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“It felt very right to me.”
I bow my head. “Ford, I need to be clear. You and I . . . we won’t ever happen.”
“Last night—”
“Last night I shut my eyes. It wasn’t you I was kissing.”
For the first time since I’ve known him, he has nothing to say. He rubs his nape and disappointment shrouds him, a cloud of grey. I never imagined he’d . . . care so much. His green eyes glimmer. It’s the way he schools his response that hits the most.
Guilt and shame burn my skin.
“I’m sorry, Ford. I hope . . . we can be friends.”
He nods, and nods.
A familiar voice shrieks our names, and we pivot toward Maria, who’s pulling a suitcase toward us. The sunshine coming through the large windows halos her red hair.
“Small country!” she laughs, and notes only Ford has a carry-on.
“What are you doing in Wellington?” I ask her.
“There’s a wedding dress designer here.” She looks at Ford. “You on the direct flight back? The one leaving in twenty minutes?”
Ford swears and ditches his coffee. “Gotta get going.” He looks at my shoulder as he says goodbye, and in a rush, they’re zigzagging through the crowd toward the line at security.
That night, sitting on the couch, Bennet pats my hand. “You learned something from his visit.”
“That I’m a horrible heartbreaker?”
“That you can’t ignore the call.” He smiles and shrugs at the inevitability. “Eventually you’ll go back.”
Solemn.
K. Mansfield, “Her First Ball”
It happens the following Friday evening.
His call is hysterical. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”
“Eth. Eth—”
“He’s in the intensive care unit.” His sob echoes in my ears. I pack and take the earliest flight.
And now it would never be like that again
K. Mansfield, “Her First Ball”
I taxi to the hospital and run through the main doors. Colourful lines blur around the walls as I try to find the right ward.
ICU.
A heart attack. Another heart attack threatening my family.
My phone buzzes, a text. Ethan.
They sent us home. They said there’s nothing more they can tell us tonight. See you there tomorrow?
That’s not good enough. I locate a nurse. I’m choked up as I try to articulate what I want. To see him. To know he’s okay. Why won’t you let me see my family, you horrible piece of shit.
Calm down.
I drop my suitcase on the seat I’m steered to. It clatters against the plastic and the following silence feels as empty as my chest. I don’t understand why there are visiting hours when he might not have many hours left.
Mum and I never had a chance to say goodbye to Dad, and here . . . here there’s a chance and I’m not allowed to take it.
I sink next to my suitcase and squeeze my phone.
I recall Tom’s anguished call to me and guilt has my tears flowing thicker. I was supposed to call him sometime. I didn’t.
The air tastes of disinfectant, of fresh cotton sheets, and the lingering tears of my family.
I don’t know where to go. I don’t want to wake up Mum and Julia, they’ll need their strength for tomorrow. But I need to talk.
I get a taxi to Ethan’s but I don’t hop out. The lights are out inside, and I imagine him staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. I want to go in, comfort him. Have him comfort me. But I’m not in control. My impulses are wild. It all hurts too much. I need someone who can comfort me. Someone I won’t fail; I am not strong, not right now.
I text Ford.
He hasn’t read my text when I arrive at his flat. Probably he’s asleep. But I hope he won’t mind if I wake him for this.
The front of the house is shrouded in darkness; the porch feels cold behind thick bushes. No sensor light pops on. The buzzer is defunct. I knock, and at no answer, fumble with the key Ford gave me. He meant it—about me being welcome here. His offer was sincere. His time in Wellington showed me he wasn’t just acting.
The key sticks, like he said it might, and I skirt deeper into the shadows as I move toward the back of the house.
Sounds arrest my attention, a rhythmic squealing.
I slow my step and stop. Curtains are drawn, but the window is cracked and through an inch gap I see into the glow of the room.
A soft, female moan, followed by a series of grunts.
I still. He’s moved on then. That’s fast, but . . . that’s Ford.
I sag against the outside wall and the coolness seeps into my clothes. I laugh silently.
Moans crescendo— “Yes, yes, yes.”
No, no, no.
My stomach meets my throat. I know that voice. I’d know Maria’s voice anywhere.
So much for his claim he’d never screw around with a taken person.
I’d begun to believe him.
So much grief in the world, so much. Uncontrollable. And they have to actively add to it. Have to tear down the walls of the family Rush thinks he’s building.
