Epilogue
I’m ready
Eighteen months later
“A little to the left.” I take a step back to check the positioning is perfect and nod. “That’s it! Is that the last one?”
“Just one more set of shelves to bring in, then we’ll be out of your hair,” the man says, wiping a bead of sweat from his face with his sleeve.
Despite the frosty weather outside, the building I rent is warm and cosy. Perhaps too cosy for the poor men lugging around my new furniture.
The build-up to moving day has been stressful and would have easily overwhelmed Old Matilda.
But New Matilda is calm. Ish. Logistically, everything is running as smoothly as I could expect; the furniture I picked out months ago is beautiful in the space, stock deliveries have all been checked and accounted for, and the fancy coffee machine is exuding the most delicious aroma, already giving the place a homely feel. Just the atmosphere I was looking for.
The delivery men situate the last bookcase, and I make them both a coffee to go, partly out of generosity, but mainly because I need the practice.
Once they’re gone, I stop to reflect and appreciate the moment, something my therapist encouraged me to do in the early days of my recovery.
I’ve put in the work (physically and mentally) and become a stronger person (physically and mentally), and it was that dedication which led to me finally leaving teaching to follow my dream.
I bit the bullet five months ago, and life’s been a terrifying, liberating whirlwind ever since.
By chance, I spotted the unit for let during a walk around the town on a visit in the summer, and I couldn’t get it out of my head.
A week later, the contract had been signed, and I was eating into my divorce settlement to buy stock: books, candles, refreshments and, of course, fuzzy blankets.
Now I’m standing in my very own bookshop, only days away from opening to the public.
And I did it by myself, for myself. It took a long time and a lot of persuasion from my trainer and therapist, but I finally understand that doing things for myself isn’t selfish; it’s important.
I can’t fill anyone else’s cup if my own is empty.
So I set up a bookshop. I take time every week to exercise.
I avoid toxic environments and situations wherever I can. Because it’s important for me.
I spend a couple of hours stacking the shelves and arranging (and rearranging) the little tables and trinkets until I’m happy with their layout.
I check the clock obsessively as I work, counting down the minutes until 3:00 p.m. I set out a glass vase ready for the fresh flowers being delivered tomorrow and run my finger over the rim.
It was the first thing I bought for the house when I moved in with Rhys all those years ago, and I insisted on taking custody of it in the divorce.
The divorce itself went surprisingly smoothly.
It turned out Connor had scared Rhys so thoroughly about outing him as a steroid dealer, he was happy to let me have whatever I wanted as long as I kept his secret.
Fortunately for him, I’m a reasonable woman and only took my half of the house, plus the deposit I provided and this vase.
Everything else was his to keep. I didn’t want any reminders of my previous life.
I turn my attention to the wooden love spoon hanging over the counter. This is a memory I’m not giving up for anything. It’s a reminder that I’ve started my life over and survived. It’s a reminder of him.
Moving the last of the empty boxes into the back room, ready to be recycled, I check the clock for the millionth time: 2:50.
Nearly time. Rushing to my handbag on the hook on the back of the door, I pull out my mirror to check my appearance.
I smile at how casually I now look into a mirror, with no anxiety, only acceptance.
I look nice today. I manage to flatten a few flyaway hairs and touch up my lipstick before the bell above the shop’s front door jangles.
One more deep breath, and I walk through to the main room.
All the air I’ve just taken in leaves my lungs in a shaky whoosh when I see him.
He looks exactly the same as the last time I saw him, but somehow even more handsome.
I reached out to him a couple of months ago, once I felt I was in a better place, but didn’t hold out much hope of him still being available or even interested. But he is.
Connor smiles from the doorway. “Hi, Tilly.”
“Hi.” It’s not the most creative response, but it’s all I can manage.
Connor unashamedly takes his time to look me up and down, and I don’t shy away from his gaze. I don’t try to hide behind my hair or fold my arms over my stomach. I let him see me.
“You look good, Til. You always did.”
“Thanks. You look good too.”
He takes a quick glance around, but his eyes quickly find me again. “I’m glad you invited me. This place is amazing, I’m so proud of you.”
“I’m proud of me too. I’m glad you came.”
I realise we’ve been gradually moving towards each other across the room, and after a year and a half, I’m finally close enough to touch him again.
A year and a half of missing him, of wishing I could speak to him and tell him of every small step of progress I’ve made, how each step brings me closer to starting my new life and how much I hope I get to start it with him.
The temptation is too much, and I reach out to touch his arm, but he beats me to it and roughly pulls me into his chest. His hands find their way into my hair and hold my face so we’re nose-to-nose, but as much as I want him to, he doesn’t kiss me.
After what feels like hours of drinking each other in, Connor finally speaks. “I waited for you. I waited for eighteen months. And I will wait for another eighteen months if you still need time, but I’m really hoping you invited me here today because you’re ready to start our lives together.”
“I’m ready,” I blurt out, unable to hold it in any longer.
Connor’s smile is almost too big for his beautiful face. “Thank God,” he sighs.
He leans down and kisses me, and I finally feel complete. I’ve spent my whole life searching for peace. Turns out, it feels a lot like coming home.