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I raise my eyebrows. “You’re not really dressed for the Dorchester.” Glancing down, I notice my frayed cardigan and boyfriend jeans. “Nor am I, for that matter.”
“Well, let’s go to the pub instead, then.”
Ten minutes later, Alex carries over two glasses of Coke, a menu tucked beneath his arm. He passes me a glass, his fingers sliding against mine as I take it, and I try not to pull away from him.
We sit in silence for a minute, letting the low murmur of conversation from other tables cut through the tension, and I try to work out exactly how to phrase what I’m feeling. Our argument still seems so raw even thinking about it hurts.
“I’m sorry.” Alex looks up at me through thick lashes. “I’m a stupid, insensitive asshole. I shouldn’t have smoked in front of you, and I shouldn’t have said all those things.”
Unexpected tears sting at my eyes and I’m not sure if they’re from anger or relief, but either way I try to blink them down.
“You know how I feel about drugs.”
He takes a slow breath in. “I do. And I understand it too. You’ve seen some really shitty things and it affects you.” Leaning back in his chair, he splays his long legs in front of him. “So I think we should clear the air and say what we really think.”
“That’s dangerous talk.”
“It is.”
“Could lead to more arguments.”
“Undoubtedly. But I’d rather have you shout at me than ignore me. The silent treatment is killing me.”
Though I try to bite it away, I feel a small smile creep across my face. “I wasn’t doing it on purpose. I don’t know what to say.”
This time, he reaches forward and puts his hand over mine. “Tell me what you’re thinking right now.”
“I’m thinking what an idiot you were. You knew I was coming yet you still smoked a joint. What does that say about your feelings for me?”
“It wasn’t about you. I was so fucking worked up I couldn’t think. It was the biggest gig we’d ever played and my nerves were shot to hell. I only took a couple of drags; that was it. And I wish I hadn’t.”
I wish he hadn’t, too.
“I hate the way we keep arguing over everything, Alex. It’s so bloody draining. And I know having Max around puts a strain on both of us, but I can’t keep going on like this.”
“Arguments don’t have to be a bad thing,” he points out. “They can clear the air, too. I’d rather you talk to me about how you’re feeling than let it all stew inside you. I can tell when you’re getting uptight about something.”
I look down at my feet. There’s a truth in his words, I do bottle things up. I’m like that shaken up can of cola, fizzing and ready to explode as soon as somebody pulls the key.
“But I want everything to be perfect. I want to be perfect. At the moment I feel like such a bloody failure at everything. You, Max, my job, all of it.”
He squeezes my hand. “You’re a fucking amazing mother. Seriously, I’m so proud of the way you’ve adapted to having Max. Come over to the site sometime and you’ll hear me going on about how great you are.” He smiles at me, his eyes warm. “It’s sexy as hell watching you all domesticated.”
“Seriously?” I wrinkle my nose. “You like it? Barefoot and pregnant and all that?”
“Maybe not the pregnant, bit, not yet. But the rest of it, yeah. I love it. Even the hormones.”
I burst out laughing. “You’ve been living with women for too long.” We’ve had this conversation before. He isn’t one to shy away from women when they’re feeling menstrual and angry.
“I love you, bab
e. Everything about you. And I know that you need some support. I’m trying, I really am. I’ve told Alfie that if he can get the band some high paying gigs, we’ll take them whatever we are. That way we can look at you working less hours and spending more time with Maxie.”
There’s a lump in my throat that a swallow of Coke doesn’t dissolve. “Thank you. And you will get more gigs because you were amazing last weekend. The crowd loved you.”
His eyes brighten. “You think so?”
I grin. “Yeah, you really were. There were so many cameras out, so many people singing along.”
