Chapter 2
Chapter two
Ben
My sister-in-law, Amy’s, car blocks the driveway when I pull in.
I cut the engine and sit for a minute, rolling the keys in my palm.
The house hums with life in front of me.
The lights are on, curtains still wide open.
I gave Amy a key years ago and never asked for it back.
To this day, I’m not sure whether that was a good idea.
She pops in whenever it suits her, regardless of whether it suits me.
I know that once I step out, chaos ensues, so I sit for a minute longer. Then, finally, force myself out of the quiet back into life.
The front door opens before I reach it.
“Evening,” Amy chimes, already halfway down the path. “What’s for dinner? I’m starving.”
“Whatever you can find.” I step past her. “There’s chicken in the fridge, rice on the counter.”
She grins. “Chicken fried rice?”
My grunt could be agreement or resignation. Either way, she takes it as permission. Amy skips past me back into the house before I can make it up the front steps. She’s already opening every cupboard when I step into the kitchen.
“It’s on the counter,” I remind her, then slide the packet of rice over, guessing that’s what she’s searching for.
“Thanks.”
Allowing Amy into my kitchen is a calculated risk.
It’s nice to have the help, but last time it left me with more tidying up to do.
Order matters in my house. My kids know that, but my sister-in-law hasn’t received the memo.
Or she dumped it in the trash without reading it.
Either way, Amy breezes in the only way she can, disrupting everything but somehow making life a little better with each step.
“I’ll make dinner,” I say, deciding that controlling the destruction of my kitchen is easier than attempting to manage Amy.
“You’re sure?” But she’s already making a beeline toward the sofa.
“Very sure,” I tell the back of her head.
Amy throws herself down between Ollie and Liam, both engrossed in a soccer match. This time it’s a computer game. Bex always said I stamped my identity on my boys: both have dark hair and blue eyes that match my own. As they become older, their likeness becomes even more noticeable.
Sometimes, it stings there isn’t more of their mothers in them. I’d love to see a glimpse of Bex when I look at Liam. But I don’t. I hear her when he speaks though. She shines through every kind word.
After throwing my keys into the bowl on the side table, I shrug out of my jacket, then hang it over the back of a chair.
I make my way to the modern, open-plan kitchen.
It was the reason we bought this house. I wanted a home she could live in until the end, and this sprawling bungalow offered wide doorways, enormous rooms, and a level paved garden. It was the least I could give her.
As I’m pushing my shirt sleeves up, Amy appears at my shoulder.
“Remember, I don’t like mushrooms.”
“This is the third night I’ve fed you this week.” I move over to the fridge. The packet of mushrooms blinks at me from the shelf. My fingers grasp the plastic. “You can pick them out.”
She snorts, but doesn’t argue. Since her relationship breakdown a week or so ago, she’s been here more.
I really thought things were improving for her recently, but her new man, Ivan, let her down.
Though I would argue she overreacted to him purchasing her failing gym on the sly—but who am I to judge? It’s not my place.
“How was your day?” Amy pours herself a glass of white wine, then one for me. She slides it across the counter as I chop the pre-cooked chicken and throw it into the pan. It sizzles with a satisfying hiss.
“Normal,” I say. “Clinic this morning, then visited Bex this afternoon.” She nods, not commenting. She’s fed up telling me to move on with my life and that her sister wouldn’t have wanted me wallowing in grief.
I ignore her—most of the time.
“When do you leave for America?” Amy asks, stealing a handful of cooked chicken. “Ouch, that’s hot.” She sucks the tips of her fingers.
“Of course it is. Hands off,” I snap, swiping at her with a tea towel. “We leave on Sunday from Heathrow. Nine hours on a plane with those two is going to be hell.” She chuckles. “But I can’t wait to see their faces when we get to Chicago and the academy. Oh, to be young again.”
“You’re not exactly old,” she says. “You haven’t quite hit half a century yet.”
“I’m not far off it. There’s so much I’d do differently if I could do it all again.” The routine gnaw of regret stabs at my ribs. Like it does every time I think of what could have been.
“So you keep saying.” She squares her shoulders as she focuses on me. Great. I thought I’d avoided the lecture. “But Ben, you can’t. You must live the life you have. Bex would have wanted you to.”
I scowl.
“Go glare at someone else,” she snaps. “I’m telling you now, take this summer on your own to put some plans into action. Do something for you. These last four years you’ve…”
“Amz, just pass me the onion, will you,” I mutter, all the while keeping my eyes on the pan.
***
Once everyone is fed, I wipe down the kitchen.
Amy left for home moments after swallowing her final scoop of rice.
The boys disappear to their rooms, no doubt to continue their soccer addiction via the television.
I rehang my own apron next to Bex’s pink one, which still has pride of place on the back of the door.
The sofa offers comfort, but that’s not where I want to be, so I retreat to my own room.
The box sits hidden at the bottom of my wardrobe, right at the back, where I don’t have to look at it unless I’m searching for something else.
It’s a dark-blue shoe box with the words Jimmy Choo typed across the front.
Inside, there used to be a pair of stunning diamante high heels that were Bex’s pride and joy.
When we bought them, she wore them everywhere, even when the destination was somewhere completely inappropriate.
On the first day, the glittering contraptions were strapped to her feet, teamed with jeans and an ACDC t-shirt, to go to the supermarket.
She said life was too short to save things for best. I agreed.
I lift the lid. It no longer holds the shoes, as they were buried with her. I hope she wears them every day wherever she is.
Now, the box holds papers instead. A collection of half-formed ideas, research, and advice. Notes taken, not for any particular reason, but because someone mentioned something of interest. Most of it, I have no idea what to do with.
I didn’t set out to keep them. They accumulated in the background, one conversation or internet search at a time.
The top sheet says it all: Setting up a charitable organization in the United Kingdom.
I’ve wanted to create something in Bex’s memory since her death, but never truly knew what I wanted to do.
Something that mattered. Something that lasted longer than the wilting flowers on a grave.
But between the children and my job, time has not been in abundant supply these past four years.
There was never enough space to think it through while I learned to live without her.
A summer to myself may just be what I need to put the wheels in motion on this project. An empty house, quiet nights, and time to breathe.
The second paper peeks out below the first. The words written in handwriting so uneven it’s like I wasn’t sure I was allowed to commit them to paper yet.
The Bex Corrigan-Jones Retreat.
Before I can torture myself anymore, I slide the box back into place and close the wardrobe door.