Losing Control, page 6
It didn’t matter then. They studied together, but I got to date her, and our relationship grew over the years. But then so did theirs. They finished school together, graduated from university together, worked in the family company together...
My gut twists with that old familiar pang, but as I look at her now, in that oversized sweater, with those ridiculous socks covered in bunnies beneath the table, the last seven years evaporate. I’m transported back to cosy nights on the sofa when she’d lie with her legs across my lap, book in hand, while I’d catch up on the football. Occasionally she’d shake her head at me as I shouted at the screen, but her eyes would be filled with love, all for me.
The reimagined scene flickers to life inside me, and as I continue to watch her I feel that old protective need come alive once more, the desire to have back what we lost growing out of my control.
And if I can’t depend on my control to keep those feelings at bay then I know I’m in trouble.
Heart, mind and soul.
* * *
‘That was incredible, love.’
Marie smiles at me, having just finished the last of her dessert, and wipes her lips with her napkin.
‘I told you—I’ve been taught by the best.’
I feel Cain’s eyes on me and wish I hadn’t finished that second glass of wine, let alone the dessert wine Marie insisted on pouring. I can feel its heady warmth soothing away my tension, blurring the boundaries I’ve worked so hard to draw up.
The problem is that I can stay angry at the Cain who left seven years ago. I can even detest him.
But the man opposite me... He’s the same, and yet...
I sense so much is different.
He’s more measured, less likely to jump in before thinking, less fun-loving too. He used to be quick to laugh—quick to act the fool, even—but I can’t see that in him now.
If he hadn’t broken my heart I might even feel sad that he’s hardened over the years. But that youth centre initiative... If there was ever a way to soften my defences, that would be it. Wine or no wine.
Not that I am softening. He left once—there’s nothing to say he won’t do it again. In fact, he’s even more likely to do it now he has a life to go back to. Regardless of his threats to stick around, to set up home. I’m convinced he only said those things to goad me.
And what of his life elsewhere? Does he actually have people to go back to? A woman? A family, even?
I realise I know so little about him and my stomach writhes over those missing years. There must have been women. Plenty of women. No one can look like Cain and keep an empty bed.
And, oh, God, why am I thinking like this?
The blasted wine.
Marie eyes us both. Our silence is heavy even to her, I’m sure. ‘How about a spot of brandy?’
‘No!’
It blurts out of us both and for a second our eyes meet. A smile—hell, almost a laugh—erupts, but I shake free of the weird connection.
‘No, thank you,’ I say, softer now as I look back to her. ‘I could murder a coffee, though.’
An injection of caffeine. Sobriety—that’s what I need to see the rest of this meal through. And then I can go home, take a bath and read a good book.
Anything to distract myself from this. From him.
Despite Marie’s best efforts, I’m not ready to address the past head-on, and I hate that his return has put me in this position. If only he hadn’t upped and left in the first place there wouldn’t be this colossal secret between us. A secret with the power to cause so much more pain.
And, if I’m honest, I don’t want to dredge up that last argument, the words that were said, the things that can’t be taken back, no matter how wrong or twisted they were.
‘Coffee it is. You head into the living room and I’ll bring it through.’
We rise and she looks at Cain as he moves to follow her. ‘Shoo, shoo—I can manage coffee on my own.’
If ever there was an order, that is one, and without thinking I raise my brows at Cain, who’s pulling the same expression at me. And there it is again—that connection, our eyes dancing into each other’s as Marie’s shameless orchestration of ‘alone time’ unites us.
He clears his throat and gestures to the doorway. ‘Shall we?’
‘We best had.’
I try not to look at him as I pass him by. I even hold my breath so I can’t get a hit of his cologne. But my body warms over the memory of it anyway. It’s musky, welcoming, all male. And it took over my senses four days ago, when he kissed me—when we kissed. The intensity of it, the old familiar versus the new...
No, there’s no way Cain has lived a life of celibacy these last seven years and I shouldn’t care.
I want to blame his power over me on my abstinence. On the fact that while he was burning me out of his system with many a willing woman, I spent seven years with nothing more than a peck on the cheek, an awkward kiss to the lips...mine and Liam’s one attempt at consummating our marriage, icky at best, and halting before we got anywhere close.
