‘Richard.’ It hurts to say his name. It hurts to look at him, at the pain I’ve inflicted. But I have to go on. ‘I love you.’
He says nothing.
‘But I love him too.’
‘You love him?’ he bites back. ‘You fuckinglovehim?’
‘Please stop swearing at me.’
‘What the fuck am I supposed to say?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I fucking love you! I want to marry you! And you’re telling me you’re in love with someone else? Thisfuckingarsehole?’ He flaps the picture in my face. ‘This fucking arsehole who’s twice your age?’
‘He’s only thirty-eight.’ It’s out of my mouth before I realise I should have said nothing.
‘Thirty-eight? Thirty-fucking-eight? What a fucking joke.’ He starts to tear the photo into shreds.
‘Richard, please stop,’ I beg. ‘I’m sorry.’ Tears begin coursing down my cheeks – not about the photo, but because I know how much I’m hurting him.
He lets go of the pieces and regards me with fury as they flutter to the ground. I start to sob because I can’t keep it in any longer. I clutch my hand to my chest because it aches so much. I’m in too much of a state to look at him, but when I do, his anger has been replaced with sorrow. I hold out my hand to him and he takes it. I throw my arms around his stiff body and cry into his shoulder, but he’s silent.
Eventually my sobs subside and I pull away to look up at him. His face is dead. He’s staring ahead in a daze. We’re still standing in the hall, the shredded pieces of my photo scattered at our feet.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.
‘Are you leaving me?’
‘I don’t know.’
Emotion fills his eyes as he stares at me. ‘You might leave me over this?’ I can see now that he didn’t quite understand that it was that serious. He tears his eyes away from mine and sighs deeply. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’
‘I never meant to hurt you.’
‘You’re going toleaveme over this?’ he asks again, looking at me with incredulity.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
‘Well, you’d better make up your fucking mind.’ He’s bitter again now, and I can hardly blame him. I try to take his hand, but he snatches it away. ‘I can’t be here with you.’
I watch as he takes the keys to his truck from the bowl on the kitchen counter and walks out of the door, slamming it behind him. I know he needs some space and I have no right to take that away from him, but it doesn’t stop me from ringing his mobile time and time again. He lets it ring to start with, but answers on my fifth try.
‘Where are you?’ I ask.
‘Nathan and Lucy’s.’
‘Have you told them everything?’
‘Pretty much.’
They must think I’m such a bitch.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘Please come home.’
