Page 83 of Whispered Promises

I freeze, brush held immobile, eager to hear what his thoughts are.

“Although…?” I prompt impatiently, resisting the urge to huff and pout.

He stops, glancing up to stare at me. “What if none of it happened? What if everyone’s right, and it’s all a figment of her imagination?”

My mouth falls open, closing before opening again. “Firstly, I think we should have her back in this. Everyone, even her husband, is against her. So as readers, we should at least be open-minded for her. Secondly, that would make for a really cruel story. All of this guessing and mind manipulation…for it to all be for nothing?”

His eyes crinkle at the corners, and his mouth lifts into a grin.

Is he mocking me?

Sure, I can get invested in characters' lives…but they can feel so real, so tangible sometimes.

“You’re right, we need to stay open-minded and see what happens. Have you thought about what you want to pick for us next?” he asks, rinsing his brush out in the clean water bucket.

Ducking my head, I hide my smile. “I have, and it’s a surprise. Do you have any content triggers?”

He stops scrubbing again, but I keep my head down, focused on my movements so I don’t catch his expression. “Triggers?”

“Yeah, any triggers I need to know to avoid for our next book?”

At his silence, I look up and can’t stop the laughter that escapes me. An unsure Noah is not something I’d thought I’d see.

“Most books I read have a content warning page for any possible triggers. So you could read it first and then let me know if you want me to choose something different.”

He clears his throat. “I know about content warnings; you just caught me off-guard by asking about them. It piqued my interest for what you’re picking for us, but admittedly, I’m looking forward to the surprise too. To answer your question: no, I don’t have any triggers.” He smiles, and my heart clenches, then speeds off, pounding a loud, uncontrollable rhythm.

My heart’s still beating far too quickly, but it’s mixed with a contented feeling as his fingers brush gently back and forth over the skin of my arm. With the remaining trough now clean, we’re leaning over the fence together, waiting for the last one to finish filling up with fresh water. His arms are crossed in a way so he can lean but also have access to my arm; his focus is out on the field as we stand quietly.

“Can you tell me a bit about your nan?” he asks, breaking the easy silence between us.

It always hits like a sucker punch when I let my thoughts trail to her. I’m not sure at what point grief is supposed to ease into something less painful…I’m still waiting for it.

Taking a moment, I attempt to add strength to block the ever-present agony as I try to find words to sum up the woman who was the centrepiece for most of my life.

“She was light and carefree, but always steadfast.” I smile, but it feels wobbly. “She was a little feisty, and she always tried to instil some of it in me too. Always telling me that I needed to go after what I wanted, that I shouldn’t care what people would think or not think. This is coming from a person who would stop a stranger in the street to compliment their smile, who would wear a flower crown to the supermarket because she wanted to, or would give chocolate to a person she’d never met before because she thought they looked sad.”

I don’t hold back the smile that breaks through as each memory fills me with warmth. It feels like forever since I’ve spoken about her out loud. Mostly, the thoughts remain internalised. But saying them out loud, painting a picture of who she was, makes it lighter.

“She laughed a lot. Sometimes it’s like I can still hear it. She’d find the laughter in everything, and you couldn’t help but join her. You could be so frustrated or annoyed, but it would all disappear as her infectious laugh would pull you along too.”

His soft fingers keep up their rhythm, keeping me grounded through the barrage of memories.

“She sounds captivating. Perhaps that’s why Maxi calls to you? He can be infuriating at times, but he’s infectious too. It’s hard to be annoyed when he’s around.” He nudges me.

“Maybe? It would make sense, I guess. It’s all too easy to get lost in the seriousness of life, to miss out on having fun and enjoying it. She would definitely tell me off for that a lot, but I think it was mainly her worry for me.”

He chuckles. “I think it’s natural to worry for our loved ones. We always want happiness for them.”

“She’d never wait for happiness; she would just go out and make it happen,” I whisper wistfully, feeling the regret that I can’t just be more like her.

“What’s holding you back?” His tone’s gentle, almost coaxing, and it’s reassuringly absent of judgement.

“Fear, I guess. Fear of putting myself out there, fear of doing something wrong, fear of losing everything…the list could go on,” I huff, a choked laugh following my words.

It sounds pathetic out loud. I know everyone has to make the same decisions and choices in life. We all have to decide whether we choose to live, to take a chance, or to shelter ourselves away in what we know is safe.

So why can’t I shake off the fear and take the leap, like so many other people in the world do?