Chapter 14
fourteen
. . .
artie
Our footsteps sound loud on the path as we jog through the wood. The trees are painted in their autumn colours of red and gold and our feet crunch through the fallen leaves. My whole body is loose and warm, my breaths white on the frosty air, and I feel that peace I always get from running.
Jed is a little ahead of me on the path, his long body moving fluidly. He told me he’s always enjoyed running, having taken it up for his fitness to enter the police force and then afterwards as a way of calming his mind. I recognise a fellow runner, with his even stride and that peaceful inner look.
Since we started living together, I noticed how he’d vanish every morning for a run on the common or to the gym. He takes his fitness very seriously, as his dad had died of a heart attack when he was young.
He’d been almost shy to invite me along with him the first time, which had been adorable, and his visible relief when I kept up with him had been amusing. If I hadn’t been able to manage his pace, he’d have slowed for me, so it’s nice that we’re compatible.
Mornings have become my favourite time, only topped by the nights in our bed. We’ll run through one of the royal parks, enjoying the peace and seeing the wildlife. Then, once home, we’ll shower together and make love— I mean, we fuck, and it’s the best start to a day.
This morning, I spot a deer eating grass, its delicate lines a thing of beauty in the cold light. It raises its head, still chewing, and watches us pass as if contemplating the lunacy of the human race.
I slow my stride when I feel my knee twinge. I’d twisted it earlier when I slipped on a patch of mud, and I’ve been taking it a little easier.
Jed immediately looks back. He always senses my pace, even if he doesn’t appear to be looking. He slows down until I catch him up. “Knee hurting?” he asks, his face creased in concern.
“It’ll be okay. I can go on.”
He comes to a complete stop, frowning. Then he crouches to examine my knee. My cock gives a hopeful jerk, and he directs a wry gaze at me before running a gentle hand over my knee. “It’s swollen,” he observes.
“It’s not the only thing.” I laugh sheepishly at my sassiness.
Jed snorts and shakes his head. “Well, I’m sure I can help with both of those things.”
“Oh really?” I look around uneasily. “I’m not sure, Jed. There are a lot of runners who use these paths.”
He rolls his eyes. “Back at home. Really, Artie. Your exhibitionist nature never fails to astonish me.”
“I’m sure,” I say wryly.
He chuckles, his eyes bright with amusement. He stands up, stretching with a grunt. “Let’s eat breakfast out. There’s a nice café near here that does amazing pastries. We can eat and then catch a cab back.”
I don’t want to deprive him of his run, so I say quickly, “Let’s just keep going. I’ll be fine.”
He smiles and cups my face in his palm. “That knee is going to swell even more, and if you run on it, you could put yourself out of action. Rest up. I’ll get you an ice pack when we get home, and you’ll probably be okay in a day or two.”
My heart swells at the way he casually uses the word “home.” He’s done it a few times, and I can understand why because it does feel like our home. I might have inherited the structure, but the interior has become all ours. Although he was tentative about advice at first, the renovation has now melded our tastes. I’m hopeful it will be a factor in making him stay.
The way he touches and treats me makes me sure he cares for me. If I’m incredibly lucky, he might even fall in love with me. Maybe.
That cheerful thought makes my smile extra bright, and his eyes flare as he leans down and takes my lips in a lush, lengthy kiss. When he pulls away, I’m sure my cheeks are cherry red. His eyes are predatory. I lick my lips, and he makes a move as if to kiss me again, but my stomach seizes the moment to grumble loudly.
“Come on,” he says, laughing and throwing his arm over my shoulders. “Let’s feed you.”
He’s stopped smiling by the time we reach a side street. My limp has become more pronounced. He guides me to a bench. “Sit there,” he orders. “I’ll get your breakfast. A croissant and a cup of tea?”
As I sink gratefully onto the bench, I follow his gaze to the other side of the road where there’s a small bakery with green and gold awnings.
“How did you know that was here?” I ask.
He smiles at me. “It was Mick’s favourite place. We always had to call here on our way back from clubbing. The owner used to say how cheerful Mick was, but that was ninety per cent whisky sours.”
I grin up at him, feeling happy because he’s started to mention Mick more often and in an upbeat way. Not the sad, desperate yearning he’d had in the early years.
“It’s funny to think of him like that,” he says, as though reading my mind. “Nice thoughts.” His brow furrows. “I’m so sorry. Do you mind me mentioning him?” he asks, his smile dying.
