste bin and was filled with empty packets of crisps and discarded chocolate bar wrappers.
Carly stared out of the window and rested one hand on my thigh as the train picked up speed, quickly leaving the town behind. I put my hand on hers and squeezed, causing her to look at me and smile before returning her gaze to the countryside we were racing through.
“It’s all so... Green, ” she said. She looked at me. “It’s beautiful.”
Mark’s phone beeped and he quickly picked it up off the table, unlocked it and read the message he’d received. His mother and brother had been texting him all evening, mostly asking where he was.
“Mam and Dad are meeting us at the station,” he said. “They said we can leave our bags in their car until after we’ve eaten.”
We were having dinner with Mark’s family that evening—his parents and his younger brother. He had another brother and an older sister as well, but one lived and worked in London and the other was at University in Leeds. After that, we’d head to our hotel in the Old Trafford area of the city, close to Manchester United’s football stadium. Carly’s concert on Saturday evening was at the Victoria Warehouse, which was within walking distance of the stadium, so it made sense to stay there rather than in the city centre.
I’d suggested to Mark that I get us tickets to a game if United were playing at home that weekend so that Carly could experience it, but there were two problems with that—first, they weren’t playing at home, and second, Mark supported their rivals, Manchester City.
So, instead, we planned to visit the City Centre on Saturday morning to meet some of Mark’s old school friends and have lunch, then head to the huge out-of-town shopping centre, The Trafford Centre, in the afternoon, which was also close to the hotel.
“They’ve got us a table at the Store Street Exchange,” Mark said. “Nice place that, but it’s pricey.”
“You know that’s not an issue,” I said.
“For you, maybe, but there’s no way my folks will let you pay.”
“They won’t have a choice,” I said, seriously. “You’ve told them about me already, right?”
Mark nodded. “I couldn’t not, really, could I? What with the business and everything. And with you paying for the hotel, and concert tickets and stuff. They had ... Questions.” He paused. “Well, Dad had questions.”
I smiled. “I bet they did. And I’ll answer them. As best I can.”
Mark looked out of the window. I think he was just looking away from me. Imogen put her hand on his arm.
“Hey,” she said quietly.
He turned to look at her.
“It’ll be fine,” she said. “Your parents are lovely. And they only want what’s best for you.”
He grunted. “Yeah. I know they do but...” He sighed. “Dad’s ... I mean, he’s proper working class, you know. He’s ... He’s worked all his life. Proper graft, you know? And it’s like, me being a landlord goes against everything he stands for, you know.”
“And I’d agree with him,” I said, “If we were planning on exploiting our tenants or something. But we’re not. Are we?”
“He won’t believe you. He’ll ask what the point of this is if we’re not doing it to make money.”
“But we will make money. Just ... We’re not going to exploit anyone doing it.”
“He’ll take some convincing, that’s all.”
“Then I’ll convince him,” I said.
“You can try, mate,” Mark said. “You can try.” He looked out of the window again.
Carly looked at me and smiled. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes told me everything would be fine, too.
I hoped she was right. The last thing I wanted was to cause trouble between my best friend and his parents.
Mr and Mrs Atwell were waiting for us, as agreed, in the coffee shop at the station. They rose to greet us as we entered, although Mark’s brother stayed in his seat, eyes glued to his phone. Mrs Atwell hugged Mark, then moved on to hug Imogen too, while Mark and his dad had a very ‘manly,’ awkward hug.
Mark was like a younger version of his father, with a similar build and features. There was no mistaking the family connection.
“Are you making sure he’s eating well?” Mrs Atwell asked Imogen.
“Oh, he eats well,” I said, grinning.
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