“Of course.”
I put the oven dish on the table. “She’ll hold you to that,” I warn. “And what about your parents?”
Anders eyes find mine. “They can’t wait to meet you.”
I purse my lips. “You told them?” I can’t imagine they’ll be overjoyed by their son’s relationship with a single mother. Especially one who lives in Britain. More ties pulling him away from home.
He nods and I have to turn away. That means more to me than his proposal, than the picnic, than the sex. And it’s a reminder I should probably tell mine before Effie waxes lyrical about her new almost stepdad.
Dinner conversation is dominated by Effie wanting to know what each of Anders’s cows is called. She’s not impressed by his faltering lack of knowledge, nor the fact that they’re mostly numbered. But she is insanely interested in the milking process. I hardly get a word in.
When it comes to bath and bedtime, she leaves him reluctantly and only after he promises sincerely he’ll be here for breakfast. My eyebrows rise at that. Anders would normally be at his desk when we’re having our cereal. But tomorrow, we will rise together, eat together, and walk into Cerium together.
As I snuggle Effie down, her teeth clean, her story read, she says, “I think Anders will make a very good stepdaddy. And Smaug’ette can be my stepsister.” I don’t tell her Anders has other plans for that.
Leaving her, I return to our guest. He’s sitting, waiting, looking at stuff on his phone. Knowing him, he’s scrolling through his emails. He utilises every minute. Even his leisure is video gaming, play testing his own or assessing the competition, feeling out the trends.
As soon as I reappear, he puts his phone away and stands, moving quickly to pull me into his arms.
“I want to dance with you,” he says.
My smile is rueful. I thought he understood the restrictions children place on your life.
“You can't. The music will wake Effie.” And she needs sleep more than other children. Life for her is always stressful. No sleep is the fastest route to a meltdown.
But Anders only grins. “I thought you might say that,” he says, letting me go. “So, I bought these.” He dips into his rucksack and brings out a pair of headphones.
“And some for me.” He drops a second pair on the sofa.
He comes back to me and puts the first pair on my head, then he fiddles with his phone, and I hear music. I don't recognise it, but there again, the only time I hear music these days is in the car or a shop. When I was a teenager, music seemed to define my life. Now I’ve no time for it.
But music is a very important part of video games, so I guess Anders's knowledge is up to date, whereas mine has changed little in five years. The song is catchy; it's got a good beat and a rousing chorus.
A little self-consciously, I stand in the middle of my living area and start to move my body. I would never say I was particularly talented at dance, just that I enjoyed it. Anders, headphones buried in his tawny hair, sways beside me, close enough I feel his body heat. We move together until there is only music. Little by little, I let go.
I love the way Anders can do this. He reminds me of the person I once was, even as he loves the person I am now. I don't have to sacrifice Cora, the wild child. I can be both. The greatest gifts he gives me are not material things. It’s the ability to see myself as he does.
Sometimes parenthood isn't easy, especially when you’re on your own and your child struggles to navigate a world not designed for them. It can take over until there's nothing else left.
But because of him, I'm finding another version of myself. I lift my arms above my head. I sway and skip and sashay. Anders steps in. His hands take me, spin me, hold me.
And then the music switches to something slower, more sensual. He closes the space between us. I move my hips, sliding against him. I know what I’m doing and his body responds. I never thought that excitement could come with this level of feeling safe, feeling loved, feeling adored.
He lowers his hands, responding to my teasing with moves of his own. As the song plays on, his breathing becomes ragged. He can't hold on. I'm surprised he’s lasted as long as he has.
“Minx,” he growls. “I will make you pay for that.”
And I can’t wait.
Epilogue
Effie and I aren’t in London whenThe Obsidian Sigildrops. As usual, for the last three weeks of summer, over Effie’s birthday, we’re with my parents. At least Angola is in the same time zone as Britain. It could be worse. Anders and I talk every day, usually morning to catch up with Effie and night, just for us.
Tonight, at one minute past midnight, the cloudy skies above London are illuminated, emblazoned with a huge obsidian sigil. At the same moment, anyone who signed up for early access gets their game.
The stunt was all Anders’s idea but given life by Scarlett. The same stunt will occur at midnight in New York, then Chicago, and Los Angeles, Shanghai, Seoul, Sidney, Kuala Lumpur and Mumbai. Where the skies are clear, they’ll shine the sigil onto the tallest building in the city.
The reaction is immense. Social media blazes to life immediately with a mix of people predicting the end of the worldor postulating an alien invasion, and excited gamers who know exactly what it means.
