Within Reach

by Sarah Mayberry

  He turned to find Eva in the doorway, an uncertain look on her face.

  “Did something happen at school?”

  “No. It was after school, with Auntie Angie. I told her how I told you it was okay with me if she was my mummy but still my auntie. She said she was really touched but that you really liking her wasn’t enough. And then when we got home, I went to change and Auntie Angie came out to her studio and cried.” Eva paused for breath. “She doesn’t know I saw her, and I didn’t say anything because I could tell she didn’t want anyone to know. But now I’m worried I made her cry.”

  Michael’s chest was suddenly very tight. Angie had been crying. Over him. Over them.

  He reached out and squeezed Eva’s shoulder. “I’m sure you didn’t make Angie upset. She’s got a lot of stuff going on right now.”

  Eva looked doubtful. “I hope so.”

  “Trust me, you didn’t make Auntie Angie cry.”

  No, he’d done that, because he’d been a blind idiot. He gave his daughter’s shoulder a final squeeze, his mind racing furiously.

  “Listen. I’m going to pop next door to see if Mrs. Linton would mind keeping an eye on you two for an hour or so, okay? Then I’m going to go see Auntie Angie and make sure she’s all right. How does that sound?”

  Eva brightened. “That sounds good.”

  They went back inside and he made sure Charlie was safely ensconced in front of the TV before leaving the house and starting down the driveway. He had no idea if his neighbors were home or if Mrs. Linton was available, but he hoped like hell she was because he needed to talk to Angie. Tonight. He needed to find out if what he was thinking was right. Because if it was—

  He stopped in his tracks as he registered something that shouldn’t be there: the dark green shape of Angie’s SUV, still parked out the front of his house. He frowned, momentarily confused. Then he realized that Angie was sitting in the driver’s seat, her head bowed.

  The tight feeling in his chest got even tighter. He strode toward her car, a sort of hopeless fury building inside him. She’d huddled in her studio crying this afternoon, and now she’d left his house and was sitting in her car, looking lost and broken…

  He couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the fact that she’d hidden her pain from him. Most of all he couldn’t stand the fact that he was the one who had hurt her.

  He reached the car and curled his fingers around the door handle and pulled it open. Angie started, a four-letter word hissing between her teeth as she pressed a hand to her sternum.

  “Michael…” Her face was shiny with tears, her eyes still swimming.

  “What’s going on, Angie?”

  * * *

  ANGIE STARED AT MICHAEL’S face. He looked pale in the moonlight, his features stony.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she said feebly.

  He leaned forward, one arm braced on the roof of the car, the other on the open car door.

  “Then why are you sitting out here crying?”

  She didn’t know what to say, so she simply stared at him.

  “Eva told me what she said to you. She told me you were crying this afternoon, too.”

  Angie frowned. She’d been so careful to dry her tears. She’d even checked her reflection in the hand mirror in her purse.

  “Tell me the truth, Angie. Is this because of me? Because of us?”

  She couldn’t hold his eyes and lie to him, so she looked away.

  “No.”

  “Liar.”

  She pressed her lips together.

  “Is that why you’re moving your studio, too?”

  He sounded so angry. Accusing, almost. As though she’d withheld some vital secret from him that he’d been entitled to know. She didn’t like the fact that he was looming over her, either, so she got out of the car, forcing him to take a step back.

  “What do you want to hear, Michael? What do you want me to say?”

  “I want the truth. Not some sanitized half truth.”

  She was starting to get angry now, too. She didn’t understand why he was out here acting all righteous and holier-than-thou. She’d tried to do him a favor, let him off the hook. He had no right to stand there looking aggrieved, for Pete’s sake.

  “Fine. You want the truth? You got it. I am in love with you. Probably have been for a while. Which just goes to show how bloody stupid I am. That honest enough for you?”

  Despite the fact that he must have guessed how she felt, he rocked back on his heels a little. “You should have said something.”

  “Why? So you could let me down easily? I know the score, Michael. I loved Billie, too, remember.”

  “This isn’t about Billie. This is about you and me.”

  That really got her goat. “Bullshit. It’s not about Billie. She’s been the third person in this relationship from day one. If you can even call it a relationship.”

  “You think I’d be out here if it was just a roll in the hay? If you weren’t important to me?”

  Suddenly all the fight went out of her. She pressed her palm against her forehead, searching for calm.

  “I don’t know what you want from me,” she said quietly. “I was just trying to put things back the way they were.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible. Do you?”

  His words made tears burn at the backs of her eyes again.

  “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”

  It was all ruined now. Their friendship. Her time with the children. Nothing would ever be the same now that he knew. He’d feel sorry for her. Wouldn’t know how to talk to her, whether she’d take things the wrong way…

  “Angie. Don’t cry.”

  She choked out a laugh. “It’s a little too late for that.”

