Page 62 of The Ghost of Exes Past

But she didn’t even flinch. When he was yelling at her, she didn’t even move. That’s the bit I can’t stop thinking about. She either just absorbed it, the way she’s clearly learned to, or she built a shell around herself.

I think it’s the latter. She’s not a robot, she’s just hardened. It’s not that she’s emotionless or lost herself – she’s protecting herself. And I’d said that to her because it was easier than directly asking what happened. It was easier than admitting that I didn’t recognise her anymore, and that scared me. She didn’t go cold and heartless. She just stopped leaving the door open for strangers to get in.

‘Fuck, Belles. I shouldn’t have said that. The robot thing.’

And not just that. I can still hear it – shit shag – coming out of his mouth like it came out of mine. But one thing at a time.

She goes quiet for a moment. ‘You weren’t wrong.’ She’s squeezing her lips together so they go white around the edges.

‘I’m so—’

‘Jake—’

‘I didn’t get it. But I do now. I’m sorry, really.’

She looks at me, her head tilted to the side. Not forgiving, but understanding. ‘I don’t want to be like that anymore,’ she says quietly. ‘I’m so tired of holding everyone, everything, at arm’s length.’

I know that feeling, though I’m not going to say so.

She breathes out, pushes her hair back off her face with both hands and holds them to her temples for just a moment, looking up at the sky. She used to do that when we were together. When she was thinking or trying to make a decision. I haven’t seen her do it since I’ve come back. Without thinking, I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn’t flinch.

My mouth opens as if to say something. What comes out is: ‘You know I’m rubbish at this.’

‘I know.’

I’ve never been great at words, like, ever, but one thing I am adept at is gestures and big romantic actions. We can’t have it all.

‘You’re …’ I stop, shake my head. ‘I’m glad I got to see this bit, Belle.’

A grin, just there. She knows what I’m trying to say, or rather, I hope she knows, because what I’m really thinking is that she is brave. I’ve been watching her all evening, trying to find the girl I knew in this woman, and that hasn’t been fair on either of us. She was here the whole time – she just stopped leaving the door open. Also, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen and, somehow, there’s a Belle-shaped hole embedded in my chest and there always will be. I’ve been trying to find the right moment for ages and now I’m running out of road.

‘Belle, I need to tell you something.’

Her eyes widen a little, and my reflection in her pupils looks lame.

‘I should have said this earlier, not left it so late …’ I say, running my hands through my hair.

Her hand moves towards me, palm outstretched. It hovers in the air between us, then she shakes it a little, like washing grime off a window.

‘The thing is—’

‘No, Jake.’ She nods, takes a step towards me, and puts both hands on my chest. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

‘Not yet. Not now,’ she says.

I look down and meet her eyes. ‘Can we chat back at the hotel?’ she pleads. ‘I want to be done with this chapter of my life now. I’m ready to move on.’

She drags her hands down my chest and finds my palms with hers. We interlock fingers, and she closes her eyes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Belle

I wait a second longer, my hands in his, my eyes closed, before I open them. I allow him to think I’m not fully back yet, savouring the touch of his palms, how his fingers are curled around mine. When I crack my eyes open, his are still shut. I don’t move. I stay as still as possible, letting myself feel the weight of him on the cushion next to me and how our breathing has found the same rhythm. The paper is still there, tucked against my ribs. I don’t take it out.

Outside, a bare tree creaks in the wind. Apart from the rise and fall of our breaths, everything else is quiet. I look to the bed and expect to see a Jake-shaped dent in the centre of it, but there isn’t one. Just layers of cushions that only exist to be removed at bedtime. Behind him, on the wardrobe door, hangs my wedding dress. The edge of it catches the light from a lamp, and for a second it looks like something living.

I look to my lap. Even in death, Jake is still a lamp guy.