I slow to a stop in a passing place on a narrow lane sheltered by trees. Fat droplets of rain and the occasional twig hit the windshield. The radio crackles quietly over the soft sound of Ophelia’s breathing.
“I’ll be careful if you will,” she says, looking up at me.
This is horrendous. To be this close to her and not allowed to touch her, not allowed to trace my finger over each freckle to see if she’s gained any more since I last lay my head on a pillow beside her.
I deserve punishment for my actions, but this is torture. “I’ll be careful, Twist.”
She smiles at the nickname, but it’s soft and sad. “How is she?”
“My mom?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s okay. She’s actually starting a trial for a new treatment soon.”
Her expression brightens, warm and genuine. “Oh, that’s good, right?”
“Yeah.” I rub my forehead. “I mean, I think so. It’s not without its risks, but leaving her on the trajectory she’s on isn’t going to do anything.”
“I’ll be crossing my fingers for her every night.”
I force a smile. It’s hard to talk about my mother. She’s going to die too young, and I’msodeep in denial about it. In my visions of a future with Ophelia—wedding or no wedding, kids or no kids—I picture my mom there throughout it all. But she won’t be.
I’m just trying to snatch years back from the cold grip of her weakening body, battered by too many drugs taken too young, too many years with her declining mental health ignored, too many letdowns by my father. “I’ll tell her.”
“Alex, she’ll—”
“Don’t,” I manage, tone harsher than I mean. I’m tired of that stupid promise.She’ll be okay.People say it on autopilot with zerothought behind what they’re actually saying. “Don’t tell me she’ll be fine. Please don’t tell me she’ll be fine. Can we talk about something else?”
“Yeah,” she says, but the car descends into silence. Between us, our meager bingo card of acceptable conversation topics is exhausted. Everything else is covered in red tape.
I stare out the window, at the rolling hills and distant Munros that peek between the trees. Ophelia turns down a call from Colette, typing out a text. She puts her phone back in her pocket, but neither of us speaks.
It’s awkward, this silence. And it’s awkward that it’s awkward—that we’ve gone from being two people who couldn’t make a silence awkward if our lives depended on it, to being two people with nothing left to say.
I start to speak, and so does she. We both stop. I watch her cheeks turn pink, her freckles lost in her blush.
“Sorry, what were you going to say?”
That I love you more than life itself.“You go first.”
“They started putting crispy onions on the mac and cheese in the dining hall.”
I huff out a breath, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “And your review?”
She picks at her fingernails, forehead creased in a frown. I wish she’d look at me. “Not good. Why must we over complicate everything? First it was chives, and now this. They keep trying to be clever with things. What were you going to say?”
“I was actually just wondering how the mac and cheese from the dining hall is at the moment.”
Her laugh heals something inside me. “Oh, you were?”
I lean my head back against the seat, heavy gaze on her. Her T-shirt is tight beneath her jacket, molded to her chest in a way I’m struggling to look away from. “Mmhmm.”
“Can you drive me back now, please?”
“My lawyer asked me to cut ties with you.”
Her whole body goes rigid, her lungs stall around her next inhale. “Not before you left, surely?”
