A beat of silence stretches between us before I ask, “Do you get lonely here without her?”
He stares down at the deep red swirl of wine in his glass. “After she died, I didn’t want anyone else in the house for a long time. It felt . . . disrespectful. And I didn’t think it would be fair to any future woman—because I’d inevitably compare her to my wife.”
I swallow hard. My fingers twitch against his before I pull back, wrapping them around my own glass instead.
“She is quite the woman to live up to,” I murmur, attempting a lightness I don’t feel. “If you are comparing me to Millie, I’m sorry to say I’ll fail the test.”
His eyes snap back to mine, something sharp flickering in them. “To compare you would be absurd.”
I let out a dry huff. “You weren’t supposed to agree soreadily.”
I take a very large sip of wine to mask the sting.
“I’m saying it would be absurd because you’re not comparable. You’re different. Entirely.”
I freeze, setting my glass down.
“If anything,” he mutters, almost begrudgingly. “You shatter that stasis for me. That frozen place I was stuck in, where I kept everyone at arm’s length because it was easier.”
My breath catches. His gaze holds mine.
“You wrecked that for me. You’re my circuit breaker. For lack of a better word.”
My pulse thrums in my throat. “Oh,” I manage, because what do you evensayto that? “Well, I’m glad I’m your . . . circuit breaker.”
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning, and the kind of terrifying potential that makes my stomach flip.
We both chuckle, but it’s that awkward kind of laugh—more of a flimsy cover-up for all the things neither of us knows how to deal with.
“As you can see, I’m not exactly the smoothest talker,” he says.
“No,” I agree, lips twitching. “But youarethe most thoughtful.”
A small, self-conscious smile flickers at the corner of his mouth. “Millie wouldn’t want me ruining my date with morbid chat. She’d be chastising me for this, no doubt.” He pauses. “To answer your question—I manage well enough on my own. But . . . yes, sometimes, I get lonely.”
I glance around the dining room that feels way too big for one person.
“There are so many rooms here, you could get lost and never be found again. Maybe downsizing’s the answer. Or a cat. Or a flatmate. Although I imagine your screening process is much stricter than mine. I’ve had some properly feral ones.”
Edward arches a brow. “I don’t know whether you’re referring to flatmates or cats.”
“Both, actually.”
“I hope you’re not talking about your current one—Jamie, the events planner?”
“He’s all right,” I say, swirling my wine with the kind of elegance that only comes from years of spilling it on myself. “He leaves socks everywhere, and obviously, he doesn’t always have the best attention to detail when it comes to booking glamping tents. Still, he’s a good mate now. That’s just how it goes in your twenties, isn’t it? You live with random people, occasionally wonder if they might be serial killers, and hope for the best.”
Edward exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’sdeeplyconcerning.”
A flash of Sophia in her Hampstead kitchen flickers through my mind. “Oh, except if you’re rich, obviously,” I amend, then wince. “I mean—”
“You’re right. Sophia’s never had to endure the unique experience of questionable flatmates. Neither did I, for that matter. And while I’m aware this may sound terribly privileged, financial wealth often comes at the expense of other equally valuable experiences. Those shared struggles, the late-night conversations with virtual strangers who become family . . .”
He pauses. “There are different forms of wealth—financial, yes, but also social capital, time abundance, physical wellbeing. Each valuable in its own right but rarely found in perfect balance.”
His eyes meet mine. “I suspect your flatmate experiences, dubious as they might be, have given you a wealth of stories. Character building.”
God, he’s so serious. Like everything’s a TED Talk.
