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“Laurie? You in there, love?”
Shit. I answer Josie while splashing water furiously over my flushed face. “Aye! Won’t be a sec!”
“You okay? You’ve been missing for quite a while.”
Catching my reflection in the mirror, droplets of water dripping from my jaw, I notice I look like shit. The kind of shit no amount of acting will disguise. “Stomach trouble!” I lie, grabbing a hand towel from the rack.
Oh, God… I smell William as I bring the soft cotton to my face and end up holding it there for several seconds. Just…inhaling. Breathing in the notes of sandalwood and lemon that glaze his neck. Wishing it was his flesh, warm and thrumming against mine.
“Laurie?”
I resist the urge not to yell at Josie, to tell her to fuck off already. Why is she stalking the bloody door? With a deep breath, I turn and unlock it.
“Oh, Christ…” is how she greets me, putting the back of her hand to my forehead in a motherly manner.
“Gee. Thanks.”
She tuts. “You don’t feel too warm.”
“I think I must’ve eaten something dodgy on the way here. There was a burger van…”
“Ugh, disease pits those things.”
I know she thinks that, which is why I said it. “I’m going to head back to the house. Will you make my apologies for me?” I can hear commotion coming from the back now, so assume I can slip out unnoticed while people dine and gossip over the garden table.
“Yes, of course. Make sure you drink plenty of water. Oh, and we keep the paracetamol above the microwave now, not next to the fridge.”
I nod, kiss my palm and place it on the top of her arm. “Cheers, Jose.”
At the house, I reach for my dad’s Sunday Scotch rather than paracetamol. I take the glass through to the lounge, not bothering to put the light on, and sit back on the worn fabric settee that’s older than I am. The darkness around me feels fitting, the struggle to see. As I sip my Scotch, I definitely can’t see a way out of this one. I can’t force William to tear apart his family. I can’t make him admit he’s gay, or that it’s okay to be. I can’t compel him to love me.
And there it is.
I start laughing. Out loud.
Love.
I love him.
“Cole, you fucking idiot.”
For some reason, I keep picturing Rebecca Walker’s face, remembering the way she smiled, welcomed me into her space, her family, and the hatred I want to feel for her turns inward. I walked in there with my own smile and actively deceived that poor woman.
That’s not who I am.
That’s exactly who I am.
I did this. Pursued William, a married man. If the ego I always believed I didn’t have hadn’t mistaken his nervousness for disinterest and felt compelled to correct it, we’d have probably never interacted again.
What am I doing?
I drink some more. Slink further into the cushions. Close my eyes. Wish I could wake up despite knowing I couldn’t be further from sleep. I stay like this for a while. An hour. Maybe longer. My glass has been empty for some time, and the moon has shifted to the corner of the window. It doesn’t seem long enough for the cottage shenanigans to have drawn to a close yet, however, so my head turns, leisurely but curiously at the sound of keys rattling in the front door. As it starts swinging open, I mentally prepare for the bollocking I’m about to receive from Josie for not going straight to bed.
Only that’s not what’s about to happen. What’s about to happen can only be much, much worse.
I don’t ask William why he’s suddenly standing in my father’s house. Alone. Why he’s closed the door behind him, locking the world out. I can’t. I can’t because I’m too afraid he’s here to tell me this is too much. Me. His wife. That he can’t end it. Can’t share. That his feelings for me were a phase. A midlife crisis. That he never wants to see me again.
He doesn’t say any of those things. Yet, at least.
“Josie said you’re not feeling well.”
My chin rises in a sort of upwards nod, suspicious yet thrilled by his presence.
“I was worried about you,” he adds.
“You tell your wife that, aye? That you’re coming to check on me because you’re worried about me?”
William flinches, and I divert my gaze to the floor.
“Josie forgot the biscuits, or something,” he says. “I offered to come and get them.”
Ever the fucking gentleman. Anger is rising but I force myself to swallow it. I’m not angry with him. I’m angry at everything. Time. Circumstances. Myself. Not him.
“Knowing I’d be here?” I say, daring a glance in his direction. I can barely make out his expression in the splinters of moonlight highlighting the side of his face.
“Knowing you’d be here. I really was worried about you.” His dark figure strolls closer, becoming clearer with every step he takes. He sits next to me without permission, and I can see him now. Really see him. The silver light through the window acts as a personal spotlight, exposing the worried ridge in his brow, the redness scratching at the rims of his eyes, the tiny mole on his right cheek that I crave to reach out and touch. Kiss.
