“Anytime. Have fun.”
I jog lightly across the village green andfind my family filling the smaller of two covered dining areas in the pub garden. Sam has hired a couple of new staff since Christmas, so he can spend more time with Wren, and he’s joining us tonight as well. It’s been great to see them settle into their relationship, but enquiring minds want to know. And it seems that Archer is not about to let them wriggle out of it this time.
“So… how are things going with you guys?” he says, staring meaningfully at the two of them. “You’ve both been pretty tight-lipped about” – he gestures between them – “this, since, er, before Christmas.” Archer tries for diplomatic, clearly not wanting to say ‘since the pregnant woman claiming to be your wife showed up, and you broke my sister’s heart’, but falls about twenty feet wide of the mark.
Wren glares, but Sam replies easily, tightening his hold on Wren’s waist. “It’s going. Wren and I are amazing, but there’s still a lot to iron out with Tasha.”
“So, hang on,” Cole interjects. “Is she really your wife? What the fuck, Sam? Since when?” I’m thankful for Cole’s bluntness, vocalising what I’m pretty sure all of Wren’s big brothers want to know.
“Since Evan’s stag do in April last year.” I remember Sam went to Las Vegas when hisbrother was getting married, but I had no idea he’d gotten fucking married. “I got completely fucked up because I thought I’d completely fucked things up with Wren, and I woke up married to Tasha. I regretted it immediately, but I had to fly home that day. When I tried to call her to arrange the divorce, she never picked up the phone. I literally had my solicitor sorting out sending divorce papers without speaking to her, when she rocked up at Christmas about ready to pop.” He takes a sip of his wine, and I notice Wren snuggle down into his body a little more, as if reassuring him that she’s not going anywhere.
“So, has she had the baby now, then?” Rain asks. “She must have, surely. She looked about ready to pop at Christmas.”
“Yeah, she has. And Sam insisted on a paternity test, and we’re just waiting for the results. But either way—” Wren says, before being interrupted by Sam.
“Either way, we’re together. Wren and I, I mean. We’re together whatever that test says, and we’ll figure it out if and when we need to.” He says this to Wren, more than the room at large, and I have no doubt they will sort things out, judging by the way they are swooning over each other every time I’ve seen them today, andespecially right now.
The conversation moves on, and before long, we’ve descended to reminiscing over childhood stories. Today has been a bloody good day.
We’re deep into our second round of drinks when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, assuming Nancy must have woken up and wants me, but when I see Corey’s name on my screen, I rush to answer.
“Hello?”
Twenty-seven
Corey
“He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
The surprise in Nash’s voice mirrors my own shock, and I can’t bring myself to speak. The voices in the background, wherever he is, go quiet, and I can only assume his words have drawn the attention of his family.
“H-he’s dead,” I repeat, barely able to believe the overwhelming relief I feel at that reality. “T-the police found him in his parents’ holiday home in the Cotswolds. H-he wasn’t there when they looked before, but he musthave gone back, and they found him there. H-he overdosed.”
“Fuck, baby. Are you OK?” Nash’s concern brings tears to my eyes, and while I’m sure it makes me a shitty person, they’re tears not of sadness, but of joy. I can go home. To Nash, to my friends. To my family.
“It’s over. It’s really over,” I say, my words gushing out of me in relief. I cry down the phone, and Nash just lets me. He holds space for me even when we’re miles apart. And selfishly, the only thing I could focus on when I was speaking to DI Martin was that we don’t need to be miles apart anymore.
“It’s over, baby. I’m so relieved. You must be, too?” he asks. I can hear his footsteps, and the background noise recedes as he walks away from wherever he was when I called.
“Where are you?”
“We were in the pub, but I’ve just stepped out, and I’m leaning on the fence by the duck pond.” I can see the image so clearly in my mind, and it makes me ache. “Where are you?”
“I’m in my room. DI Martin rang while John’s cooking dinner, and I came upstairs and called you straight away.”
“I’m glad you did,” he says, warmth andaffection emanating from his voice.
“Nash?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“I want to come home.” He breathes out a sigh that sounds as though it’s been held inside for months.
“Fuck, I want you to come home, too. I miss you so fucking much.” Vulnerability laces his tone. “What do we need to do to make that happen?” Here he is, my favourite planner and organiser, an Enneagram 8 to his very core.
“Well… about that,” I hedge, the plan Emma and I have been hatching together on the tip of my tongue. “Have you found anyone to be your mother’s help yet, babe?”
