by Isobel Hart
“So, why don’t you think you can see yourself marrying me?” Edward persisted, as he switched on the kettle to make me a cup of tea. Another thing he did for me all the time now. All this thoughtful behaviour was freaking me the fuck out.
“I’m not ready to talk about this.” I stalked out the kitchen and into the bathroom, turning on the taps to run a much-anticipated bath, the desire to shave my leg overriding everything else. I rolled my shoulders back to ease a little of the tension, ignoring the anxiety twisting in my stomach. An all too familiar state since the accident.
Once the bath and bubbles had reached a sufficient volume, I stripped and stepped into the warm water, immersing my leg for the first time in weeks. I groaned as I fully submerged my body, ducking my head below the waterline, cutting myself off from everything but the muffled sounds within my watery sanctuary.
Eyes closed to protect them from the bubbles, ears blocked by the soapy water, a change in the quantity of light filtering through the backs of my eyelids alerted me to another presence in the room. I opened my eyes to find Edward hovering over me, inches from my face. “Jesus, fuck!” I gasped, spluttering, slipping as I scooted away from him within the confined space of the bath. My arms rose to cover my chest. “What the fuck are you doing in here?” I demanded, anger replacing the initial shock and fear.
“I wanted to check you were okay. I called, but you didn’t answer. I was worried.”
I frowned. “Well, as you can see I’m perfectly fine.” I crossed my arms tighter over my chest to hide my breasts when his gaze dropped towards them. We’d slept in the same bed for the last few weeks, but I’d made a point of never changing in front of him. Thank God for the bubbles that obscured me.
“You look fine,” he said, his voice low and heavy with meaning. Desire flared in his eyes as he stared at me.
“I want to shave my leg,” I blurted. “Then we’ll talk . . . I promise,” I added, when disbelief replaced lust.
“Okay.” He exhaled heavily. “We’ll talk. Then later . . .” He let the words hang before he walked out.
***
I was so pruned by the time I got out the bath, my skin looked crenelated. I spent another thirty minutes drying my hair. With all my delaying tactics deployed, I emerged from the bedroom wearing clean underwear and my bathrobe, to find Edward in the lounge reading one of my books. I knew it was one of mine because the most he normally read was the walkthrough guide of one of his Xbox games when he was stuck on a level.
“What are you reading?” I asked when he looked up.
“The Road.” He held it up for me to see the cover.
“Depressing.”
“But good. Father and son, trying to survive against the odds. It’s really good. Moving.”
I waited for him to add a stupid one-liner. It didn’t come. “Yeah.” I sat in the chair beside him, and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I shouted at you. You made me jump.”
“I understand. I frightened you. I don’t want to frighten you.” He reached out and took hold of my hand, squeezing it. “Are you ready to talk?”
I nodded.
“So?”
I took a deep breath, wondering where the hell to start. “What do you remember about us? Before the accident, I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you remember being happy?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
He frowned.
“We weren’t.”
“We weren’t?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “I was. From what I remember.”
I stared at him. His eyes met mine. There was no sign of the shiftiness I’d come to know so well. “You’re different.”
His eyebrows shot up this time.
“Since the accident.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. “I am?”
I considered a moment or two longer. “Yes. Nicer. More thoughtful. It’s . . . odd.”
“Good odd or bad odd?”
I thought about it for a moment. “Good odd, I think.”
“Is that why you don’t want to marry me? Because I’ve changed?”
“No,” I said quickly. “In fact, if anything, I’d be more likely to marry the man you seem to be now, than the man you were.” I let that hang for a moment. He looked relieved. “Do you remember anything about our argument at the wedding?”
“We argued? At the wedding?”
“Yes. We broke up at the wedding.”
He stared at me, eyes wide. “We broke up?” he said, as if hearing it for the first time. “Why? What happened?”
“I caught you fucking another woman.”
His mouth opened, then closed again.
“Edward, I don’t think it was the first time you’d been with someone else. You admitted as much to me just before the crash. Only it was the last time, as far as I was concerned.” I paused, letting him take a second.
He nodded for me to go on.
“That’s it really. I caught you with her and we left. I told you I’d had enough, and that we were over. Then we crashed in the fog on our way home. You didn’t remember any of it, and I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“Jesus.” He exhaled, running his hands through his hair. “Jesus.” He looked at me. “Samantha, I’m so incredibly sorry.”
Out of everything I’d expected him to say, all the defensiveness, denial and lies I’d anticipated, like the ones I’d already heard on the day of the wedding, I’d never once imagined he might apologise. “You really don’t remember any of it?” I said again, less certain now.
“Not the wedding. I remember . . . before that,” he admitted. “I didn’t know you knew. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want to lose you. I can’t believe I was so stupid. Not one of them held a candle to you. I’ve been such a fool.” He grimaced. “I didn’t remember the wedding . . . Jesus, no wonder you don’t want to marry me. I don’t blame you.”
I nodded, unsettled by his remorse.
“You actually caught me? With the girl?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus.” He ran his hands through his hair again, looking anguished. “So, we argued? In the car?”