I shake my head immediately. “Of course not,” I say firmly. “It’s better to remember good things about someone, and you have some wonderful memories of Mick. He sounds like someone I wish I’d known. Good memories keep him alive.” I hesitate. “I think, in a way, the way you were before, kept him…”
“Dead?” he suggests.
I nod.
He ponders that for a few seconds, before saying, “I think you’re right. I don’t know why I’m surprised. You usually are right.”
“Really?”
“Don’t look so startled. I’ve taken your advice for years. You have a keen eye for people and a clever, quick mind.”
“Thank you.”
“You sound more pleased by this than when I compliment your looks.”
“Looks fade. It’s nice if there’s a brain there too.”
“Well, you have no need to worry about that.” He cups my chin again, his face affectionate. “Clever and beautiful,” he says thoughtfully. I must be glowing because his face turns wry, and he leans down and kisses me. “Stay.”
“Like a dog?”
“Not one owned by Joe.”
I snort. Joe and Lachlan have got a new puppy, and it’s so wild that it’s almost feral. Yesterday, Joe tied the lead to his office chair while he went to the loo, and the dog took off running. It ended up with the chair wedged in the front door, while the dog barked furiously at a startled bride and groom.
“He shouldn’t bring that dog to the office anymore. You can tell him.”
I blink. “ Me ?”
“Yes. You’re much better with the unpopular news. You always find a positive way to spin it.”
“I’m going to say okay, secure in the knowledge that you will allow Joe to bring the dog in until it’s okay being on its own. Because that puppy loves you.”
He grimaces. “Well, I could have done without the slobbering on my trousers. I’m not a puppy lollipop.”
“No, you’re a husband lollipop.”
His eyes flare at the memory of the blowjob I gave him kneeling under his desk, and he bends to steal another kiss.
“You’ll keep that dog away from me. My hero.”
“I’m pretty sure I won’t. Roger loves you because he recognises you are a big softy underneath your growl.”
He waves that away. “Roger is a ridiculous name for a Jack Russell. And why does Joe have to carry it everywhere? He looks like he’s auditioning for Downton Abbey .”
I laugh, and he turns and lopes over the one-way street, his stride graceful, his head high. A woman passes, offering him an appreciative look, and I can’t blame her. She passes me, and I notice the hot chocolate she’s carrying, and my mouth waters. I think I fancy that rather than tea.
I get up, wincing a little as my knee twinges. Jed’s already ducked into the bakery, but it seems worth it to pop over and ask him to change the order. I take a step into the road and freeze at the sound of screeching brakes.
Something hits me hard.
The breath punches from my chest, and as pain sears through me, I’m oddly aware I’m falling, the sky blue above me. I hit the pavement, and everything goes black.
When I come back to awareness, I’m lying in a bed, and I’m freezing. My whole body shudders with the chill, making the sheets rustle around me. The only warm spot is my hand.
I try to force my eyes open. They won’t work for a second, and I have an intense stab of terror, but then they open stickily. I wince at the bright light and slam them shut again.
Pain starts to make itself known. I hurt all over. My head is throbbing like a drum, my ribs hurt, and my right arm is heavy and numb. When I shift position, I can feel the tackiness of blood on my legs. What has happened?
I try to focus, which makes the pain worse. The last thing I remember was hot chocolate. And then… Something hit me.
My eyes fly open. This time, the light is a little less bright, and my eyes widen when I see Jed. He’s sitting hunched over with his head on the mattress next to my hip, and my hand is warm because it’s clasped between his. His body seems to vibrate with intensity.
I swallow hard. “Jed?”
It’s only a whisper, but his head shoots up so fast that his neck cracks. I gasp. His face is white, his eyes red, and the lines of strain on his face make him appear years older.
“ Artie ,” he says, sweet relief flooding his face and easing the tension a little.
“Where am I?” I stop to clear my throat.
He exclaims and stands up. I have a moment to mourn the loss of his hand, but then he reaches for something on the side table. I see a cup with a straw, and he offers it to me, gently guiding the straw to my mouth.
“Slowly now,” he warns as I start to suck on the straw. The water is ice cold and delicious on my sore throat. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
As I slow my sips, I feel his fingers touch my hair. It’s a gentle gesture, and his hand falls away as I look up at him. After setting the drink on the table, he reaches to the bottom of the bed for a blanket. He unfolds it over me with a snap, and I instantly feel a little warmer. My face hurts, turning my smile into a wince.
