Chapter 22
GREG
Everyone loves Sunday.
Sleepy mornings. Bacon and eggs for breakfast. Kirk or church for some, for other’s a boozy brunch. Long walks with the dog in the park. Football on the TV in the afternoon. Sunday roasts of beef and veg. Afternoon tipples. Beers down the pub.
Everyone loves Sunday because Sunday is nothing but good.
Except this Sunday.
The Sunday Isobel and I part for good.
‘Maybe I don’t have to go.’
If only.
Her words are as soft as the skin against my hands. Her back to my front, my body curls around hers as though I’d climb into her skin if it were at all possible.
‘You have a flight booked for this afternoon. A life to return to. And we’ve both got work on Monday.’ I sigh, not because she’s asking this question again but because we must do what we must. ‘And be honest, darlin’, long-drawn-out goodbyes won’t do either of us any good.’
Then it’s her turn to sigh as she tightens her fingers around mine.
‘Being a grown-up sucks,’ she complains. ‘But why does it have to be goodbye? We could meet up again at Christmas. I have a few days off, and you’re closed for a couple of weeks. We could plan—’
‘Isobel.’ Her name sounds like a plea, though not the midnight kind whispered against silken skin. Not the kind cast to the heavens while sunk deep in her heat as though it could stave off the morning light. ‘Darlin’, saying yes to seeing you again, to being with you again, would be the easiest yes I’d ever have to utter.’
‘So just say it then. Say yes,’ she answers simply. ‘Don’t make things difficult before they’re even—’
‘No, hen. We’d only be kidding ourselves. I just can’t.’
‘We could try,’ she says once more, so softly. So softly I don’t anticipate the strength in her movements as she turns in the bed. We’ve been lying like this since the blue light of dawn crept across the room.And I’ve been holding her face away from mine to aid in my resolve. The sight of her all mussed up and loved is enough to make me want her again. Make me want her for always. ‘Greg, I know I said—’
I halt her words with a soft kiss. At least, that’s how it starts. Soft lips and teasing tongue, presses getting deeper and harder as though we could punish the other with our lips and tongue. But it can’t go on. And it doesn’t as, with her cheeks in my palms, I pull my head from hers with a reluctance I feel deep in my bones.
‘Isobel. I can’t do this. I just can’t.’
‘It’s early days,’ she says, covering my hands with hers. Sliding them from my face, she pulls our joined fingers between us under the covers. ‘You don’t know what might happen. I might not like you outside these four walls, and you might think I’m a colossal bitch.’ Her eyes are bright, her words even more so, but I can tell the effort it takes for her to carry on with her campaign. Her campaign to champion the chance of a relationship. ‘We might decide we’re too different—that we live too far apart.’
‘And what happens if we don’t? What happens if this miracle few days we’ve had grows? Turns into love? What then for you?’
‘Well, I get you, I suppose.’ She smiles a quizzical smile, but it’s disingenuous. This isn’t the first time in the last few hours we’ve had this conversation. The conversation where I told her about my past and the circumstances surrounding the failure of my marriage.
My failure.
‘You get me, and I’ll get you, and it’ll be fantastic for a while. But then, one day, I’ll see you glance at a woman with a pregnant belly. I’ll see the hurt. Then maybe we’ll be out for a coffee another day, and you’ll roll your eyes at the noise the family at the next table are making. You’ll make some joke about how we’re at least able to drink our coffee in peace. Tell me you’re pleased we don’t ever have our dinner plans spoiled. You’ll say kids are more trouble than they’re worth and that you really didn’t want them, anyway. And I’ll watch that lie grow and grow. Until, one day, you decide you can’t do it anymore.’
‘You don’t know that will happen. Just because it’s happened before doesn’t mean it’ll happen again. I’m nother.’
‘No, but you’re a woman. A woman I want the best for.’
‘But just because—’
‘Unexplained infertility isn’t pretend infertility. It doesn’t change anything, and it doesn’t go away. I had the tests and jumped through the hoops but still got my heart ripped out in the end.’
‘But you’re killing something that hasn’t even lived. We might be a perfect for each other, or we might just never, ever want to see each other again. Or we might decide we’re only ever compatible in bed. Don’t you want to find out which it is?’
‘Do you really think you only want that last one to be true?’ She shrugs lightly, and I know she’s kidding herself again. ‘I hear you, and I know what you’re saying. What if we’re only ever meant for each other now? You’re right. We might not be able to stand the sight of each other outside of this, but you need to remember, you came in here, grabbed my package, and then shortly following, you told me you wanted to settle down. To have a family. And you deserve it; you deserve it all. And that includes the things I can’t give you.’ She opens her mouth to speak, but I carry on. ‘I just can’t, love. I can’t bear the thought of not being able to give you everything. And the bottom line is, I just can’t take that risk.’
‘Am I not worth the risk?’
‘You’re worth everything. And that’s why I have to let you go.’
