He lets out a small laugh. ‘And… are we there yet?’
I hold on to the collar of his shirt. ‘Yes.’
I give Michael’s letters another fleeting glance. Spence follows my gaze, but there isn’t the usual side-eye that tells me he thinks I’m losing myself in the past, this time, the left side of his mouth curves upwards.
Spence lets out a short laugh.
‘What?’
‘I… I wrote you a letter… figured it was the best way to get your attention.’
I quirk an eyebrow. ‘What did it say?’
He lets out a breath. ‘It said that I?—’
I steal the rest of his words, my mouth meeting his. I pull back. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ I look into the eyes that have always seen me for who I am and loved me anyway. ‘I don’t need to read a letter to know who you are, Spence.’ I smile. ‘I just need you.’
His forehead drops to mine, and for a moment the world goes completely, gloriously still.
This is love. This breath, this touch, this truth finally spoken.
Because after all the detours and wrong turns and near misses…
I found my way home. Not in the past, not in the future, but here. Now.
Love isn’t always in grand gestures, it isn’t like in films or in books, it’s not kissing in the rain, or running through the airport to stop them boarding a plane. Sometimes it’s said in a house that you’ve painted, in a house where you became a couple.
Sometimes love is right there in front of you, even if you’ve spent your life looking for it in the wrong place.
And as Spence’s arms wrap tightly around me, and I let myself fall deeper into his kiss, the world feels like it clicks into place, like a living, breathing snapshot of something so right that it should be hung in a gallery: a perfect moment.
Somewhere, in the air, in my heart, in my soul, there is a whisper, a fleeting echo from the past already drifting away…
Aye. Took you long enough, lass… but you got there in the end.
EPILOGUE
ALICE – ONE YEAR LATER
Summer Solstice
The sunlight beams through the windows, tracking a stretch of light across the wooden floor. Even though a year has passed since I spotted a similar pattern showing me the way to Spence, there are moments like this where I feel like Michael’s still with me, guiding me forward.
The gallery – a stone’s throw from the renovated mural – is small, just two rooms but brimming with life. The walls are off-white. I can almost hear his voice.Bleedin’ magnolia.
I blink back the sting in my eyes, swallow down the lump of pride in my throat. Michael’s work shines from the walls: the vibrant red of a single rose against the grey cracks of a footpath; the glow of a cigarette held between a gnarled workman’s fingers; the blue of Alice’s dress against a wall; the bright red of a phone box. All the colours alive against the grey backgrounds.
And the portrait of Alice, sketched through the medium of words, in the middle of the wall.
Spence’s hand squeezes mine, warm, and steady. ‘You OK?’ he asks.
I reach for a glass of wine from the table next to the placard that readsDavid Michael Jones (1955-1985): Life through the cracks.
My eyes cast around the room buzzing with laughter and groups of people standing in front of his work. ‘More than OK.’
Pride swells inside my chest, not just over his work, but at my part in this. The minute the first instalment of my article hit the weekend supplement, Michael and his story found a place in readers’ hearts. Giuditta agreed to me working from home, and I write in our kitchen, surrounded by leftover cereal dishes and pieces of Georgia’s homework. Spence often sitting opposite as he marks essays and plans lessons, our legs tangled beneath the desk. I go into the office every few months, taking them both with me: my family.
Kate smiles over at us, excusing herself from a woman in her forties. Blonde bob, thick eyeliner. Kate pulls me into a hug, Bobby close behind. ‘He would have loved this, seeing everyone talking about his work, seeing what he saw…’ she says, eyes filling. ‘It was his dream…’ She trails off.
