Chapter 8
Alexander
Money has never caused my world to collapse.
Money was always the answer.
Issue? Hire a person.
Crisis? Just spend money on it.
Someone just went away? Buy them something expensive, so they reconsider.
It had worked for the others.
Everyone but Clara.
Clara especially.
She left me, and I stood outside the little apartment she had picked out, looking up at the windows on the second story.
My wife was in there.
My boy's in there.
And neither one of them needed me.
That was the part I couldn't breathe by.
Noah didn't say much to me.
Clara would never meet my eyes longer than she had to.
And every time I tried to give her something, she'd shove it away.
Blossoms.
Sent back.
Jewellery
Return.
A new automobile.
She actually chuckled.
“You think a car’s going to last six years?”
I didn’t know what to say.
So I hadn't said anything.
Once more.
That’s what I’d always done when words meant something.
"Nothing."
I looked down at the coffee in my hand.
This time there was no diamond jewellery hiding in the bag.
Not a pricey present.
Only coffee.
Her coffee.
Cinnamon coffee.
No sugar.
I'd seen her order it hundreds of times.
I had never remembered.
Now I recalled all.
I rapped.
A few seconds later, the door opened.
Clara was standing there in jeans and an oversized jumper, her hair in a sloppy bun.
She seemed exhausted.
Lovely.
And not impressed with me at all.
"What do you want?"
I raised the cup.
"A peace offering."
Her eyes squinted.
“Is that the coffee?”
“Yes,” said the man.
“Got it?
“I did. I ordered it.”
She glanced at me.
“Alexandar.
“What?”
“You are a billionaire.”
“I have been informed.”
For one, you could buy the coffee shop.
"I thought about that one.
Her mouth quirked.
For half a half second I almost smiled.
Then the expression went out of his face.
I don't want anything from you.
“I know,” he replied.
But I held out the cup.
“It’s not a gift.”
“What is it, then?”
"Coffee."
She looked at me as if I had just declared I was moving to the moon.
Finally, she took it.
“Thanks.”
Two words.
They shouldn't have meant anything at all.
They meant everything.
I got out before I could fuck it up.
I got to Noah’s football practice the next morning.
I stood beside the fence.
No security detail.
No helper.
No cell.
Just me.
Noah saw me in the middle of practice.
His face transformed.
Not thrilled.
Not yet.
Suspiciousness.
When practice was over, he ran over.
“You’ve arrived.”
"I told you I would."
He shrugged his shoulders.
“You say things,”
That one stung.
I earned it.
"I know."
He peered over the field.
“Coming tomorrow?”
“If you want me to be there,” I said.
He looked at me.
He nodded.
“Alright.”
It was the tiniest invitation in the world.
I took it as a gateway to heaven.
I came again the next day.
And the day after.
I found out the identities of his team mates.
I found out what position he played.
I discovered that he despised oranges and loved strawberries.
I learnt that when he was frightened, he pretended not to care.
I learnt he looks at the stands before every game.
Searching for me.
I’d missed years of this.
Not another day lost.
And then I began to fix things.
The cabinet door flapping.
The busted porch light.
The kitchen tap that leaked for months.
One afternoon Clara caught me down on my knees under the sink.
"What are you doing?
“Fixing this shit.
“You have folks for that.”
I know.
“Then why are you doing it?””
I clamped the pipe."
“Because you shouldn’t have to ask twice.
She ceased to speak.
I looked up.
Her face was inscrutable.
“You never used to care about stuff like this,” she said then.
“No.”
Now the truth was easy.
"I cared. I didn’t act like I did.
Her eyes grew steely.
“That is not bettered.”
“I know,” I said.
She walked off.
I crouched beneath the washbasin.
For once I didn’t follow her.
I was learning it.
Love was not running after someone as they walked away.
Some days love was a matter of walking until they believed you'd still be there when they turned around.
Days turned into weeks.
I went outside.
All the time.
I’d take Noah to practice if Clara had a meeting.
If there was a game, Noah was there.
If Clara needed groceries, I didn't send anyone.
I went.
If it was broken, I repaired it.
If she said no, I accepted it.
No arguments.
Take your time.
No grand gestures meant to make her forget why she left.
Continuity.
And for some reason, that made Clara angrier than anything else.
One evening she finally exploded.
“Why do you do this?”
I looked at her.
“Mean what you say by that?”
“Behaving like this.
“Like what?”
“Like you suddenly care.”
I swallowed.
“I've always cared.”
“No.” Her voice cracked. “You provided. That's different.”
“I know.”
“You missed his games.”
“I know.”
“You missed birthdays.”
“I know.”
“You left me alone when I was pregnant.”
“I know.”
Her eyes flooded with tears.
“And now you show up with coffee and tools and expect me to believe you're different?”
“No.”
That stopped her.
I stepped closer, but not too close.
“I don't expect you to believe anything.”
She stared at me.
“I expect nothing from you.”
“Then why keep coming?”
Because I couldn't conceive a life where I didn't.
Because every day without her seemed like punishment for a sentence I had made myself.
I eventually realised that the day she filed for divorce wasn’t the day I lost my wife.
She lost her by one careless choice after another.
"I keep coming," I murmured softly, "because you and Noah are my family.
She shook her head.
"You had six years to fake it.
"I know."
"And what if you become tired?
“I will not.”
"You don't know that."
"I do," I said.
Our eyes met.
I inhaled.
“I’ve spent six years believing you’d always be here. “I was wrong.”
She looked sideways.
I shall not make that mistake again.
There was silence between us.
Then I said the only thing I could promise that wasn't a lie.
“You don’t have to forgive me.”
Her eyes flicked back to me.
“But I want to be someone worth forgiving.”