But is it really to blame?
The fire’s crackling in the grate as we enter, its glow the only light in the cosy room and making it feel even smaller. I immediately head to the lamps dotted around, knowing that Marie favours their soft lighting to the brightness of the overhead one, and start switching them on, keeping myself busy.
My ears are attuned to Cain, though. I can hear him tending to the fire, adding logs, stoking it, but I avoid looking at him. If I’m lucky Marie will return before I have to.
I walk to the glass doors that open up onto Marie’s courtyard garden and watch as the various solar lights flutter in the wind. Their glow lends a magical, fairy-like feel to the pretty pots, the garden wall and the climbers she’s planted. I try to empty my mind, focus on the soothing scene—until a sudden stillness in the room draws me back.
The spit and roar of the fire is the only sound I can make out, and as I turn I see Cain is standing rigid before it. He has something in his hand. Something...
Oh, God...
I feel my skin pale, the cold sweat returning. I’ve forgotten about the photo. Or at least I haven’t had the foresight to recall it. It’s just a feature of the room, blending in with the many other ornaments, pictures and paintings.
Why hasn’t Marie put it away?
And why should she? my conscience berates. It was our wedding, for Christ’s sake—of course she would keep it on display. It’s also one of the nicest photos of the four of us—Liam and me, Marie and Robert—taken on the steps of the registry office by a passer-by. We’re smiling, happy—though I know the truth is more skewed than that. Each one of us is missing the man who now holds the picture as if it’s an instrument of torture.
I look away before he can see me watching, waiting for him to speak and dreading what he’ll say all the same.
I hear the gentle knock of the wooden frame as he places it back on the mantelpiece, hear him take a ragged breath against the crackle of the fire at his feet.
‘Taking the let’s-be-civil act a bit far, don’t you think?’
My eyes flick to his. He’s facing me now, his hands deep in his pockets, his expression hard. I don’t know what I expected him to say, but it isn’t that.
‘How do you mean?’ I’m hesitant—confused, even—and I wrap my arms around my middle.
‘“It sounds great.”’
It’s practically a sneer, and I know he’s referring to my comment regarding his Youth Centre.
‘It does. I’m impressed.’
He looks away and shakes his head on a short laugh.
‘What?’ I ask.
His eyes come back to me, but he says nothing. There’s no hint of that easy connection now. We’re back to how we were when we parted four days ago.
The silence stretches and I’m so aware of everything about him. I can feel his anger, his hurt... And, hell, guilt is what I feel. Guilt for the photo. Guilt at what I did. Guilt!
It’s unbelievable. Why should I feel guilty when everything that happened was down to him? It was his blasted fault.
But even as I think it I know the truth is more complicated, that there were things I could have done differently seven years ago—things I shouldn’t have said, things I could have said and didn’t.
But he was the one who left, not me.
‘Why don’t you say what’s really on your mind?’ I ask.
He says nothing and I lose it, striding across the room towards him. He’s no innocent in this and I’m going to make him answer.
‘This is what you’re thinking about!’ I snatch the photo from the mantelpiece and thrust it out, making him look at it. ‘This is what you’re angry about. Not the fact that I dared compliment you on your youth initiative.’
His jaw pulses. He’s so close now. Not even a foot between us. And as I drag in a breath his scent invades my senses...my head swims with it. The heat spreading through my body, nothing to do with the fire beside us and everything to do with my anger and the persistent need, the lust I just can’t shake.
‘It’s your fault, Cain—can’t you see that?’ I force the words out, refusing to listen to the guilt, to the simmering heat, as I glare up at him.
‘What’s my fault, Lexi?’ He leans closer, his eyes raking over my face, the flames from the fire flickering in their depths. ‘How you feel this second?’
He reaches out, his fingers surprisingly soft beneath my chin, his eyes falling to my lips that I now wet and wish I hadn’t. ‘Don’t, Cain.’
‘Don’t what?’
