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23
When I was a child, Sunday evenings meant Antiques Roadshow. The aroma of roast beef would waft through the house as I bent my head over the geography homework I should have finished a week earlier. That night had a taste of its own¸ the sweetness of the weekend turned bitter by the promise of Monday morning. It was as sharp as a lemon.
Now, Sunday nights mean ironing and packing Max's bag for nursery and mine for work. Folding tiny sleep suits and pint-sized nappies for somebody else to dress him with.
I'm counting vests when the door buzzes, and I abandon the pale blue cotton clothing on the bed. A sense of anticipation nestles in my stomach, making itself cosy. A cat in front of a fire.
“Hello.”
“Hey.” Alex looks tired but happy. Max is in his arms, head nestled in his shoulder, fast asleep. His thumb hangs loosely in his mouth, a lock of hair has fallen over his eyes. I haven't seen him look so peaceful in a long time.
“Come in.” I speak softly. “Where's the buggy?”
“At the bottom of the stairs. I'll go get it when I've put Max down.” His eyes catch mine. “Is it okay to take him through?”
It's on the tip of my tongue to tell him this is his flat, to make himself at home. But I don't want to send out mixed signals. This situation is confusing enough.
“Of course. Excuse the mess, I was getting things ready for tomorrow.” I can't shake off this sense of weirdness.
After Alex has placed Max in his cot and brought up the buggy, things only get stranger. I busy myself in the kitchen, putting away pots that have been bone dry on the draining board for the past few days. Leaning on the counter, Alex watches me, looking as awkward as I feel.
“How was lunch?” I ask, switching the kettle on to break the silence.
Alex shrugs. “It was fine. Mum fawned over Max. I ended up chopping down a tree. Andie's got a promotion at work.” He looks up at me through thick lashes. “It wasn't the same without you.”
I ignore his sweet words. “Was Amy there?”
He stares at me for a moment, as if he's trying to read my thoughts. Finally, he speaks. “Yeah. And Luke, the knob.” It's no secret he doesn't like Amy's boyfriend. “I don't get why she stays with him. He treats her like shit. Ended up leaving halfway through lunch to meet up with a mate. Didn't even finish his dinner.”
“I bet Tina was pleased.”
“You can imagine.” He rolls his eyes. “Not clearing his plate was worse than committing a crime. Amy won't hear the end of it.”
“It's not her fault.”
“She puts up with it. She should give him the elbow.”
I pour hot water into our mugs. Swirl around two tea bags. I st
ill have my back to him when I speak again. “Maybe she loves him.”
“Doesn't mean she should let him treat her like shit.”
Turning around, I offer him one of the mugs. “I know.” This time I stare right back at him. I wonder if he can read my thoughts now. I'm remembering all the arguments we had, the way he never answered the phone on tour.
That girl sitting on his lap.
Tearing my eyes away, I take a sip of my tea. Then Alex steps forward, gently taking the mug from my hands. Places it onto the counter. He puts his hand up to mine, palm against palm, fingers against fingers. It sends a jolt of electricity down my spine.
“I love you,” he says, out of nowhere.
I can't deny the way his words affect me, every syllable warms my skin. But they can't obliterate the memories, not matter how hard I try.
“They’re only words.” I pull my hand away, unsure who I'm trying to convince.
Alex steps back as if I've slapped him. The pain in his face is clear and it makes me feel like a bitch. But I'm scared to open up, to let him in. So afraid this time he could actually slay me.
“I know it's going to take time.” His fingers grip the edge of the counter. “I hurt you, and I'm so sorry for that.”