He stares down at me, something making him flinch. “Your poor face,” he whispers.
Panic seers through me. “Oh my god , am I scarred for life?”
“No. Oh no,” he says immediately. “Sorry. That was such a stupid thing to say. You’re banged up and scraped, but the cuts will fade. It just looks so sore. I wish I could take it away.”
“What happened?”
His face darkens. “A moped driver went the wrong way up a one-way street.” His mouth tightens and he looks stern. I bet this is the way he looked as a copper. “He didn’t see you and was going at such a speed that he sent you reeling. You fell on the pavement and hit your head. You have a concussion, a broken arm, and bruises and scrapes, but you’re very lucky.”
“Am I going to be okay?” I ask anxiously. I wriggle my toes, relieved when they cooperate.
“You’ll be fine.” His fingers tremble when he touches my face. The touch is as delicate as a butterfly’s wing, and now that I look properly at him, I can see the tremors running through his body.
I frown, wincing as it pulls at a sore spot on my face. “You look terrible. Are you okay?”
“It was bad,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “I saw it happen.” He swallows convulsively. “You went flying, and when I got to you, I thought you were de—” He stops and swallows again.
My gaze sharpens. I’m becoming more alert and noticing things. He looks sick, and even as I watch, he draws himself inward, and his gaze shutters, as if a wall has suddenly gone up between us. An alarm bell rings in my head.
“Jed?”
“I’ll go and get the doctor,” he says abruptly. My hand hovers in the air as I reach for him, but then drops to my side as he strides away, relief to be away from me written all over his body.
I swallow hard, feeling the headache pulse at my temples and nausea churn in my stomach. But my mind focuses on the way he just left me. I have a horrible feeling that my accident has just brought back Mick’s ghost, and now bad memories will be front and centre in our marriage again.
Two Weeks Later
jed
The knock on my door drags me from my blind contemplation of the view outside my window. I spin my chair around to find Joe hovering with an anxious look on his face.
“Yes?” I stop to clear my throat. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?”
“I just wanted to say I’m going home. Are you locking up?”
I look at my watch, startled. “God, is that the time already? I didn’t realise.”
The anxious look deepens. “I thought you’d be home by now. Eager to get back to Artie.”
Unspoken is the question as to why the fuck I’m still here, when my husband is at home.
“He’s fine now,” I say defensively. “The headaches are gone, and he’ll be back at work next week.”
He holds up a hand. “Whoa, I never said he wasn’t fine. He couldn’t have been better looked after. We all know that.”
I shake my head. “Sorry for jumping down your throat.” I hesitate before admitting, “I just feel a bit guilty.”
And I should. Yes, I’ve nursed him to the very best of my ability. I’ve moved heaven and earth to get anything he wanted. Not that it’s been onerous, as he’s the least demanding man I’ve ever met. Nevertheless, I’ve driven him to hospital appointments, cooked for him, helped him shower, and read to him when his head hurt. Yet, it’s all been at a distance, and he knows it.
He tried to cheer me up when we’d first come home, making conversation and light jokes and cuddling up to me at night. But it didn’t work, and now he’s withdrawn to a careful and watchful neutrality.
It’s just as well. Nothing he does can break the wall I painstakingly bricked up in that hospital room waiting for him to wake up.
I shudder at the memory—the blind panic oozing dark and sticky from my pores as I watched his thin face turn the colour of milk, the cuts and bruises obscenely dark on his skin.
“Jed, are you okay?”
I flinch. “Sorry, just thinking of work,” I say vaguely.
Joe frowns, his eyes pools of concern. “Maybe you should go home,” he says gently. “You’re not doing any good here.”
I lick my lips. “Maybe.” I look at him and say, “It’s six months today.”
“Pardon?”
I tap the desk distractedly. “They sign the house over to Artie today.”
“Oh?” He’s obviously trying to work out what the fuck I’m talking about and settles for a nod and a cheerful, “Well, that’s good news. You should buy a bottle of champagne and go home and celebrate.”
The operative word is “home,” but I wave him off with vague promises of leaving soon. The door shuts behind him, and I return to my thoughts.
I can’t do this .
The thought has been hovering in the back of my mind constantly, beating panicked wings. I shudder and raise my fingers to my temples, trying to push the image away. It’s always in my dreams—that moment when the bike had hit him, and he’d sailed into the air. I’d screamed, although the scene seemed to happen in slow motion and utter silence. But when he hit his head, the thud was deafening.
