Page 128 of Secret Paths

That is not the problem.

The problem is the space beside him.

Not physically. There is barely room behind the stall for Peter, three trays of apples and a jug of custard. But the space is there all the same. The public space. The ordinary space. The one where people know you are together because you stand close without explaining it.

I refused that space.

I said no to it.

And now I am standing across the green, watching him fit into the day without me.

He is not sulking. He is not visibly heartbroken. He is not performing misery because I hurt him and therefore owe him attention. He is being kind to customers and useful to Hunter and irritatingly attractive in an apron.

He has a life.

Of course he does.

I know that.

Still, something cold and honest moves through me.

I do not want someone else to get the life with him that I am too frightened to choose.

Not because he belongs to me. He does not.

Because I want to belong there.

I want to be the woman who rolls her eyes at his baked apple jokes from behind the stall. I want to know whether he had breakfast before Hunter dragged him into this. I want to steal a spoonful of custard and have him pretend to be outraged. I want the ordinary things I keep telling myself are dangerous.

Sunday mornings.

My mug in his kitchen.

His ridiculous fruit faces when he decides a plate looks too serious.

His hand on my back when I am tired and pretending I am not.

The calm way he bought sanitary towels and knickers without making me feel ridiculous, then came back with half the confectionery aisle because he had no idea what would help and tried anyway.

The realisation is not dramatic.

It is worse than dramatic.

It is quiet.

It settles.

I do not want Peter only in the hidden parts of my life.

I want him in the daylight too.

“Mandy?” Alexandra says beside me.

I blink and look down.

I am holding out raffle tickets to Mrs Atkins but have not taken her money.

“Sorry.” I sort the tickets, take the coins and give Mrs Atkins her change.