But that’s not all this is, River. Not even close. More than anything, I want to know you. I want to know your favourite foods and your favourite memories. I want to know why, when you smile, you wrinkle your nose ever-so-slightly. I want to know how you get all those ribbons in your hair.
I want to know you more than I want to sleep with you, River. And I want to sleep with you more than anything, so that should tell you how deep my feelings go.
Why are you in London?the next question asked.
His brow furrowed and he felt that old, panicked sense of having to justify his life choices.
Just after my ex-wife left me, my father died of cancer and my mother remarried.
I’m a Vice-President of the company I work for and so I asked for a secondment to Europe. I made out that the work here was too important to leave to anyone else but, actually, that wasn’t true.
I told my mother that I was angry at her for remarrying so quickly, and that I needed time away from her and her new wife but, actually, that also wasn’t true.
I told the few friends I have that I couldn’t bear to see my ex-wife parading around our social set with her new boyfriend. But that was also a lie.
The truth is, I came here because I couldn’t see New York without seeing my father everywhere I went.
When he was sick, he asked me to visit him. He wanted to build bridges, mend the rift, that sort of thing. It seemed that cancer had given him a new outlook on fatherhood after a lifetime of being a deadbeat dad.
But I kept making excuses and, in the end, I never did get to see him before he died. He slipped away, alone, in a dingy New York hospice.
And now, whenever I’m in that city, I see his face everywhere I look.
And it’s always a face full of recriminations.
He ordered another pint. At this rate, he knows he’d be half-cut by eleven, but God damn if he didn’t need the dull buzz that alcohol brought.
When do you go home?
At this question, there was no hesitation.
Two weeks. Christmas. But I don’t want to go. If you’ll have me, I’ll stay with you forever.
You understand, of course, that my mama is going to kill you?
At this next question, Cohen felt a deep stab of anxiety. He didn’t have anything against Rushi, not really, but he knew that she disliked him on behalf of his mother, and that, having heard the stories of his misspent youth, she regarded him with deep suspicion if not open hostility.
He recalled Rushi’s scowl, her look of pure scepticism and her scathing disregard for any feelings he couldn’t, by her opinion, possibly have.
But with the memory of River’s kiss in his mind, the taste of her still in his mouth, he was now long past the point where walking away was an option.Let Rushi do her worst.
You’re worth it, he wrote.
The next few lines weren’t a question. Cohen felt himself fill with hopeful adrenaline, a frisson of excitement running down his spine, as he read them.
I really like you, Cohen.
But I understand why this might be too much for you.
I just want you to know, that even if this is just a one-time thing, I’ll always think of you fondly.
But before anything else, and most importantly of all, I need to know something. And you must understand, that this is a make-or-break question.
He stiffened, preparing himself for the worst.He’d made a lifetime of errors, a litany of mistakes.Which of them might be the confession that proved too much for River?
Favourite ice cream flavour?
The rush of relief that ran through his body was better than any of the numbing pleasure the alcohol let flow through his veins. He laughed out loud, hardly caring that the barman was regarding him with deep disdain.
