Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
That, I’m not sure I deserve. I offer a single nod.
Rebecca struggles to her feet, using the arm of the settee to haul herself up. I almost offer to help, but think better of it. Proximity probably isn’t the best idea if I value intact bones in my face.
“Can I call you a cab?” I ask, assuming she didn’t drive all the way from the north with her lower leg in a cast.
“I’ll get an Uber to the station, but I’d rather wait outside in the fresh air. I’m sure you understand.”
Fuck yes, I do.
She starts her slow hop to the hall and on to the door. I keep a fair distance behind, wondering if I’m supposed to thank her. Or apologise. In the end, I go with silence.
Before she goes, she hovers in the open doorway for a moment, looking back with that intense stare from earlier. “Whatever happens, Laurence, Will has a family. We’ll always be here. Do you understand?”
“Of course.” The question stumps me, but I forgive her ignorance quickly. She doesn’t know me. “I’d never do anything to hurt him, Rebecca. I promise you that.”
I watch her eyes close, just for a moment, while the corners of her mouth curl into a small, acknowledging smile that looks almost painful on her lips. “I believe you.”
And then she leaves, and I feel like the ground has exploded under my fucking feet.
I don’t remember sliding down the wall, but at some point after Rebecca leaves I realise I’m sitting on the floor of my hallway with my head buried in my knees.
‘…He loves you.’
‘Don’t. I’m sorry. For everything.’
Conflicting words from a man and his wife brawl inside my mind. We both love this man, Rebecca, and me. I believe we both love him enough to want the best for him. That’s why I did as he asked, pulled back, left him with his wife even though I knew I’d have to find a way to live with a William-shaped cavity in my heart for the rest of my life. I thought he’d chosen her, I thought he’d decided she was what he needed, and I’d rather spend every day missing him than just one day with him knowing he was missing someone else, that I’d taken away what he truly wanted.
But he told her.
‘It’s all real.’
He meant it.
‘I’ll always come back.’
But he’s still afraid.
My fist slams into the floor. “Dammit, William.” I feel a shift inside. Clambering to my feet, the woeful stasis I’ve been trapped in for weeks curdles into what feels like anger. Although painful, it was almost easier living with the idea of never knowing what went wrong. I could make my own conclusions that way, ones that hurt less. Over time, I’d have created an excuse that made some sort of sense. I’d have convinced myself he went on to be happy. Then maybe, eventually, I could’ve got there myself.
Now, though, if William Walker were to stand in front of me right this second, I think I’d shake him, plead with him, beg him to tell me what the fuck he wants from me. He knows how I feel, knows what I want. I couldn’t have said it in plainer words, and he rejected me. His wife, of all people, claims he loves me, so why isn’t he here? Does he want me on my knees? Does he need me to fucking beg?
Because I will. Despite wanting to scream in protest, if he told me that’s what he needed, I know I would drop before him in a heartbeat. But can I make the first move and risk widening the crack in my chest? I’ve already fallen so far, I’m not sure I’ll survive hitting the rocks at the bottom.
Although it isn’t loud, the ping from my phone startles me as I wander pointlessly through the house. I pluck it from my pocket, scan the screen.
Andy:
Got a date for the read through with Tessa Drummond. 19th November. Can’t remember if I told you.
He did tell me. He’s told me twice.
I hit call.
“Andrew Cobbe, you motherfucker,” I say the second the ringing stops.
Silence.
“Got nothing, aye?”
“Are you all right?” he asks, in a low, cautious tone.
“No, Andy. I’m not fucking all right. You sent his fucking wife here. To my house!” Exhausted, emotionally, physically, I put the phone on speaker and toss it on the kitchen island, which is where my pacing has ended.
His sigh crackles through the speaker. “It didn’t go well, I take it.”
I pull up a stool, hitch a seat. “I…I don’t know how it went.”
“Well, did she yell at you?”
“No.”
“Break your jaw?”
“No. Hell, Andy, she was…she was fine. Too fine. She was fucking pleasant, okay?”
There’s a vase on my island filled with various kinds of sticks. Some are coiled. Some are natural looking. Others are coated in some cream-coloured fluffy shit. It serves no purpose. I think it’s one of those ‘decorative’ pieces my interior designer dotted around the place. I remove a stick, run my thumb over the knots of wood.