Page 64 of The Ghost of Exes Past

‘Well, we’re in our thirties.’ I shuffle up on the sofa, so his hands are on my shins now. He doesn’t stop stroking. ‘We both want kids and see a family in our future. Also, there’s respect there.’ I sigh, very aware that these are pathetic reasons to be with someone. ‘We both respect each other … and each other’s space. And it’s nice to have someone to share your life with, you know?’

‘Hm.’

I stop. Am I listing all the reasons we’re right for each other in an attempt to tell myself that we are? Also, a part of me worries that I’ve offended Jake with this. He’s dead and will probably be lonely forever, while I’m here moaning about settling.

‘It’s nice to have someone to take care of you, if you need them.’

Jake nods, slowly. We’re silent for a moment.

‘I feel like there’s a “but” coming,’ he says.

The engagement ring on my finger sparkles. My dream one – a vintage, one-carat diamond trilogy ring, chosen together on a Sunday stroll through Hatton Garden. He’d done his research, of course. Three jewellers shortlisted, budget agreed in advance. So I knew it was coming but hadn’t known exactly when. And the proposal, of course, was beautiful – incredible, in fact: candles, a speech, roses under a blue whale. But the one thing he couldn’t plan for was missing. My heart had been full. My stomach hadn’t done a thing.

‘But …’ I pause. A drop in my chest as the words form on my lips. My eyes prickle now, but not from laughter. ‘I’m just not sure the feelings are there.’ I clear my throat, feeling my voice wobble.

Jake pulls my legs closer to his chest. ‘The spark?’ he asks.

‘The spark.’ One nod. It used to be there … Didn’t it? Where did it go? And how did it go so quickly?

The windows rattle and howl as a gust of wind pushes against the glass.

‘Sounds a bit like Arthur 2.0.’ Jake taps his finger on my leg.

‘Ah, but no. Because Timothy doesn’t game. And Timothy has money.’

‘Gotcha …’ he says. ‘Also, Timothy doesn’t have a cat called Gavin,’ he adds, squeezing my thigh.

‘Oh, Gavin.’ I feel his chest bounce with laughter and wish I could bottle that feeling.

We’re still a moment more. I lean into it, the quiet. With Timothy I always rush to fill the silences. I’d forgotten how different it was with Jake. How we were comfortable, so similar that we could sit still together, not saying a thing yet already knowing what the other was thinking.

Below us, the music has stopped. I hadn’t noticed until now. The party is over. The night is ending.

Jake shifts beside me; his thumb stops moving on my leg. He looks outside the window, scrutinising the dark nothing beyond it, and he’s doing the same maths I am, I know. How many hours till morning, before tonight starts being tomorrow. He has something to say, I’ve sensed it for a while now. Something more serious than his usual jokes. His eyes are searching the room, he’s biting the inside of his cheek; he’s looking for words, trying to find the ones that matter.

‘Belle, I’m …’ He stops and rubs his face before trying again. ‘I just want you to know that I …’ He stops again, his breathing heavy. ‘I’m glad you showed me, all of it. I needed to see it.’

I nod at what he’s said, or tried to say. It’s not an apology, but I can feel one behind the stumbling. I don’t push it. I just focus on this moment instead. His eyes are on mine but they keep dropping to my lips, and I shy away, look at his hands instead. How strange it is that someone who has been gone for ten years can still make me feel like a nervous teenager.

And now he’s here again, sitting in front of me like no time has passed. And I miss us.

‘I was so young, when you died. I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t.’

Chances are, we wouldn’t have worked. I’m not naive to that. How many first loves actually make it?

I know that even if he hadn’t died, our relationship would have run its course. We would have not spoken for a few weeks, then met up at a pub, then had great breakup sex, then got back together just to break up again. Then I would have moved to London, and he would have blocked me on his phone, but we would have continued to have an annual fling every December when I’d visit my parents back home over Christmas … Until the day he met a girl he loved and who didn’t want to leave, someone who gave him everything he wanted.

And that would have been that …

We were not perfect.

But the hope was there.

I had hoped that we could have made it. That we would have worked out. That in some alternate world, in a Sliding Doors kind of way, he would have moved to London with me, got a job he loved, felt fulfilled, and it would be our wedding day tomorrow. Okay, maybe not here, in Whitby, the birthplace of Dracula. But in Hackney Town Hall. Disposable cameras. No flashy fireworks. No scallops or caviar. Just pure love.

Jake clears his throat, bringing me back to the room.

‘Spanner in the works, isn’t it?’ he says, tenderly. A softness to it.