  “Come here.”

  He pulled her into his arms. She tried to push him off but he wouldn’t let go and after a few seconds she gave in and let him comfort her.

  He smelled so good, and she loved him so much. She pressed her face against his chest and sobbed, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders.

  “Angie. It’s okay,” he said, his arms tightening around her.

  It wasn’t, and she knew it, and so did he.

  “I didn’t do it on purpose,” she said, her words muffled by his T-shirt. “I swear to you, I didn’t. I loved Billie as much as you and the last thing I wanted was this. But it happened and I couldn’t stop it.”

  “I know.”

  She felt him press a kiss to her temple—such a simple gesture, and such a perfect illustration of who he was as a man and why she loved him.

  He was so loyal and kind and loving. It was why he still loved Billie, why he would never love her. She slid her hands from his shoulders and pulled away from him. He let her go, but she could feel his reluctance.

  “You can’t help me get over this, Michael. You know that, right?”

  He took a moment to answer. “Yes.”

  The final nail in the coffin. She accepted the pain of it. Owned it.

  “I need to go now. And you need to let me go.”

  He didn’t move. She reached out and laid her palm against his chest. She could feel his heart beating, sure and strong. She looked him dead in the eye.

  “I love you.” It was the first and last time she would ever let herself say it. “Now let me go.”

  He still didn’t move and she pushed him away, forcing him back a step.

  “Come inside and talk,” he said.

  She shook her head. “No. There’s nothing to say.”

  His gaze held hers and she could see how much he hurt for her, how much he regretted her pain and that he was the cause of it.

  “It’s okay, Michael. I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

 
; She got into the car and started the engine, then reached for the door handle. He was blocking the door, and she looked at him, not saying a word. After a long beat he stepped out of the way and she pulled the door shut. She waited until he’d taken another step back before she pulled away from the curb.

  She told herself not to, but she couldn’t stop herself from looking in the rearview mirror. Michael was standing very still in the middle of the road, watching her drive away.

  He faded into the distance, finally disappearing. She blinked away a fresh flood of tears.

  It was all over. Now all that was left was the salvage operation. One day, they might be able to be friends again. She hoped so, because he’d been a wonderful friend.

  But he was going to take some getting over first.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MICHAEL WENT INTO THE house. Charlie and Eva were watching TV, so he sat beside them and stared at the screen.

  He had no idea what was on, but at a certain point he registered it was past eight and he hustled them both into the bath and into their pajamas and finally into bed.

  He walked through the house, switching off lights, then made his way to his own bedroom. He lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, going over and over what had happened in the street, feeling the weight of Angie’s head against his chest again, hearing her words.

  I love you. Now let me go.

  There had been a time not so long ago when he’d thought he was the luckiest man alive. He’d had a wife he adored, two great children, a career he loved. And then the heart had been cut out of his dream and for a while he’d been lost.

  He’d found himself again, after a time in the wilderness. With Angie’s help, he’d learned how to live again. But he hadn’t been prepared to fully commit—to throw himself fully into the hurly burly and risk of life, with all its dangers and pleasures and perils—and his reticence had wounded Angie.

  He fell asleep at some point. He woke with an ache in his chest. A tightness that didn’t go away even when he rubbed the heel of his hand against his sternum.

  Under any other circumstances, he’d be dialing emergency services, but he knew the ache was not medical in origin. The ache was about Angie, a physiological expression of his regret for hurting her.

  She was a wonderful woman. Creative and generous and smart and loving. She’d given him everything of herself. Her time. Her energy. Her empathy and sympathy. Her love. And he’d given her a broken heart.

  He rolled onto his side and stared at the empty pillow beside him. He’d never had the chance to wake up with Angie in his bed. To share a morning talking and laughing and making love before slipping into a leisurely day. Everything they’d had had been hurried and furtive, shoehorned into whatever time or place had been available. He’d shortchanged her on every score—and she deserved the world.

  “I’m sorry.”

  The words sounded woefully inadequate in the quiet of his bedroom. He hadn’t said them to Angie last night. He’d said everything but, then he’d let her drive away.

  He glanced toward the phone on the bedside table, wondering if she would be up yet, wanting to call to make sure she was okay.

  A stupid idea if ever he’d heard one. What was he going to say to her, after all? Hey. Still feeling crap because I’m a selfish, dead-inside bastard?

  Yeah. That would be really helpful.

  Instead he showered and got the kids out of bed. He drove Eva to school and came home and settled Charlie with his building blocks. Angie’s car hadn’t been out front when he returned, but he walked to the French doors and glanced at the studio in case. It was locked tight, the windows dim. Pretty much what he’d expected, even though it made the ache in his chest intensify.

  He rested his forehead against the cool glass of the French doors. He hated this. Hated knowing she was hurting, and that he was the cause, and that he could do nothing about it.

