Chapter 31
EMMA
I felt as though I might pass out. Beside me, Rachel opened her mouth as if to say something but then closed it again, and peered back at the screen.
Her forehead was pinched into a frown. Finally, she looked at me and shook her head.
‘But I don’t understand. Surely if Nick didn’t get on the train and he told his brother why, then Andrew wouldn’t have got on either?
I mean, even if you thought it was probably bollocks, you wouldn’t, would you? Just in case.’
‘Maybe.’ I wracked my brains to remember what Nick had told me about his brother.
They were close, I was sure of that. And I knew Nick had told him about me, at least some of it.
But it didn’t necessarily follow that he’d told him about my letter.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, rubbing my temples which were beginning to throb. ‘I just… I don’t know what to think.’
Rachel laid her phone carefully on the table and stood. ‘Let me make us a cuppa.’
While Rachel bustled round, I tried to put my thoughts in some sort of order.
When I’d thought through the possible outcomes of my actions, not once had this crossed my mind.
I’d imagined that Nick had never found the letter and he’d still died; I’d imagined that he had found it but refused to read it, and nothing had changed.
And of course I’d thought about what might happen if he had found it, read it and decided to believe me.
Would he be grateful to me for saving his life and try to find me?
This outcome though. His brother dying instead of him? I couldn’t even begin to untangle the feelings he must have about it.
But there was one thing I was sure of. Whatever had happened, I blamed myself.
And I was certain Nick would blame me too.
‘Look at this,’ I said, pointing at the screen. Rachel placed a mug of tea in front of me and peered at the screen.
‘You know that interview Andy gave on the first anniversary of Nick’s death?’
‘Yes?’
‘Look at it now.’
I waited while she read it. Then she looked back at me, her eyes wide.
‘It’s him,’ she said. ‘It’s Nick.’
‘Exactly,’ I said. The interview with Andy about Nick had now been replaced by an interview with Nick about his brother.
There were the same photos of the boys together, growing up, huge grins for the camera, and later, photos of Andy with his family, his kids.
And while all of it made me feel even worse, it was the photo of Nick I couldn’t tear my eyes away from.
He was older than the last time I’d seen him, but that was hardly surprising given that this had been written in 2007, eight years after the last time I saw him. But it was more than that; until this moment I’d forgotten how much Flynn looked like his daddy.
Given that I’d never been able to take a photo of Nick, I’d relied on my memory of him, of the angles of his face, the tilt of his eyes, the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled.
But as the years had passed, that image had become blurry, unfocused, until I couldn’t be sure whether it was accurate at all.
But now, here he was, staring out at me from 2007 – and he looked just like I remembered. He looked just like his son.
‘He’s six years old and he’s been perfectly fine without a daddy in his life until now,’ I said, folding my arms. ‘You said it yourself.’
Rachel said nothing, just raised her eyebrows.
‘What? He has. We’re happy, just me and Flynn.’
‘Maybe you are. But don’t you think you’re being a bit selfish refusing to even consider giving Flynn the chance to know his daddy – or Nick the chance to know he’s a dad – given what you know now? I mean, this is what you wanted all along, isn’t it?’
I shook my head. ‘I can’t do it,’ I said. ‘I’ve thought about nothing else from the moment Flynn was born, and I’ve dreamed about him knowing his daddy. But this is… I don’t know. It feels wrong. Andy died. I’m not sure it’s fair to anyone.’
‘Except Flynn is already starting to ask questions that you can’t answer, isn’t he?’
I looked down at the table. Rachel was right.
At six years old, Flynn had been asking questions about his daddy for a while, but they were becoming more specific now.
The other day he had asked me whether his daddy was in heaven like Zara’s in his class, and a few weeks before he’d asked whether his daddy had run away because he didn’t love him.
I didn’t know what to say to that, so had rapidly changed the subject, the way I always did.
But I’d never wanted to outright lie to him.
I couldn’t tell him his daddy was dead, because what if I did find him?
How on earth would I explain that to a six-year-old?
Besides, not having any photos of him would have made that weird.
What sort of mother doesn’t keep photos of their child’s dead father?
And although I’d got away with being slightly vague about it so far, I knew it couldn’t go on much longer.
‘I’m scared,’ I said, looking up at Rachel.
‘What of?’
I shrugged, trying to work out how to explain it.
‘Nick rejected me once, when he thought I’d gone against his wishes.
What if… what if I find him but he rejects me again?
’ A heavy weight pressed against my heart.
‘Because it would mean he was also rejecting Flynn and I’m not sure I could bear that. ’
Rachel’s hand slid across the table and she threaded her fingers through mine. ‘Just tell him you’re sorry for what you did, but you hope he’ll forgive you, and see whether he replies.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘Then you won’t have lost anything. But if he does – well, then you can decide what you want to do. Either way, you’ll never stop wondering if you don’t even try.’
It had been fairly easy to find Nick, in the end.
Although Nick Flynn wasn’t an uncommon name, the fact that he’d spoken to a newspaper made him easier to trace.
The things I’d discovered about him so far were that he had a Facebook profile but never posted, didn’t have Instagram or TikTok or any other social media, and he still worked as a maths teacher.
About two years after the crash he’d moved away from the area and now lived up in Suffolk.
There were very few photos of him and none that seemed very up-to-date, so I had no idea what 58-year-old Nick might look like.
But the mere fact that he existed was a miracle.
Eventually I found his email address on the school website, then I wrote him an email.
Dear Nick
I’ve rewritten this email so many times because I don’t have a clue where to start. Sorry is probably a good place. So, I’m sorry. For everything.
If you’re reading this then I’m assuming you found and read the letter that I left for you in the bandstand. I hope you understand why I left it. I never wanted to leave things like that between us.
I know a long time has passed but I’d really like to see you. I wondered if it’s something you’d be interested in, with absolutely no pressure?
Thank you for taking the time to read this. I hope to hear back from you soon.
Emma
I clicked send. Now all I could do was wait.