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)
“Are you sure?” she asks.
I don’t want to let her go. It feels like if I let her go it’s all going to fall apart. Everything we’ve built together. Our lives. Our family. My children.
“Will? You’re worrying me.”
Only when she tries to wriggle free do I realise I’m holding on a little too tight, and that my wet skin has soaked through her nightie. “S-sorry.” The word cracks in my throat as I pull back and cough away the emotion. “I just…I miss you, Becs. You and the kids. It’s harder than I thought going away for days at a time.”
Her palm finds its way to my cheek again. I press into it, clasp it with my own. “Oh, Will,” she breathes through a soft, consoling smile. “We miss you, too.”
For a minute, maybe less, we stand in silence, looking at each other. God, I love her. I do. I’ve never questioned that. Never will. When she’s happy, I’m happy. When she hurts, I hurt. What is that if it isn’t love?
“Do you remember when we were kids and we had all those dreams?” I ask, taking her hand, running my thumb over her wedding ring. “I wanted to get away, remember? You were going to come with me…be an artist. We were gonna bartend, or whatever, to support us until you made it into the big galleries, or I found my own talent. We talked about France. Italy. America…” The words dry up with a soft chuckle filled with regret. What happened to those kids. What happened to me.
“I remember,” is all she says.
“You don’t paint anymore.”
Becca shrugs, looks puzzled. “I grew up.”
“Do you never wonder what would’ve happened if we’d done it, though?”
She inhales deeply, lets it out as a sigh. “No. Can’t say I do. Like you said, we were just kids, Will. They were silly dreams. Life doesn’t work that way. Come on, how do you think we would’ve paid for the Parisian dream, eh? Two clueless teens trying to flog a few amateurish sketches.” She laughs and swats my shoulder. “Besides, we fell in love after we made those plans and ended up living an even better dream.”
It doesn’t register that I haven’t answered until Becca’s expression melts into a concerned frown, and she adds, “Right?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” I quickly smile. Squeeze her hand in reassurance. Just for this moment, though, I’d give anything to return to the before. To be the Becca and Will we were while thinking up those ‘silly’ dreams. To being best friends who loved each other without the complication of being in love. Then I could ask if she’d ever felt…stuck. I could ask her what to do. Whether these feelings will pass. If they can be locked away again. If they’ll remain buried this time.
Because she’d know. She always knows.
But she can’t help me. Not now. With this.
I embrace her again. It’s all I can offer. All I can receive. “I love you, Becs.”
The following hours centre me, remind me who I am, what truly matters. Becca and I go shopping together, something we haven’t done in a long time. Usually, due to her busy work schedule, she orders online, and I take delivery of it on a Saturday morning. Today, we head to Tesco together. It’s not a particularly exciting trip but I think that’s what I enjoy. The mundane. Ordinary faces. Boring conversation about brands of baked beans.
At home, I put the food away while Becca deals with some work calls, and I almost drop the dozen eggs I’m carrying to the fridge when Lucy informs me her boyfriend is coming to dinner tonight. “Your who now?”
“Oh, God. Don’t be embarrassing, Dad. Mum promised me you wouldn’t.”
I retreat a few steps until I can see Becca’s face through the doorway. She pulls a guilty frown from the armchair where she’s on the phone. “Well Mum hasn’t told me anything.” I’m messing with my daughter. The serious tone, the stern face. She’s nineteen. I was married at her age. I don’t get to have a say in her love life, not that I’ve ever voiced my opinion previously. To her face, at least. Becca and I agreed on an approach to matters of the heart before the kids even reached their teenage years. We would support them regardless, no matter our personal views. We wouldn’t offer unsolicited advice, and instead be on hand to help piece their hearts back together should someone unworthy try to break them.
“It’s only been a few weeks,” Lucy says. “And he’s nervous, okay. He really wants to make a good impression, so please don’t act all weird.”
“What’s his name?”
My daughter swallows before muttering something I can’t quite make out.
“What?”
She mumbles it again.
“Peter?”
“Tiger,” she practically shouts. “His name is Tiger, and whatever you’re about to say, don’t. I think it’s unique and suits him and, well, he can’t help what his parents named him. And he’s actually a really great guy. He’s smart, too. He’s studying environmental science at the University of Manchester.”