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That fills me with guilt. I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve Holly’s concern.
‘Sleeping with a patient is seriously deplorable. Talk about questionable ethics.’
‘It was very mutual,’ I say wearily. Defensively.
I blink and see Holly. Holly in all her guises. Loving. Laughing. High on the drugging need of sex. Crying. My gut twists.
‘I really fucked up.’ My statement is bleak.
My blood is screeching through my body, begging me to do something, enraging me, enlivening me and, yes, enlightening me. Holly loves me. She loves me and she fought for me. She isn’t pushing me away, even now, after all I’ve done. She called Gabe.
My stomach is on a bad acid trip, lurching and squeezing. I grip the back of the sofa and swear. ‘I fucked up.’
‘Noah—’ Gabe sighs ‘—you need help. You don’t know which way is up right now.’ He pauses, dragging a hand through his hair, his eyes full of emotion. ‘We both carry the scars of our childhood. I understand you, Noah, because I’ve been there. We are birds of a feather, my friend.’
‘Yeah?’ I stare right back at him. ‘Then how come you never go off the rails? How come you seem fine with everything?’
Gabe’s eyes lance me; something in the coldness in his gaze makes me worried about him. ‘Because I don’t have a heart like yours, Noah. You feel everything deeply. You need help to process your feelings, whereas I have none.’
I laugh because it’s such an absurd thing to say, that he must, surely, be joking.
‘I do feel deeply,’ I mutter after a while, and I look at Gabe, completely lost, and uncertain as to what to do. ‘I fell in love with her. With Holly. I thought... I don’t know. She was different from the start, but I didn’t realise...’ It is a strange thing to recognise love, an emotion that should be filled with hope, and to simultaneously understand how utterly hopeless it is.
There is no going back from the errors I’ve made. I love Holly because she is smart, strong and fearless—qualities that will stop her from ever forgiving me for how I’ve acted.
* * *
It is four weeks since I last saw Noah. Four weeks.
I know that doesn’t sound like long—a lot can happen in four weeks. But my God. I have felt every second that has made up each long, barren day. I have never known such a soul-deep hurt as this.
I’ve worked hard. I’ve spent extra time with Ivy, holding her close, knowing that it will be her and me for the rest of my life. How can I love again? How will I ever?
I walk slowly, barely feeling the January chill that is thick in the air. Ivy is staying over with Diane, and I’m glad. On these nights, these rare nights when I am on my own, I can accept my grief, and I do.
I plan to soak in the bath and then watch a depressing movie. Schindler’s List or The Piano. Something that will allow me to cry all these tears, to hang my grief on something inherently sad.
I unlock my door without looking down the street, pushing it shut and sliding the chain in place.
Our breakfast bowls are still on the table. On the mornings when I have to go to work and Ivy has school, we are often rushed like this. I dump my handbag to the floor, stretch my back and then scoop up the bowls, carrying them through to the kitchen. The fridge is covered with Ivy’s artwork—pictures of her, me, the cat she desperately wants and sometimes pretends we have.
My smile tastes metallic on my lips. I open the fridge door and retrieve a bottle of sparkling water, cracking it and drinking several sips before placing it on the counter.
I’m almost out of food and, though I’m barely hungry, I know I should take advantage of the fact Ivy’s not here to go to the supermarket.
It’s the last thing I feel like doing. Then again, that’s true of everything now.
I stack the dishwasher and then retrieve my handbag, pulling it over my shoulder and wrenching the door inwards.
The last thing I expect to see is Noah Moore, handsome as hell in a dark grey suit with a crisp white shirt, his expression sombre, his body tight.
My handbag slips from my shoulder, falling to the floor, but otherwise I don’t move.
‘Holly.’ He says my name softly, as though I’m an animal about to bolt. I must look like I feel. So full of emotions that I’m terrified.
‘Don’t shut the door.’ The statement is throaty, and I realise I’m clutching the wood with that exact intention. ‘I just...need a minute.’
I shake my head, my eyes filling with tears. ‘No.’
