“Lucy, I love you so much. My whole life... I never believed in soulmates. But then I met you, and you proved me so wrong. I don’t ever want to be without you again. Will you marry me?”
There’s not a single breath of hesitation inside my body. “Yes. Oh my God. A million times, yes.”
And now we are kissing, and crying, and laughing, and the other people in the restaurant are whooping and applauding, and Caleb’s slipping the ring onto my finger, the man I am meant to spend the rest of my life with, the man whose heartbeat feels like home.
Go
I’m just going through the motions when I find it. Drifting from room to room with Macavity at my ankles, picking things up and then putting them back down, pretending to clean the flat but in reality doing little more than moving stuff around. Max’s vitamins. That slightly intimidating book he was reading on the power of habits. The aftershave I don’t dare smell. Dumbbells, cuff links, breath mints. His work scarf, soft as satin. His running shoes, one pair of many. The box of belongings from his desk at HWW that his boss, Tim, dropped solemnly off last week. Two copies of theFT, from the days preceding the accident, which have now, inconceivably, become precious artifacts.
The flat just feels ludicrous without Max in it.
It’s now a mess of crusty crockery and strewn items of clothing and half-drunk cups of tea and sauce-stained takeaway cartons. I know I need to do something about this, if only out of respect for Max, because he always took such good care of his things. And it’s as I’m putting some of his T-shirts away—I’ve been wearing them at night, but I can’t bear to wash them—that I see it, nestled deep inside the drawer. A small box, in leather the color of cream.
I prize it open, and my world caves in all over again.
—
I try calling Jools, but she’s at work and her phone just rings out. So, in desperation, I call Tash.
For the first couple of weeks after the accident, I couldn’t even look at my sister. There’s nothing quite like losing a loved one to bring past resentments springing vividly back to life. I just couldn’t square the idea of her being sad on my behalf, because she had, albeit years ago, tainted me and Max in a way that would be there forever. Like a chip in a precious object, not constantly on show, but unmissable if you tilt it just the right way, or hold it to the light. An imperfection, a flaw that can’t be fixed.
But then I rang her one night, when Jools couldn’t pick up, a little like I’m doing now. And I realized after we’d spoken for a few minutes that I was clinging to the sound of her voice, to the knowledge that my sister was probably more invested in being there for me than anyone else I knew. The time had come for her to really and truly prove herself, and I knew she would rise to the occasion.
Two months ago today, shortly after I told him to turn the car around, Max’s SUV was crushed against the central reservation of the M25 by an articulated lorry. The driver escaped without injury, but Max died at the scene. The police investigation is ongoing.
His funeral was a month later, my only chance to say good-bye, as I opted not to see him at the mortuary due to the nature of his injuries. Nearly one hundred people gathered at Lambeth Crematorium to pay their respects, after which we scattered his ashes at the garden of remembrance. It was never in question that he would stay in London. His heart was always here, not in Cambridge.
I found it bizarrely hard to cry that day, even when we played “Wonderwall” at the end of the service. I was still in shock, I think, struggling to feel anything but numb. My memory of those first few weeks is so foggy. They say love is a drug—but so, I’ve learned, is grief. I was having a hard time believing Max was actually dead: I kept checking my phone for messages from him, staying up into the small hours in case he walked through the door. I would think I’d spotted him at the shop, or crossing the street in front of the flat.
Only his mother, Brooke, was conspicuous by her absence at the funeral. I’d asked Tash to track her down with the details, as I couldn’t face speaking to her myself, so soon after the accident. And Tash did manage to find her, but Brooke didn’t show up. And I hated her for that. Because even after Max had died, she couldn’t bring herself to be there for him.
I wondered afterward if she was angry, because it turned out that Max had recently written a will, in which he’d appointed his friend Dean Farraday as executor. Dean told me Max had left his flat, money, everything—aside from a few items for Dean and his family—to me. Brooke got nothing. Dean said Max had made the arrangements shortly after the fire at my parents’, but decided not to tell me because he was worried I’d argue it should be Brooke’s name on that document, and not mine.
Max knew me so well. Because at the time, yes—I probably would have said that. Now? I’m not so sure.
It wasn’t until after the funeral that I think I finally understood—therealization as brutal as swallowing dynamite—that I would never see Max again. That the only man I’d ever truly loved was gone forever, because I’d told him to turn the car around.
Since then, I’ve been surviving from hour to hour, moving through the days but not experiencing them. The grief has seeped into my bones, invaded my body like a disease. People think you’re sad when you’re grieving, but it’s so much more primal than that. That’s why grief has its own word. It becomes a part of you, alters you without permission.
Every time death takes a life, it steals a few more too, just for kicks.
“You okay?” Tash asks when she picks up.
I start stammering into the phone. “I found... I found...”
“Lucy? What did you find?”
I’ve been off work since Max died. Zara’s been amazing—far more compassionate than I might have guessed she would be. She even gave me that promotion in absentia, in recognition of the nearly two years of hard work I’d put in at the time of the conference. When she told me, I burst into tears. It should have been such a proud moment, not the bittersweet wrench it was.
I have no idea what Tash is doing right now, or even what day it is: it could be the weekend, or perhaps she’s just stepped out of a meeting at work. But you’d never know: she talks to me as though she’s my own personal helpline, like she’s got nothing better to do right now than listen to me gabble.
“A ring. A ring in a box.A ring in a box.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” I can hear precisely the moment my sister’s heart breaks with mine.
I tell her I’ll call her back, then run to the toilet and throw up. I can’t keep anything down at the moment. Last week was my first session back with Pippa, the psychologist I’d been seeing before Max died (yes,died: if one more person sayspassed, I won’t be responsible for myactions). Pippa explained that nausea is a common physical manifestation of grief, as is my lack of energy and complete loss of appetite, as well as the constant metallic taste in my mouth, which only serves to further put me off my food.
I look awful, I know it. Like a ghost of myself. And the only thing that would bring me back to life would be if Max were to walk through that door again right now.
