Chapter 24
GERALD
In the still quiet of the night, wrapped up with this man, I talk about my dad.
Alaric has already shared his insecurities, big and small.
It seems only fair I share one in return, and this is the only one I have which matters.
It weighs heavy on my mind, like a too-tight shirt I’ve got used to wearing, except thick and woollen, not feather soft navy satin.
Since Alaric moved in, I’m the happiest I’ve been for a long time, yet even in lighter, brilliant moments, like winning through to Crufts, this family rift—entirely of my own making—overshadows it.
“My mum died following a car crash. They were returning from a holiday in Cornwall. Staying with friends.” Despite the story being inside me for years, it’s not a graceful, rehearsed telling.
It’s messy and awkward with lots of pauses and swallows.
And so much easier in the dark. Sensibly, Alaric lets it unfold at its own pace.
“Dad was driving. It was a bank holiday weekend, lots of traffic, lots of crazy drivers trying mad overtaking manoeuvres to beat the queues. You know how it is.”
Alaric nods. He’s worked extra shifts in the Emergency Department for years; he’s seen all of humanity, at its best and its worst.
“Anyhow, a driver going the other way attempted to overtake a car towing a caravan. He was driving up the hill. My parents’ car was coming over the brow in the opposite direction.
There wasn’t enough room for the guy to pull back in, and not enough time for Dad to slow down.
” A familiar pressure builds in my throat.
“My dad swerved just before they hit—to protect yourself is a natural instinct, apparently, though I don’t think he had much time to consider.
There was a three-way collision between my parents’ car, the caravan-towing car, and the other driver. ”
I blow out a long breath and blink a few times. I’m not worried I’ll cry. I never do, even though the tears wait there in hope, clogging up my sinuses. Only a fool would mistake my dry face as strength. A strong man would have resolved the issues with his dad years ago, not let them fester.
I plough on. “My dad walked away with severe whiplash, a fractured sternum, and some cuts and bruises. The reckless driver died of massive internal bleeding at the scene, and my mum died a week later in hospital from a non-survivable head injury. The coroner ruled the deceased driver to be one hundred percent at fault. All the witnesses agreed.”
Alaric doesn’t rush to fill the silence.
Instead he waits until the weight of the story settles between us.
I’ve never fully related all the details to anyone before.
But I’ve stopped pretending my attraction to Alaric is only physical, even if it’s mostly one-sided and knowing I shouldn’t become too attached.
Yet he’s the first person to whom I’ve ever felt close enough to unload.
Already, in the long, quiet minutes that follow, I feel less alone.
“So your dad wasn’t to blame,” he confirms eventually. At some point in the telling his hand has found mine.
“Not at all. The guy who died also had a blood alcohol level over the legal limit.”
“Yet you were angry at your dad. You blamed him for your mum dying, and you couldn’t be angry at the other driver because he’s dead.”
That just about sums it up. “Yeah. Which is ludicrous. And…I’m not angry any longer but the…the damage was done, and we haven’t been able to get back to how we were.”
“That’s a great shame,”
I couldn’t agree more. “I saw a bereavement counsellor. In the weeks after the accident. My dad did too. But, looking back, it was too soon for both of us; there was too much going on. I was still very angry, lashing out at everyone. The counsellor explained it was one of the recognised stages of a normal grief response, but it didn’t help. ”
I’m probably teaching Alaric to suck eggs, what with him being a doctor, but I plough on anyhow.
“After she died, me and Dad found ourselves orbiting around… nothing. You know how it is—she organised birthdays and kept me updated on the latest family news, persuaded me to join them on holiday for a few days. Like the last one, in Italy. Anyhow, just as I thought I was getting over myself, no longer blaming him, Dad met Sandra.”
“But you said you like her.”
“Yes. Though I haven’t let myself get to know her well.”
Alaric’s detached interest suits me far more than a heap of platitudes. I imagine a similar approach with worried patients serves him well.
“Sandra’s fine. I don’t begrudge him or her—Dad shouldn’t have to spend the rest of his life alone. My mum wouldn’t have wanted that.”
“But he seems to have managed to pick up the pieces, and you haven’t?” Alaric supplies.
I shrug in the dark. “Maybe. But now, even though I’m not as angry as I was—not at all, really, and frankly, I know I’m being a total dick to him—I can’t… can’t reach out and carry on with him like we were before the accident.”
“But you want to?”
“Yeah, except every time I think today’s the day I’ll bridge the gap, I freeze. As I said, the dick in this situation is me, not him.”
Alaric twists around in the bed so he’s facing me. “I think you’re pretty amazing, actually. Don’t beat yourself up.”
When his lips find mine, the kiss is measured and warm and perfect.
A fresh layer of unspilled tears well up behind my eyes.
What did he label this night we were spending together?
This night unzipping my heart? That’s right.
A night for some celebratory sexing while I’m waiting for my soulmate to pitch up.
Yeah, how’s that working out?
Alaric strokes my hair back from my forehead. Pretty sure that’s not an element of casual celebratory sex either. Does he realize what we’re doing has gone beyond, at least on my part? “Have you and your dad ever talked properly about this? You know, after the… acuteness of her dying settled down?”
“No. He’s too nice. He doesn’t want to confront me or upset me. I think he’s just hoping that, given time, I’ll come round.”
“Was Alan interested in your mum’s dance career?” Alaric’s blue eyes twinkle. “Did he enjoy watching you perform in those couple of titchy little shows?”
“God, yeah. He loved it. His garden shed and the garage were basically taken over with props storage. Most of them made by him. He didn’t know the first thing about ballet or the theatre, but he’d be there at every audition, helping with kit, booking the rooms, et cetera.
He was a great dad. He still is. It’s…it’s me that’s a rubbish son. ”
Alaric’s palm is at my chest. His fingers make little swirls in my chest hair. His glossy lips are pursed. “It’s not too late to change, Big G.”
I respond with a short, dry chuckle. “You reckon? I think him and Sandra must be almost giving up on me by now.”
“Don’t say that! And no way is it true.” He raps on my chest. “It’s as obvious as anything. Alan’s practically waving at you, holding up a sign, mouthing, ‘I’m right here and want you in my life.’ He’s just waiting for that clever mind of yours to bloody notice. He’ll wait forever if he has to.”
On that note, Alaric worms his head onto my chest and wraps his legs up in mine. I’m right here and want you in my life? Waiting for that clever mind to notice? I close my eyes, letting his perfect scent roll over me.
Seems Dad and I both have something in common.