Chapter 37 #2
We follow her through them one by one. The first would be perfect for guests, with enough space for a proper bed and storage. The second is slightly smaller but has built-in bookshelves that make me think of all the medical textbooks I’d love to accumulate.
But it’s the third bedroom, at the front of the house, that makes me stop and really look.
It’s larger than the others and has beautiful light from two windows.
There’s enough space for a desk, an examination table, and medical supplies.
I can picture it perfectly. Professional but welcoming, a place where I could see patients who need discretion, who can’t or won’t go to regular doctors.
“This one,” I say quietly. “This could be the practice.”
Nicky comes to stand beside me, his hand finding mine. “It’s perfect. Close to the front door for patients, it could easily be separated from the living spaces for privacy, good natural light for examinations.”
The estate agent’s eyes light up with the realization that we’re seriously considering this. “Oh, are you in medical practice, Mr. Walker?”
“I’m training to be,” I say, and the confidence in my voice surprises me. Not “hoping to be” or “thinking about it,” but a statement of fact. This is happening. I’m building a career, a life, a future.
“How wonderful! This room would be perfect for that. The previous owners used it as a home office, so it can easily be set up for professional use if needed.”
We finish the tour with the garden. It’s a decent-sized space that’s mostly lawn but has potential for planting, maybe even a small patio area. It’s private, enclosed by tall fences, the kind of place where you could sit outside without worrying about neighbors or passersby.
“What do you think?” the estate agent asks as we stand in the garden, surveying the property from outside. “Would you like to put in an offer?”
I look at Nicky, trying to read his expression. This is a huge decision, a commitment not just to a property but to building a life together in a permanent way. We’ve been dancing around it, talking about “someday” and “eventually,” but this would make it real.
“Can you give us a moment?” Nicky asks her.
“Of course! I’ll just wait by the car. Take your time.”
When she’s gone, he turns to face me properly. “Be honest. What do you really think?”
“It’s much better than the other two we looked at.” I pause. “I think it’s perfect,” I admit. “But it’s also terrifying. This is real, Nicky. This is putting down roots, making a commitment to staying in one place, building something permanent.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No. No, it’s not bad. It’s just...” I struggle to find the words.
“For so long, I didn’t let myself want things like this.
I didn’t let myself imagine a future beyond just surviving.
And now we’re standing in a lovely garden, talking about buying a house together, and it feels almost too good to be true. ”
He steps closer, his hands finding my waist. “It’s not too good. It’s exactly what we deserve. Both of us. A home, a future, something that’s ours and can’t be taken away.”
“What if something goes wrong? What if I have a bad stretch? What if the Russians come back? What if…”
“Then we deal with it together,” he interrupts gently. “In our house, with our garden, with a dedicated room for your medical practice and way too many bedrooms for two people. We deal with whatever comes because we’re partners, and partners don’t run at the first sign of trouble.”
I lean into him, letting him take my weight. “I want this. I want it so much it scares me.”
“Good. Being scared means it matters. Means you’re actually letting yourself care about something beyond just getting through the day.”
He’s right. He’s always right about these things.
“Okay,” I say, pulling back to look at him properly. “Let’s do it. Let’s buy a house and build a life and be terrifyingly domestic together.”
Nicky’s smile could light up the entire city. “Yeah? Should we make an offer?”
“Yeah. Let’s make an offer.”
Haggling with the vendor via the estate agent takes an hour.
But through it all, I can’t stop thinking about the future we’re building.
The room that will be my practice, the kitchen where we’ll make breakfast, the garden where we might eventually have summer barbecues with Molly and Dario, Carlo and Dante, and whoever else becomes part of our expanding circle.
It’s real. It’s happening. We’re not just surviving anymore. We’re actually living, planning, building something that might last.
On the drive home, my hand finds Nicky’s on the gearshift.
“I wrote to Olivia’s parents today,” I say after a moment of silence. “Well, not to them exactly. Just a letter that I’ll probably never send. But I needed to say the things I’ve been carrying.”
“How do you feel?”
“Lighter. Not cured or absolved or anything like that. But lighter.” I squeeze his hand. “Ready to build something instead of just carrying the weight of the past.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do. We’ll build our house, your practice, our life. All of it, together.”
And driving through London with the man I love, heading back to our temporary home while planning for our permanent one, I think about how far I’ve come from that terrified man who came home from prison thinking his life was over.
It wasn’t over. It was just beginning. And now, finally, I’m ready to actually live it.