Chapter Twenty-Seven
What do you do when your heart is in pieces, and the reason for that heartbreak lives just a dividing hedge away?
Bo, newly sensible, newly adult and entirely modern, did what any other self-respecting woman of the world would do when their heart had just been stomped on: she noped the fuck out of there.
She woke in the morning, handing Willa a can of soda before throwing all her clothes into her battered old backpack. It was the backpack that had made the journey with her from Sydney, and now she was packing it to make the journey in reverse.
“I can’t stay here,” she told Willa, sorting through shoes. “I just can’t.”
“So, don’t go home,” Willa suggested, a hand on her forehead to block out the early morning light. “Come and stay with me.”
“No.” Bo was firm. “I need distance. Hampstead isn’t distance; it’s a train ride.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“No. I need to get away. I need space from . . . well, everything.”
Willa appeared to think for a moment. “At least go and talk to Mr Two out of—” she stopped. “Go and talk to Max before you make any decisions.”
“We talked last night,” Bo said tersely.
“When?” Willa looked confused.
“You were passed out,” Bo replied. “It was the middle of the night.”
Willa blushed. “I am sorry, you know. About the drinking . . . and then, for what I told Max.”
At that, Bo stopped her fervent packing. She softened, reaching out to lay a hand on Willa’s arm. “I know. Why’d you drink so much? You don’t normally drink that much.”
Willa shrugged. “I know. I just . . . I wanted to know how it felt.”
“What, being drunk?”
“Yes.” Willa’s blush deepened. “I wanted to know what he . . . what he sees in it.”
He. Berg.
Bo sighed. “He doesn’t see anything in it, Wills. It’s an addiction. An illness. He doesn’t do it for fun or for kicks. He does it because he can’t stop himself.”
“He’s stopped now.” Willa’s voice was quiet, but there was a tremor in it, bitter and brittle, like glass about to crack. “He’s finally stopped.”
“Yeah, and you know how much fucking work it’s been for him to get to this point.” Bo paused. “It’sgoodhe’s stopped, Wills. A miracle, even.”
“Yeah, it’s wonderful.” Willa’s voice grew oddly flat. “But it wasn’t for me, Bo.”
Bo sighed. “Wills—”
“It wasn’t for me,” Willa said again, before Bo could finish. “All those years . . . all those meetings . . . all that work . . . and it wasn’t for me. And I’m trying not to let it eat me up, I really am. But I spent years trying to save him, Bo. Years and years, yet when he finally saved himself, I’m not there to help celebrate the rescue.”
Bo reached over, stroking Willa’s arm. “Have you ever told him?”
“Told him what?”
Bo gave her a look. “Do I need to say it?”
Willa sighed, flopping dramatically back on Bo’s bed. “Maybe.”
“You’re in love with Berg. You do know that, right?”
