“I didn’t think,” Max whispers eventually, softly.
“What do you mean?”
“About staying somewhere like this. That it might... bring back memories.”
I shake my head, my mind beetling with frustration. “Oh no. God, it’s okay. I should be able to sleep in a sodding hotel room, shouldn’t I?”
There is a long pause as we stand in front of the window together. It should be the most romantic view in the world, yet here I am wondering if I’ll ever feel safe in a place like this again.
“You know, my company...” Max begins, then trails off.
“HWW?”
I feel the graze of his stubble as he nods, his chin dipped into the crook of my neck. “I have private medical insurance, and partners are covered. Partners as in girlfriends, boyfriends...”
“Okay,” I say, unsure where this is going.
“I’ve been thinking... you could use it to see a psychologist, if you want. I think it would cover a few sessions. If you feel like that might help.”
I peel away from him, go and sit on the edge of the bed. Any romantic vibes have evaporated from the room now completely. “Jesus, Max. Do you really think I’m—”
“Yeah,” he says, softly, staying where he is by the window. “I do. I think what happened to you was really serious. And I don’t think you’ve fully... accepted that.”
“I don’tknowwhat happened to me,” I remind him.
“Well, exactly. God, Luce, isn’t that fact alone enough to mess with anyone’s head?”
The question flickers between us for a minute or so, while I try tothink of a way to save tonight. I don’t want to spend our time here discussing the state of my head, or Nate, or whether I should use HWW’s health insurance for psychiatric assistance.
“It was just a bad dream,” I say, eventually.
“Yeah, one that you’re still having ten years later,” he says gently. “Just... promise me you’ll think about it.”
I look over at him, this incredible man who I’ve loved for almost half my life, who wants us to live together, who cares for me so deeply. “Okay,” I say. “Okay. I’ll think aboutit.”
Fifteen
Stay
Caleb and I are having dinner in the little courtyard garden of the French bistro in Shoreley—a little optimistically, admittedly, for late evening in May—when he leans forward and sets his glass against mine. It’s a romantic space out here, with antique brick-weave paving so uneven it makes all the tables wobble, and twinkling lights spanning the rear wall. The air is fragranced by tiny vases of sweet peas, the breeze rich with the rumble of a restless sea.
“So... it came through.”
I hold my breath. I know what he’s referring to, because we were expecting it today—his decree absolute, the final document confirming he and Helen are no longer married—but I need to hear him say it.
“We’re officially divorced. It’s over.”
I exhale, unsure whether to smile or stay solemn. It’s a strange thing, watching the person you love untangle themselves from someone else—who just so happens to be the persontheyonce loved mostin the world. The process has been remarkably frictionless—aside from some minor quibbling over a car and some savings—but I still feel relief spill through me like a breaking wave.
“Is that why you suggested dinner?” I say, venturing a smile. Caleb called me this afternoon, asked if I fancied eating out tonight, and I sensed from his voice he had something to tell me.
“Kind of,” he says, not quite meeting my eye.
Suddenly, he looks so uncomfortable that my relief evaporates, and is replaced by that snow-cold feeling you get in your gut when someone decides to explore a darkened cellar in a film.
But then he seems to shake it off. “Anyway, tell me about your news,” he says, abruptly changing the subject.
I park my trepidation. “Hardly news,” I say resignedly, with a grim smile.
