Chapter 25
25
ADAM
I fall into one of the chairs as soon as Jonathan leaves the room. Ray bustles around behind me. “Got a letter from Davy today. He sends his regards.”
I’ve met Davy twice. Once, the night he came to the fight for a bit of light entertainment and ended up leaving with Ray, once on their wedding day. I very much doubt I featured in his letter at all. “What did he think of Belle’s poetry?”
“Oh you heard all that did you? I didn’t actually end up using most of it. Was good for inspiration but would have felt wrong, you know?”
My stomach clenches. Probably hunger, although something about those beautiful words going to waste hurts and I don’t want to examine the emotion too closely.
“Belle’s a sweetheart though, isn’t he?” Ray says.
I make as noncommittal a sound as it’s possible for me to make.
Ray slides into the chair opposite. They rest their head on their hands and look at me as if waiting for me to say more.
Am I really that transparent? “Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything.” They continue to gaze at me.
“You know damn well what you’re doing.”
“Okay,” they say, eventually. “I won’t. Well I won’t after I say just one thing.”
“That he’s too young. I know.”
“Honey, no.”
“That I’m his boss and there’s a power imbalance I need to be aware of. I am aware. Thank you.”
Ray leans across the table and turns my face, forcing me to look into their eyes. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“Fine. Say what you need to say.”
“I was going to say that I’m so, so happy for you.” Ray’s big, dark, kohl-rimmed eyes are completely sincere and it jerks a laugh out of me.
“You can’t be fucking serious.”
They drop their hand from my cheek. “I wouldn’t joke about this. This is good. This is so good. It’s healthy. You’re getting your appetite back.”
“Not like I can act on it.”
Ray shrugs. “I don’t know about that. It’s pretty romantic, isn’t it? Locked up on the Scottish Highlands, isolated from the world. Sounds a little like one of his romance novels.”
“Life isn’t a romance novel, Ray. There’s too much at stake here. Things are good. I don’t want to risk messing anything up. For him or for the kids.”
Ray pats my cheek, but doesn’t offer further council. A moment later, Belle returns.
We sit on the pantry floor, surrounded by boxes.
“I think we went a little crazy,” Jonathan says.
We spent ages trawling through Amazon for the best decor for each kid. I watched Jonathan’s face more than the screen, his joy like warm sunshine, spilling over me. Of course we went overboard. I never wanted it to end.
We begin unpacking. For Alisha, we selected a botanical theme. Her bedding is bright green and white with little dandelion and daisy motifs. Jonathan also picked out a stuffed cow—”a reminder that she’s still a child, no matter how much she plays mum”.
Apparently Ben likes old movies, so Jonathan chose an Old Hollywood theme for his room, complete with a set of lights that we can affix to his mirror, which will double as a night light if he wakes up afraid in the dark.
For Mal, Jonathan said dinosaurs were the way to go with the bedding. He also insisted on adding a poop emoji farting plush toy.
Finally, we got Enrique one of those rugs that has a town printed on it with roads for his little cars to drive on, some Fisher Price educational toys, and bright cheerful bedding in primary colors.
I hold the stuffed cow, gazing down into its adorable face. “I would never have thought of any of this.”
“Well, you’re not experienced with children,” Jonathan reminds me, cheerfully.
“I never got gifts as a child, outside of birthdays and Christmas. Even then, they’d be largely practical. My father was a very practical man and my mother… didn’t have much say, as we were a single income household.”
Ray keeps telling me to speak about my feelings more, but I’m not sure how. How do I put words to the deep melancholy I feel for my former self? For the parents who thought they were doing their best? For all the lessons I didn’t learn about how to be a good father figure?
“What did your father do?” Jonathan prompts.
“He was a coal miner. Under Thatcher.”
He catches my meaning. “Didn’t she close the mines?”
“Yeah. I was a year old when her government announced they were closing twenty pits. That meant something like twenty thousand jobs lost. Including my dad’s.”
“There was a big strike, wasn’t there?”
“Yeah. I don’t know what my father was like before then, but after that... He was scarred. He had this big cut down the side of his face.” I trace the line down my own cheek. “But not just externally. Anyway, after that we moved to the US. Wyoming. To say we weren’t welcomed is an understatement.” I shake my head. Jonathan didn’t sign up for this. This was supposed to be a happy occasion. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get into it.”
“I don’t mind hearing it.”
Maybe it’s the intimacy of the space—the dimmed room, the smell of flour, nothing around us but shelves and parcels—but I confess, “I never wanted to be like him. Sometimes, when I’m talking to you about the children, I hear his words echoing back at me. I hate it.” I put the stuffed cow back in its box. “You should give all this to them. It shouldn’t come from me. It was your idea. You deserve the credit for it.”
“Nonsense.” Jonatan reaches out to touch my knee, then seems to think better of it and withdraws again, carefully packing away some of Enrique’s toys. “It isn’t about credit. The point is that the children feel wanted and cared for. You want them and you care about them. This is just an opportunity for them to see that.”
He smiles at me, his gaze warm and soft. Then he picks up the poop emoji and squeezes it. We both laugh.