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I remember my dad talking at Mum’s funeral.
‘I fell in love with Deirdre the moment I saw her. I saw her across the field, and I said to my best friend, to James Haigh, I’m going to marry her. I knew in an instant. My whole world changed.’
And I’ve never doubted he was speaking the truth. He loved my mum. He loved her in the only sick way he knew how. He loved her to death.
He loved her, and she gave up everything she wanted in life; she subjugated not just her dreams but all of herself, everything she was, to be what he needed. I hated him for that. I hated him for the way everything was always about my father, never her. And I hated her sometimes. I wished she would stand up to him, shout and rail against his oppressive control. I wished she’d fight for what she wanted.
She didn’t. She took everything he threw at her. Did she stay with him because she loved him? Is that love?
What would it even look like, me loving Millie? Fuck, does she love me?
Every time she’s talked about her future, it’s been with excitement. She can’t wait to go to Paris, ergo, to leave me. That’s not love. Not once has she even hinted at a sense of hesitation. Not once has she given me a reason to think anything’s changed for her. Hasn’t she done the opposite? Going out of her way to show me she wants to make sure the parameters of our relationship don’t alter.
So what? I’m going to follow in my dad’s illustrious footsteps after all? Try to get the woman I’ve fallen in love with to put her dreams on hold just because I don’t want her to leave me?
‘Hey.’ Her voice is soft behind me. ‘What are you doing up?’
Her hands curve around my waist, linking in front of me, and her lips press to my shoulder. My heart twists painfully. Fuck. I love her. I absolutely love her. If I could give all my money to some god, some deity, to have her stay just like this, in this moment, her cheek against my back, her arms around my waist, our breathing in sync, I would do it.
I curve a hand over hers, as if to hold her there, as if it might be enough. ‘Hey.’ My voice is gravelled. ‘Did I wake you?’
‘It got cold in bed,’ she says, a smile in her words. ‘Why are you up?’
I don’t answer.
‘Michael?’
I close my eyes, breathing in this moment, this night air, her. ‘When do you fly?’
‘Sunday.’
That’s two days away.
Jesus.
‘Your flight’s booked?’
‘Yep.’
Don’t go. The words form inside me. I hear them in my brain, rattling around and around, but I can’t speak them. I can’t.
‘What are your plans for the next few days?’
‘Packing. Trying to squeeze everything back into my suitcase.’ Her voice is light, self-mocking.
‘You could store some stuff here,’ I offer, the idea taking hold. If she stored things at my place, she’d have to come back to get them at some point.
Okay, it’s hardly ideal, but at least it would mean this wouldn’t be the end.
‘No.’ A single word, a little firmer than is necessary. Her hands stroke my belly. ‘There’d be no point. Once I leave, I won’t be back.’
Panic surges inside me. ‘Not even to see old friends?’
Silence thickens around us. ‘No.’
Fuck.
I turn around, wrapping my arms around her. It’s too early for dawn. The moon is still behind us, casting her face in pale silver light, her blonde hair loose around her face, her eyes huge as she looks up at me.