I gave a short nod.
“And then we crashed?”
Again, I could only nod.
“I caused the accident? I distracted you?”
I took a deep breath. “We were arguing. The fog was bad. I was distracted. It was no one’s fault, really, just a bad combination of factors, which made for a crappy ending to an even crappier day.”
“God, Sam. Can you ever forgive me?”
That was the question, really. I’d never imagined he’d even ask. He’d been so adamant, the last time we’d discussed the subject, I’d been as much to blame as him. He’d almost convinced me it had been my own fault he’d needed to look at other women in the first place. I’d never considered any other option than splitting up. His remorse was totally unexpected.
“I don’t know.” I pushed a tear away from my cheek with the back of my hand, irritated to find it there in the first place.
“Babe.” He slid next to me and pulled me into his arms. “God, I am so, so sorry. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I want to try to earn it. I want to be with you. Nearly dying like that has made me appreciate what we’ve got together. I want to hold on to it . . . hold on to you.” He stroked my hair, soothing me. For the first time in weeks, the tension I’d held curled inside – my guilt over the accident, my feelings about his infidelity – uncurled and released. Unbidden, a sob choked out of me, and then another. All the pent-up anger and guilt about the accident spilled out in a flood of tears I seemed unable to stem now the wall had finally been breached. Throughout, he held me and whispered words of apology and comfort.
Sometime later, I stopped crying, his chest damp beneath my cheek, and turned to look at him.
“Please give me a second chance, Sam. I’ve been given a second ch
ance at life. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I was a stupid, immature fool. I didn’t appreciate what we had. I need you – only you – and I won’t make the same mistake again.” He held my gaze, his expression clear, the words acting like a balm, soothing away some of the pain and hurt of his betrayal and rejection. I wanted to be wanted again, needed it, despite everything.
Desire coiled within me, and he saw it. He lowered his head and kissed me. The salty taste of my tears softened our lips as the growing urgency took away thoughts of anything but what I needed from him right then.
Chapter 6
My senses returned one-by-one after what felt like minutes, but may have been hours. Edward’s body lay across mine, inside mine.
The sensation of warm trickling fluid as he withdrew from me broke through my blissed-out state. I sat up quickly and stared at him in horror. “You didn’t use a condom?” I gasped at the tell-tale evidence now coating the insides of my thighs.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” He reached for my breast, his finger teasing my nipple.
My eyes closed for a second as the sensations took hold. Then I remembered. “Edward, stop. You didn’t use a condom. You know I don’t use anything else. We could get pregnant.”
He moved towards me again and pushed me back down on the bed. “I don’t care,” he said. “I want to feel you like this.” He moved slowly. “I need to be close to you.”
“Edward–” I protested, but it sounded feeble. Instead, my body responded, pulling him closer as I pushed away common sense, and gave myself over to base instinct.
***
When I woke, my body ached deliciously. I reached across, but Edward’s side of the bed was empty, the sheets cold to my touch. Flopping back against the pillows, I allowed myself to wallow for a moment in the memories of the night before. For a man only recently recovered from a major abdominal operation, his sexual endurance had been phenomenal. It bore no relation to other recent times we’d had sex – as exciting as our relationship in its earliest days, when we couldn’t leave each other alone. Although the sex had never been bad. I shivered, feeling aroused all over again. His apparent unconcern at the prospect of getting me pregnant had lit the blue touch paper of my libido. I couldn’t get enough of him. Perhaps my thirty-something ovaries were more aware of the need to procreate than I was willing to admit.
But, in the cold light of day, the prospect of having a child with Edward felt slightly less appealing. Even worse, the more I thought about it, were the potential consequences of having unprotected sex with a man who may have stuck his dick in a virtual whorehouse of other women. I had no idea if he’d always covered himself up.
Mood somewhat dampened, I slid out of bed, grabbing my bathrobe, and headed for the shower. The evidence of my irresponsible behaviour coated my thighs, making me feel sticky and uncomfortable. With relief, I washed it away, removing all externally visible traces, as I promised myself I wouldn’t let it happen again.
Determined to sort it out, I applied a quick layer of foundation and some mascara, dressed in my comfiest jeans and an old shirt, and quickly plaited my still-damp hair.
Edward still hadn’t come home by the time I was ready to leave, so I scribbled him a quick note, then pulled on my jacket and hurried out the door.
***
Leaving the pharmacy, I looked down at the packet of small white pills clasped in my hand and experienced a moment of doubt, wondering whether I wouldn’t quite like to have a baby. The thought lasted no more than five seconds. Then I remembered just how bad our relationship had been before the accident, and how hard it would be to raise a child alone. I unscrewed the top of my bottle of water, popped the first of the pills from the packet onto my tongue and swallowed it down, telling myself Edward was far too selfish to be a good dad, no matter how well-intentioned he might be right now.
