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Neither do I.
By the time we’ve reached the car park, the atmosphere between us is so heavy a summer storm could erupt over our heads and drench us to our skin. I walk, my legs numb and heavy towards my beat-up Citroen.
If I’m expecting him to say something about the dire condition of my car, he doesn’t. I wonder if he remembers we first met because I owned a shit car and it died right outside his garage, back in the days of car grease and living on lust. My eyes rove over him, searching for any sign of grease, but there isn’t any. Just a navy t-shirt and some stone-coloured shorts, flip-flops gracing his feet. This is an interesting and —let’s be honest— arresting sight. I never got to see Freddy in shorts and flip flops when we were together because he was in hospital before I left. He can carry it off. There is no doubt about that.
His lips twitch again but he doesn’t comment on my greedy appraisal. Anyone would think I’ve been living on a planet void of men for ten years.
When I’ve wrestled the cans into the car, his strong arms helping to swing them up, I turn to speak. I feel this is the moment to break my ten-year vow of silence. To say something, anything. I could even tell him my name isn’t really Amber Williamson—well, it won’t be much longer. I could tell him the huge decision I made ten years ago, which stopped me coming back. But the look on his face stops any words I have to say. The ocean blues search me like they are trying to find something there. A look of sadness seeps into the new lines around his mouth and the scattering of crinkles which surround his eyes.
If I could just run my fingers along them, I feel like that would be conversation enough.
My chest gets that terrible tightening again. I haven’t felt it in so long I’ve almost forgotten how it felt to have someone steal the air out of your lungs.
“Bye, Amber.” The ocean-blues flash and he turns and paces away, much quicker than how we walked here in silence.
“Bye,” I call back. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t respond, nor does he turn and look at me again, even though I’m rooted to the spot until he is out of sight.
Later, I’m restless. Isaac is still out with Elliot. Mum is dozing in her chair, and I’m sat in front of my laptop drumming a biro against the screen.
Writing stories came easy—itdoescome easy I should say. Love stories, all bitter and twisted. Stories with no happy endings. ‘Hate stories’ I like to call them. Apart from right now I’m drawing a blank. I’m on my second rather large glass of wine when my phone beeps and I eagerly grab at it, desperate for a distraction of any kind.
How was town?Dani writes. Like she doesn’t bloody know how town was. I feel a little pang of jealousy at the seeming closeness that’s developed between my old best friend and the boy she once didn’t like, didn’t want me to waste a future on.
Uneventful.I return.
Good :)
What does that mean?
I decide not to reply. I pour myself another brimming glass of wine instead and peer mournfully at the bottle when I notice I’ve drunk it all in forty minutes.
A glance at the wall clock tells me it’s eight. I think this day may never end.
Grabbing my final glass of wine, I jump from my seat and start to pace the kitchen. I feel caged in, trapped. My skin is itching, my legs feel all weird, and generally I feel I would be much happier if my son was here with me where he should be.
Bloody Elliot. I told him to have him home by eight. I know he’s come a long way, but still.
Half an hour later I hear giggling at the door and rush to swing it open. Isaac bounds in, full of beans, a wide smile spread from ear to ear. “We went to a castle, Mum. It was awesome.”
“Hmm, awesome, I’m sure.” I sigh with a smile, my mind already relaxing with his return. I look up at Elliot standing just outside the door. He looks just like the cute guy who I should have kept as a friend and never married. Glasses and a typically trendy outfit in place, he’s the exact opposite of the man who helped me carry paint to the car today.Stop thinking about him.
My Freddy thoughts have been officially out of control today, and way over my allocated three. Three thousand is far more likely.
“How was he?” I ask, not offering to invite him in.
“Nervous, you know, he’s worried about school.” Elliot leans against the door, more than aware he’s not being allowed to come in.
“He’s not the only one!” I laugh before quickly sobering up. “Listen, thanks for today. I know you won’t be able to do it often.”
Elliot straightens up. “Listen, Amber, I know you and I have problems, but Isaac still feels as much mine as ever. I will see him every other weekend.”
“What? Every other weekend? That’s too much!” It’s too much for me; it’s felt horrible here today without my son.
“I’ve promised him already.”
Anger flares inside me. “You shouldn’t have done that without telling me.”
