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)
Busy turning meat on the grill, William has his back to me. He doesn’t turn around when I open the door. I know why when he says, “Becs, could you grab the koftas from the fridge? This chicken’s almost done.”
I close the door quietly, lift the handle to keep it in place. “It’s me.”
Stillness. He doesn’t spin round in surprise. Doesn’t panic. Doesn’t drop the tongs in his hand.
“You’ve met Josie,” I say. “I couldn’t get out of it, but I won’t stay long.”
Unnervingly calm, he turns a piece of chicken. “Have you met her?”
“Who?” Oh. “Rebecca?”
He nods.
“Aye. She’s, uh, she’s nice.”
He nods again.
“Met your daughter, too. Think I might’ve overwhelmed her.”
I watch his shoulders shake with small laughter. “Sounds about right.”
I’m not sure what’s happening, or what to do, what to say. It’s clear he doesn’t want me here, but it will look suspicious if I leave now. Josie’s already on alert after our encounter at the shop. “Are you going to look at me?” I ask.
Placing the tongs down on the metal shelf, William drops his head. “I can’t,” he says, the words cracking.
“Why not?”
“Because…because when I look at you all I can think about is touching you.”
“Oh…”
“And that’s not this life, Laurence. You. Me. Whatever that is…it’s not this. Not here. My wife is here. My children. And now you’re here. You’re here and I…and I want to touch you. Kiss you.”
Fuck knows what the hell I’m doing. It’s out of my control. I don’t plan to walk closer, but suddenly I’m a breath away from him anyway, side by side. I reach for the tongs, turn a piece of chicken, and let the fingers of my other hand find his. Our pinkies brush just slightly by our sides. We don’t talk. I can hear him breathe. Deeper. Faster. I keep turning the meat.
“This is enough,” I say. “For right now, touching you like this is enough.”
His little finger curls around mine, squeezes so hard it starts to tremble. “It’ll never be enough.”
And he’s right, because when a piece of burning meat forces him to break away from me…I think I want to cry. “I’d better, um, head back inside,” I say, coughing the emotion from my throat. “See you in there.”
If he can bear to look at me by then…
Inside, I slip into the bathroom before anyone notices I’ve returned. I know where it is, having been in this cottage countless times over the years. I should have asked for permission, really, but I don’t think I can speak yet. At the sink, I steady myself against the porcelain. My eyes feel gritty. My nose is starting to block.
I’m crying.
“Shit,” I whisper, widening my jaw, stretching the muscles in my face, trying to keep the tears inside.
I’m not what I’d consider to be an emotional man. I have cried, of course. I’m not repressed or afraid to feel. Usually, though, it’s for an eventful and expected reason. Like when my Granny Glenn passed away. Or my mum was diagnosed with breast cancer. When my mum beat her cancer. I cried all those times. Wasn’t ashamed of it. Wasn’t confused by it, either.
Now, though, now I have no idea why I’m standing alone in one of my father’s guest cottages, silently weeping over the sink. Unlike William, I’m not new at this. I got the whole sexuality struggle out of the way in my early teens. Wasn’t even much of a struggle, really. I kind of just…knew. Took a while, couple of years, to gather enough courage to tell my mum, and another couple to tell my dad, but even that didn’t turn out to be a big deal.
Mum cried.
I didn’t.
I’ve lived through the first boyfriend, survived the first heartbreak. I’ve fancied guys I can’t have before, either because they’re straight, uninterested, or married like William. It’s never made me cry. It’s never caused this weight in my chest, this heaviness that feels like it’s dragging me into the ground. I’ve always maintained an optimistic attitude. What’s meant to be. Plenty of fish. The future is blank page…
Until him.
Until William.
I don’t think it’s possible to move past him. When I mentally flick through the pages of my life, his name is written on all of them. If he were to leave right now and never return, he’d still follow me into the future. In my mind. My heart. He’s found a part of me no one else has and taken it, and even if he tried to give it back it would no longer fit. Because I’m not the same. Somehow, he’s changed me. By taking that piece, he’s reshaped the mould of my entire existence. He owns it now, that piece. Owns part of me.
And I realise why I’m crying.
Because what if I don’t own a piece of him?