It seemed to take ages to reach him, and then I’d scrabbled for his pulse, thinking over and over again, Please not him. Not again.
I lost my dad too young, but I’d had my job as my mum and brother’s protector to get me through. The memories of him were gentle and not razor-edged.
Then Mick. His death had almost killed me, but I’d finally managed to pull myself out of the emotional grave I’d put myself in and go on living.
But I don’t think I can do that with Artie. I don’t think I have the strength anymore to lose another person.
Maybe I’m bad luck. This is another thought that’s been on repeat. It starts up at night when I lie sleepless next to Artie, counting his breaths and the hours of the night.
“Stop it,” I say out loud and take in a deep breath.
I have to get over this. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. My limited time with Artie is like a ticking clock in my head. He’ll go back to being Artie, my assistant, and I’ll have to watch him fall in love with someone in the future. It all makes me want to scream and beat my chest.
Do I want to push him away? Do I want to see him with another man?
No, is my instant answer. I want more of what we’ve had these few months—the laughter, the closeness, the midnight conversations wrapped up in our sheets with his scent in my head.
I want him. I take a steadying breath. But I can’t have anything more. That hospital vigil was proof that I mentally and physically cannot do more. Is that enough for him?
I groan. My thoughts are an endlessly spinning merry-go-round, and I stand up and gather my stuff listlessly. It’s time to go home.
I need to be better for him than some distant stranger. Maybe it will all make sense if I talk to him.
artie
The wind is howling around the house tonight, rattling the windows and making the fire gutter in the hearth. Del Amitri’s “Kiss This Thing Goodbye” plays on the stereo while I’m curled up on the sofa under a soft throw. I’d found the album in Jed’s huge collection of vinyl earlier. It had been difficult to put on the turntable, fumbling with one working hand, and I’d been a little nervous using the deck because it was obscenely expensive. But I don’t think I did any damage.
I watch the embers spark in the fire while clutching the letters that came today.
It’s late. I drew the curtains against the autumn dark a while ago, and there’s still no sign of Jed. It’s been this way for the last couple of weeks, and my sigh is loud in the still room.
He’s been an exemplary partner through my recovery, and I needed that. My concussion was a bad one, and for a few horrible days, I couldn’t do anything except lie in bed, riding the pain and throwing up. Then it had been hospital visits to get a proper cast put on my broken arm. I couldn’t do much, and he’d taken on everything. I couldn’t have asked for a more caring or gentle partner. He’s bathed me, washed my hair, chauffeured me around and sat holding my hand in various waiting rooms. He’s cooked and cleaned and worn himself ragged trying to make sure I’m okay while balancing the needs of the business.
Yet through all of it there’s been this weird distance between us. He will talk and laugh with me, but it always seems false—like he’s wrapped in cotton wool, and I can’t find the real passionate man underneath.
I can’t blame him, and I can’t be angry at him. How could I, when I know why he’s behaving like this? He’s running scared. It must have brought back so many terrible memories of Mick’s accident and the long days spent at his bedside until they turned off his life support. And even that decision had to be made by Jed. What a burden to be under.
So, I don’t blame him. And yes, I’m aware what he feels for me is a thin thing compared to his love for Mick.
But I’m his husband, too. The thought stills me, and I look down at the letter from the solicitor. It’s done. The house is mine. Our marriage can end the way we always planned, and we can go our separate ways. I square my shoulders. But I have one more throw of the dice. It’s a desperate gamble, and I could end up losing everything, but it’ll still be worth it. I love and want him, and I know he cares for me. I want to give him the chance to ask for more.
I look at the other letter and shiver. And if everything goes wrong, I have another option.
The sound of Jed’s key in the lock rouses me, and my heart starts to hammer. I hear him come in and then wince when there’s the customary silence. He doesn’t move or call for me. Instead, there’s this waiting moment as if he’s girding himself to deal with me. My mouth twists in pain.
One chance , I tell myself. Be honest, and maybe …
I stop that thought in its tracks. “Jed?” I call.
“Here,” he says, his voice full of that fake cheeriness that sets my teeth on edge. He comes into the room, bringing the scent of the outdoors on him and a faint trace of his cologne. “Sorry, I’m late. I brought takeaway,” he says, coming over to me. He drops a kiss on my lips that is deliberately brief even though I lean into him. He pulls back and stands up, and I sigh.
He cocks his head, listening to the music. “Del Amitri? Aren’t you a little young for them?”
“Ben used to like them. He said they were retro.”
