It was amazing how quickly you could get used to someone being there, even when they weren’t always with you. The glass with the succulent red lipstick mark on it by the sink, her tiny denim shorts and glittery vests hanging on the clothes airer, the smell of floral shower gel wafting out of the bathroom.
Her energy was everywhere, even when she wasn’t.
But this wasn’t how it should be between newlyweds. He shouldn’t be here alone, wishing he was that glass. Maybe after ten years together, but not now.
They weren’t like normal newlyweds, though. It was better to think that they weren’t married at all.
He didn’t want to think that. He wanted his wife. Was that so wrong?
Sean went upstairs, took a shower, came back down, and with a bowl of potato salad in one hand, opened his lap top and navigated to the email he hadn’t done anything about yet.
The one where had he to go online and book an appointment for his American visa interview in London. He ought to get cracking on that, although it didn’t seem so appealing anymore.
A sea of dates swam in front of him; most of them were a few months away, but there was a free one in two-weeks’ time.
You’re going to have to go for it, Seany, because if you don’t, you could end up with nothing.
He booked the slot. If she gave him a sign, he could cancel it.
He really hoped he would have to cancel it.
Sean placed his empty bowl on the table and picked up a book and tried to read. But his mind wasn’t focused enough, so he began to scroll through the photos on his phone. He came to one of him and his dad standing together in their kilts at one of the annual distillery Burns’ suppers. Eighteen-year-old Sean had been so proud to attend as Jimmy Butler’s son and over the moon that he’d been allowed to do theAddress to a Haggisthat year. His dad had even coached him.
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race!
A sucker punch of grief hit him right in the solar plexus.
Shit.Grief could hit you at the most inopportune times.He didn’t want to cry when Cherry could walk in at any minute. That would be embarrassing.
On the internet tabs on his phone, he flicked to some stuff he’d been browsing over the past couple of weeks, dipping in and out and wondering what to do with the information. Articles and blog posts about the effects of miscarriage on relationships. He wanted a deeper understanding of what it meant because, with that, he had a better chance of holding onto his wife.
There was no denying it was depressing stuff. It seemed that the strain could tear even the strongest couples apart.
But he thought he’d found something that might give some hope.
The patio door clicked, and Sean turned to see Cherry. God, she never failed to take his breath away. Tonight, she was softer, more vulnerable-looking than the public-facing version. Her face was clear of make-up. A flowing black skirt fell to her ankles; her feet were bare, with pink-polished nails. And heaven help him, was she wearing one of his work polo shirts?
Yep. Due to the size of the shirt on her, the Butler’s Cooperage name was on her right breast.
A powerful wave of something unfamiliar crashed through Sean. What was that? It was as if the cord of energy between them had thickened. Was it primal? Like she was sending him an invisible message that she belonged to him.
But she didn’t. This was one giant tease.
But what could he say? It was just a t-shirt.
‘Hey,’ he said, lowly. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Hey.’ Cherry ran her hand through her mermaid waves. ‘It’s going good. I came in for some water. Did you get something to eat?’ She held her glass under the running faucet.
‘Aye, old potato salad. Nice top.’
She glanced down at the shirt, more precisely at the logo on her breast. ‘Oh, yeah, sorry. I found it hanging on the clothes airer. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Nope. It suits you. Keep it if you like. I’ve plenty more.’
He wondered if it smelled of him. It was clean, but maybe wearing it reminded her of him. God knows, if he had an item of her clothing pressed to any part of his body, he’d have her on his mind.