  Except stay away from her, of course.

  The day ground by. Every time the phone rang he hoped it was Angie, even though he knew it wouldn’t be. Not today. Yet when the doorbell rang after lunch, his heart still gave a ridiculous, hopeful lurch. Maybe she’d had to come over. Maybe she needed something from her studio.

  It was a courier, delivering some blueprints from the practice. He dropped them on the dining-room table and stood staring at the floor.

  How long was it going to be like this? How long before he could see her and talk to her again?

  It’s never going to be the same, idiot. Even if you can go back to being friends, it will never be the same. You’ll both know that the other thing happened. Every look or touch or phrase will be loaded. Time to face facts. You’ve lost her, and you’ll never get her back. Not the way you want her.

  The thought made him so angry he kicked one of the dining-room chairs, sending it skidding across the floor with a screech of wood on wood. He pinched the bridge of his nose in the thick silence afterward, aware that he was behaving like a spoiled child who’d had his favorite toy taken away.

  More than a little lost, he retreated to his study, rubbing his sternum every step of the way. The phone number Angie had left him for the after-school carer lay to one side of his desk. He picked the piece of paper up, one thumb plucking at the corner. Then he reached for the phone. Angie had said she wouldn’t move until he’d made alternative arrangements for Eva. Sorting something out ASAP was the bare minimum he could do.

  * * *

  IT HAD BEEN A LONG TIME since Angie had spent the day in bed. She wasn’t a moper, generally speaking, but after last night’s confession and resulting scene with Michael, she didn’t feel up to facing the day. So she didn’t. She ate toast in bed, then reread a favorite book, taking comfort from a story where she knew the outcome would be good and just and right. She showered after lunch and put on fresh pajamas and crawled back into bed to doze. Michael haunted her thoughts throughout, slipping into her mind despite her best efforts to block him out. His body. The way he kissed her. The way he touched her. The smell of his hair. The texture of his skin. The timbre of his voice.

  When she wasn’t thinking about him she thought about Eva and Charlie and how much she was going to miss them. By midafternoon she’d worked up a good head of misery and she gave in to the hot pressure behind her eyes and pressed her face into her pillow and had a good howl. She fell asleep with wet cheeks and woke feeling thick-headed and sore-eyed. The bed felt like a cop-out now more than a sanctuary, and she pulled on workout gear and went for a brisk walk. When she got back, she started making phone calls.

  She spoke to the real estate agent, arranging to sign papers for the new studio first thing the next day, then she checked in with the removalist to see how quickly he could accommodate her. If he wondered why she was moving again when she’d barely settled in to her new premises, he didn’t say anything. Which was just as well, since she was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to provide even the most benign of excuses without getting emotional about it.

  She took herself out for noodles at The Vegie Bar around the corner on Brunswick Street for dinner, then walked along the busy street, peering in at the displays in the many boutiques and jewelry stores. After she deemed she’d been out and about long enough, she went home and crawled into bed.

  She dreamed of Michael, a sweet, beautiful dream where his arms were around her, his heart beating beneath her ear. She knew that he was hers and she was his, that everything was as it should be. Then she woke up to reality at
three in the morning. Michael belonged to Billie. Always had, always would. Allowing herself to believe anything different was pure self-deception. She spent the rest of the night on the couch, curled beneath a rug while she stared at late-night television.

  Her phone beeped with a text message the following morning as she was on the way to the real estate agent’s offices. She saw Michael’s name and her heart did a crazy, painful twist in her chest. She opened the message and read that he’d spoken to the woman her friend had recommended to look after Eva and Charlie. If their face-to-face meeting went well this afternoon, she was in a position to start the following week.

  There was nothing more, but it was enough. This afternoon, in all likelihood, she would no longer be an integral part of Eva and Charlie and Michael’s lives, and once she’d moved her studio to her new premises there would be no reason for them to see each other at all. Not that she intended to cut herself out of the children’s lives. She wouldn’t do that to them, even if she wanted to. But from now on she would simply be Auntie Angie again, a visitor.

  Michael’s confirmation came through later that afternoon, a brief text to let her know that he had Eva’s child care sorted.

  So. She was officially free to move. She took a deep breath and rang the removalist and booked in for the following Tuesday. Then she took herself window shopping again, just so she could be amongst the noise and energy of other people.

  If Billie were alive, she wouldn’t be so desperate for company that she was reduced to pretending to shop. If Billie were alive, she would be drunk on margaritas and Billie would be passing her tissues and coming up with painful punishments for the man who’d done her wrong.

  But, of course, if Billie were alive, none of this would be happening. Angie would never have fallen in love with Michael. Her world would be whole instead of fractured and piecemeal.

  Angie averted her gaze from her reflection in a shop window, not wanting to see the misery in her own eyes, and kept walking.