He winces. “Wanker.”
My mouth twitches in a smile. “Do you like them?”
“I saw them in concert once. I lost my shoes for some reason lost in time, but I’m not levelling any blame at the band.”
I chuckle, but it dies away as he paces over to the fireplace, clutching the mantle and staring into the flames. “How are you feeling?” he says over his shoulder.
“The same as I was an hour ago when you rang, and the hour before that, and the hour before that.”
He gives a strained chuckle. “Sorry.”
I’m horrified to realise I’m not sure what to say next. This isn’t something that used to happen with Jed—we could always share a good conversation—and I’ve never been more aware of the “fake” quality of our current relationship.
“What have you got there?” he asks, gesturing to the letters in my hands.
I hold one up. “A letter from Mr Davies,” I say almost reluctantly.
He winces. “Ah, yes. Is it done?”
I nod. “The house is all mine.”
I want to say ours, but I sense that won’t go well. My gaze drifts to the other letter.
“That’s good news. I brought champagne home. I’ll get it and plate the food. Are you hungry?”
“Jed.” My tone halts his frantic movement towards the door. “Please, can you come and sit down?”
“Be My Downfall” begins on the record player as he sits on the edge of the sofa opposite me. I hope it’s not an omen.
“What is it?” He holds up a hand. “Is it because I’ve been at work for so long? I’m sorry. I know there’s no excuse for it.”
“It’s fine. I’m sure you’re busy.”
Ever honest, he grimaces. “I could have been at home.”
I itemise the brown-gold waves of his hair, his pale green eyes, and the beard that is always so soft against my skin. I’m committing them to memory in case this goes wrong.
He stirs under my stare. “Are you okay?” he asks anxiously. Panic is never far away these days. “You’re being odd. Do we need to go to the hospital? I’ll get the keys.”
I stay his clasping hands. “No. No, Jed. I’m fine .”
“Are you sure?”
“Very,” I say firmly. “I’m just nervous.”
His gaze sharpens. “Why?”
I take a deep breath. This is it. Time to take a chance. “Because our arrangement is over.” I hold up the letter from Mr Davies. “We said this would end when the house is mine. You’re free again.”
A complicated expression crosses his face, and the silence grows. Then he stirs. “And what if I said I didn’t want that?” he says hoarsely.
My heart starts to thunder, and hope flares as bright as a supernova. “ Really ?”
He takes a moment and then says slowly, “We make good friends and lovers. I’ve enjoyed being together with you. I think we’re a good match.”
My stomach twists. “Friends and lovers?” I whisper.
“Only that, of course.”
“Of course.”
The supernova winks out, a few sparks flaring before dying to ash. I summon my courage. “Well, I don’t want that.”
He flinches, an uncontrolled motion for a very controlled man. “Oh,” he says. He clears his throat. “Well, if you don’t want that, I completely understand. I will always be your friend, and I’m glad that?—”
“I love you.”
He can’t conceal the shock on his face. Or the dismay. “ What ?”
I grimace. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so blunt.”
He looks like I bludgeoned him over the head with a sharp instrument. “You l-love me?”
I take in a bolstering breath. “I do.”
“But why?”
Tenderness stirs in my heart for this complicated man. “You’re asking me? The answer could take all night. I love that I can tell you anything without worrying about you judging me. That you make me laugh harder than anyone else. I love the way you brush your hair off your face a thousand times a day and only I know that it smells of coconut. I even love the fact that you’re short-sighted and keep forgetting to take off your prescription sunglasses when we’re on the tube, so people think you’re either a douche or a film star. And I love that I now understand you’re distracted by making everyone’s world better while paying very little attention to your own.”
He doesn’t respond. He’s either completely stunned or busy building up that wall of protection again. Either way, I’m grateful he’s letting me speak at this moment. I’ll experience the pain later. Right now, I need to finish telling him this. “And that’s why I can’t be your friend,” I whisper. “I want more. I want everything .”
“But you can’t love me.” The panic in his voice makes me sad.
“Well, I do,” I say simply. I take his trembling hand. “And I love you enough to finish this. You’re not happy, Jed.”
“Yes, I am. I?—”
“You aren’t . You are turning yourself inside out by fighting your emotions, and it’s making you ill. I cannot and will not have that.”
Panic makes his eyes wild. “But I can be better. Is it because I’ve been absent?”