The warm, spring-like weather made it an easy decision to walk back to the apartment rather than catch the bus, the gentle exercise feeling good on my underused leg muscles. Unfortunately, the removal of my cast also meant I needed to start thinking about returning to work again. My sick note only covered another week, leaving little time to decide about Edward’s offer. I hated being a wage slave, but, without the support of someone like Edward, I couldn’t afford to follow my love of photography and still eat. Even blissed out from great sex, relying on Edward – a man with whom I’d been on the verge of splitting up – seemed like a bad idea.
In a Voldemort-esque coincidence, as if by thinking of him I’d wished him there, Edward materialised in the window of the Costa in front of me. The closest coffee shop to our apartment, he was sprawled across one of the large brown leather armchairs beside the window.
I stared at him from across the street while I waited for the crossing to flash green, wondering who he was drinking coffee with. He threw his head back and laughed, sending a dread through me that embedded itself in the pit of my stomach. Kicking myself for falling for his charms again, I tried to remember the last time I’d seen him laugh like that at anything I’d said – so long ago I couldn’t recall it – until the light changed and I crossed the road towards him.
He looked up as I stepped onto the pavement. I raised my hand in a half wave, feeling awkward and embarrassed. His gaze flickered towards whoever he was with. Then he looked back at me and smiled. Despite the warmth of his smile, the momentary delay was enough to sew doubt. Determined, I walked towards the door of the cafe and pushed inside.
The place was busy, the tables filled with women and their noisy preschool children. “Babe,” Edward stood and moved to intercept me, bending to press a kiss onto my lips.
Surprised, I became aware of the people around watching us and pulled away, cringing.
“What can I get you? Come and meet the guys,” he said, as if nothing unusual had occurred.
I looked over his shoulder, towards the window, relieved to find a group of six men seated in a circle of the chocolate-brown armchairs. They stared back with equal interest. The only face I recognised was Richard’s.
“Hi,” I said with a small wave, feeling shy, as Edward took hold of my hand and led me over to make the introductions.
He fussed around me, waiting until I was seated before running off to fetch me my favourite coffee – a vanilla spice latte, my ultimate coffee indulgence – while I sat in the chair he’d vacated.
“Nice to see you again. How are you doing? Are you fully recovered?” I peppered Richard with questions to cover my awkwardness, as the group continued to stare at me in silence.
“Oh yes, thank you, yes. Yes, I’m perfectly fine. How kind of you to remember.”
“What was the matter?” I asked, struggling to think of another topic for conversation.
“I had a heart attack.”
“Goodness! But you’re okay now?” It amazed me he’d been discharged so soon after something so serious. He was young to have had a heart attack; it suggested some sort of heart disease, possibly heart failure – not the kind of thing you just “got over” easily.
“Yes, thank you for asking, much better. Fine really, not that my parents are convinced, they fuss dreadfully.” He looked old to still be living at home with his parents. Given he was dressed like a bit of a geek, and seemed somewhat socially awkward, I imagined his heart problem meant he’d relied on them a fair bit.
“Edward’s lucky to have you to take such good care of him,” Richard said, adding an unexpected wink. From the shared smirks round the table, the reference had little to do with my nursing skills. Edward had clearly been telling tales.
The exchange left me feeling uncomfortable, cheeks heated with embarrassment. The whole group made me uneasy with their silent staring. Their oddly matched clothes in outdated fabrics gave the impression of a meeting of the math club, at odds with the sort of people with whom my appearance-conscious partner usually associated. “So, how did you all meet?”
Richard’s eyes darted towards one of the other men as his hands sh
redded the paper napkin on his lap. He hesitated a moment longer than felt comfortable. “We’re part of a patient support group. For people who’ve survived a medical trauma. It helps to talk to others who’ve been through the same thing.”
“Oh, of course.”
Edward placed my latte down on the table in front of me, complete with a spontaneous caramel slice, making me scowl despite it being my favourite. “I can’t start kickboxing or running for another few weeks,” I complained. “You’ll make me fat.”
“Baby, you’re gorgeous, whatever weight you are.” He pulled up a chair beside mine, his hand caressing my thigh through my jeans.
I stared at him in shock, then snorted. “Is this the same guy who can’t even watch fat people on T.V?”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“When I sold that weight loss product, we had a row about whether it should be funded by the NHS. As I recall, you insisted people should just ‘stick less in their gobs’.”
“I’m not that bad–”
“What about that crack you made about the bridesmaid at Victoria’s wedding.”
“I don’t remember the wedding.”
I let the subject drop, feeling guilty, as he launched into a discussion with one of the other guys about the new car he planned to buy.
“Jamie, watch out!” a woman called from behind us. Her frantic tone making me turn just as a small boy, holding a tray that contained a single cup of hot chocolate, failed to notice the acute tilt that had developed. In slow-motion, the cup slid towards the edge, hit the lip of the tray and then tipped forward, depositing its scalding contents down Edward’s back. He launched to his feet with a bellow of rage.
“What the fuck!” The boy stood there, frozen in shock, as Edward towered above him. His lower lip trembled as his mother rushed to his side.
“God, I’m so sorry.” She dabbed at Edward’s sodden back with napkins.
He flinched as she touched his scalded skin. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
