‘Guilty?’ Ava’s eyebrows knotted. ‘About what?’
‘Your mother,’ he said. ‘Her illness.’
‘Pa, she was sick for a very long time—’
‘And I knew that,’ he said, tightening his hands into fists. ‘And I ignored it. I kept working. Kept travelling back and forth – to Manchester, to Leeds – as though if I pretended everything was normal, if I pretended everything was how it was meant to be, then I would come home and find that the world had righted itself. That your mother—’ He broke off, swallowing. ‘That your mother would be well again.’
Ava put down her cup, moving so that she could reach a hand to her father’s shoulder, holding it there.
‘So much time – and none of it with her.’ He blew a breath through his teeth, reaching to rub roughly at his cheeks. ‘I wasted it on work—’
‘You were supporting us,’ said Ava, her voice soft. ‘You were working to save money. To pay for her medicine.’
‘No.’ Her father shook his head. ‘I was running away. I was trying to hide from all that was happening. But all I did was waste the little time we had. And then she died, and then—’ He stopped, scrunching his eyes shut, and she watched a tear roll down his cheek, tracking into the stubble at his jaw. He turned to look at her then, and his eyes were the bluest blue – the colour of summer seas, and scorching skies, and swaying wildflowers. ‘What I am trying to say, Ava, is that they only feel like knives if you turn them inwards upon yourself. But the moments – the happiness in those moments – that was real. And that happiness doesn’t have to hurt. It doesn’t have to rot away. That’s something that Mrs Moss’ damned club has taught me.’
He sat back a little then, tilting his gaze to the ceiling. Ava sat back too, nestling so that her head could rest against her father’s shoulder, so that he could reach and stroke the hair from her forehead.
‘What I’m trying to say is that it’s worth it, Ava. It’s worth being happy. It’s worth chasing that. Even if it hurts when you lose it. Even if it’s a knife – because it won’t be a knife forever. One day it’ll be something you can hold in your hands, and turn over, and it won’t cut you anymore. Instead, you’ll just be able to look upon it, and remember it.’
She closed her eyes then and saw Damien’s face. The way he’d looked at her when she’d first opened the door to him, like he was halfway between stepping inside or running a mile.
‘It’s better to care,’ she said softly.
‘Always,’ said her father, wrapping an arm around her and squeezing.
‘Even if they … they hurt you? Even if they lied? Even if you’re furious with them?’
Her father’s expression twisted a little. ‘I suppose it depends why they lied, Ava. And whether it’s a hurt you can bear to forgive.’
She thought of the way he said, in the quiet of that room,This is the truth, Ava. Thought of the way he’d kissed her, as though he wanted to scorch the press of their lips into her memory, or his, or both.
‘Give it time,’ her father said. ‘And give it thought, and perhaps – if you think it’s something you can reconcile—’
‘I don’t have time,’ she said, her voice sticking in her throat. ‘He’s leaving. Taking a ship to America. I’ll never see him again.’
Her father paused a little at that. ‘Was this the man you brought to the teashop?’
Ava gave the smallest of nods.
‘And he’s … going to America?’
Another nod.
‘And you love this man, do you?’
Ava looked at him then, and she found she couldn’t answer. For a lump had formed in her throat so wide that she could barely breathe around it. She was furious with Damien. She was furious with herself. She wanted to demand an explanation, to beg for her own chance to explain. But more than any of that, she just wanted to see him again. She wanted him to be standing in front of her, and for the panicked, jittering feeling that had begun to hum in her stomach to quieten, once and for all.
And yet the answer still sang within her.
‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘Yes, I love him.’
‘Well then …’ said her father, sitting up and looking her square in the eye. ‘I suppose the most important question is which one you’ll choose. Your anger, or your love.’
Chapter Fifty-Nine
This was madness.
Ava knew that even as she ran down Park Lane, dashing between impossible gaps in the traffic, her breath sawing in her chest. But better this madness than the alternative. Better the folly of running than the weeks she would spend alone if she missed Damien. The months that would yawn into years. The notebooks she would fill with his face, his crumpled expression – a shadow of what she could have had.