“Jed, I couldn’t have had a better nurse. It’s nothing to do with your physical presence and everything to do with how you are absent in other ways. You’ve built a wall between us, and I can’t cope with living with you and loving you while you stay behind it. It would destroy me, and I know you well enough to say that would hurt you.”
“I couldn’t bear to hurt you,” he says, startling me as he comes down on his knees next to me, grabbing my hand. “Artie, please .”
“Stop,” I say quietly, my eyes burning with tears. I lift his hand to my face and kiss the long fingers. I listen to the song playing for a few beats. “It’s not like the lyrics of this song,” I say. “I want you to love me happily and joyfully and without any regret in your heart. I need more from you than being just friends. I’ve never mattered to anyone, and I deserve that,” I finish simply.
“You deserve everything . You’re the best man I’ve ever known.” I’m stunned to see tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says thickly. “I’m sorry I can’t be that man. I just can’t, Artie. I think of loving someone, and panic comes over me. I’m a coward.”
“Don’t ever say that to me. You have never been a coward,” I say fiercely. “You’re the bravest man I know.”
His face contorts as though he’s struggling to explain or protest, but he can’t get out the words.
I press my fingers to his lips. “It’s really okay, Jed.”
We listen to the rest of the sad song. When it ends, he asks, “What will we do?” He sounds suddenly young—like I’m the older, wiser person—and maybe I am in this.
I sit back. “I’m leaving.”
“What?” He jumps to his feet and begins pacing by the fire, his movements clumsy. “But you can’t.” His face suddenly darkens. “Are you going to him ?” he demands.
I gape at him. “Who?”
“Ben.”
“No, of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?”
When he remains stubbornly silent, I pass him the other letter I’m holding. “I’ve had a job offer, and I think it might be best for both of us if I take it.”
He looks down at it, scanning it, and frowns. “It’s in Germany.” He pauses. “Karl Nesbitt. Why do I know that name?”
“We did his daughter’s wedding last year.”
Recognition and outrage dawn on his face. “The arrogant wanker who’s been trying to poach you ever since?”
“Yes, he’s working in Berlin for a year. He contacted me on LinkedIn when his current assistant gave his notice. He offered me the job. This was him putting it in writing. It seems like a good time to take it.”
“So, I won’t even get to see you anymore?” He sinks into the chair as if someone has cut his strings. His face is white and drawn.
I get up and perch on the arm of his chair, stroking his hair back, feeling the soft strands and the way he leans into my touch like an old dog who’s scared but still needs affection. It makes my heart burn with tenderness.
“I think it’s best,” I say softly. “It’s only for a year and it’s a good job. I’ve always wanted to see Berlin,” I say, trying for cheerfulness.
“But what about the house? You’re just going to leave after you waited so long for it?”
I think about telling him that my house is just bricks and mortar. What I always longed for was a home and I’d found that in him. But I don’t want to make him feel any more awful than he already does.
“I’ll rent it out for a while,” I say instead.
He looks dazed. “God, I never even thought about that. I’ll get out of the way for you.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say immediately.
“I do.” He sucks in a deep breath. “I’ll move back to my flat.”
“Thank you.” It’s funny what manners make you do. The thought of someone else living in a place I consider to be ours, fills me with indescribable sadness, but we’re still talking as if we’re at a garden party—so horribly civilised. “I’ll arrange the divorce.”
“ No ,” he jerks out.
I scan his angry face. “What do you mean?”
“Leave it for a bit. Get settled into a new country first.” He’s talking very fast. “I won’t contest the divorce when you get around to it.”
“I didn’t ever think you would,” I say in stupefaction.
He sets his jaw and narrows his eyes—it’s his plotting expression. But when he speaks his tone is oddly matter of fact. “But I have one request from you. Something I need.”
“Jed, how could I refuse you anything after all you’ve done for me?” I say simply.
“I want an hour.”
“An hour of what?”
“An hour with you every week. That’s all I want.”
“But I’ll be in Germany.” I scrutinise his face. Has he gone mad? But all I see is that stubborn edge I know so well.
“So? That makes no difference to me. One hour, Artie, where we meet and spend time together without any distractions. Well?”
I stare at him, baffled.
He gives me a coaxing smile. “ Please .”
I sigh, still utterly confused by why he’d ask for this. Still, the thought of being able to see him is too irresistible. Maybe I can build up immunity to him and then move on.
“Okay,” I say. “It’s a deal.”
“Thank you,” he says with dignity.
I stare at the complicated man I love and will probably never understand.
“You’re welcome.”