He traces my lower lip with the pad of his thumb and I shiver—too much heat, too much need. I feel the frame start to slip in my hand.
No.
I back away, out of his reach and tighten my grip on the photo.
‘Everything’s your bloody fault!’ I throw at him, my body thrumming with it all. Frustration at myself for being attracted to him. Anger at him for not accepting the part he played. Desire. The carnal ache calling for satisfaction—No. I try and burry it with more words, more accusations. ‘The whole damn lot is your fault! If you hadn’t left...if you hadn’t abandoned us all then...then...’
I shake my head, squeeze my eyes shut, haunted by the old, tortured by the new—the plane crash, losing my best friend, my father figure... Would they have even been on that plane together if Cain had never left?
Christ!
I open my eyes. Would Cain have been on it as well? Or instead of them?
My whisper is almost ghost-like. ‘The plane crash...’
His eyes flicker dangerously. ‘You may see me as some kind of God, Alexa, but even I can’t conjure up a storm worthy of taking out an aircraft.’
‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it.’
He closes the gap that I’ve created. ‘No, what you mean is if I hadn’t left seven years ago then maybe there’s a chance it would have been me on that plane instead of Liam.’
His lips curve into a smile that is all the more chilling, all the more immobilising for the pain I know it masks. And the hatred it doesn’t.
‘How tragic for you that I’m the one you’re left with...’
‘Right, I’ve brought both! Brandy and coff—’
Marie is halfway in the room when she freezes, a laden tray outstretched before her. Her eyes fall to the picture still in my hand and I see her skin pale beneath her make-up.
Damn you, Cain.
‘Everything okay?’ she says, her voice unnaturally high.
I move quickly, placing the photo back where it belongs and going to help her with the tray. I take it from her hands with a smile. ‘Coffee smells lovely.’
She doesn’t respond. Her eyes are on her son and I curse him again.
Say something, I urge him with a look alone.
‘It does,’ he says finally. ‘But I’m going to have to give it a miss. I’ve an early meeting tomorrow and I need to get back.’
‘But...’ Marie wavers, her eyes wide with disappointment. ‘Don’t you want to call a taxi first? You can at least wait here for it.’
‘No need. I can walk.’
‘But you live miles away.’
He strides across the room and kisses his mother on the cheek. ‘I could do with the air. Goodnight, Mum, and thank you for the meal.’ He looks to me now. ‘The pudding too.’
‘Our meeting’s not until eight—surely you can stay a little longer.’
For your mother’s sake, I add silently.
‘You’re not my first meeting.’
And then he’s gone, leaving an aching silence in the room that neither of us seems able to fill. I put the tray down on the table that sits between the two armchairs before the fire and drop down into one of them.
‘You’re going to have to tell him, you know.’
I hear Marie’s words and I know exactly what she means. But, Christ...
‘How can I? After all this time?’
‘You just need to be honest with him.’
She moves to sit in the other chair, pressing down the plunger in the cafetière before picking up the bottle of brandy and pouring two glasses. She passes me one.
‘I was just having coff—’
‘Humour me.’ Her smile is small. ‘You look like you need it. The coffee can wait.’
I shake my head. ‘You’re incorrigible.’
But I sip it anyway. It’s not as if I need my wits about me any more. He’s gone. And instead of feeling relieved, I feel... I don’t know how I feel.
I shake my head, not ready to examine it any closer.
‘I know it’s not going to be easy, love.’
Marie sips at her own brandy, her eyes not once leaving me, their sympathetic quality making tears prick.
‘But he deserves the—’
‘Don’t say he deserves the truth, Marie. I know he’s your son, but he was the one who left...he was the one who ran...he was the one who...who...’
‘Broke your heart.’ Her lips pull back into a tight line, but dimples appear in her cheeks as she nods. ‘Yes, I know, love. I know. But he has to know the truth or it’ll eat away at you, destroy any chance you have of being able to move past this together.’
‘Who says I want to move past it together?’
Silently she studies me, her assertive gaze reading me far too well.
‘You think you can carry on like this? With this secret between you?’
‘I don’t know.’ My empty hand goes to my stomach; the other pulses around the brandy glass as I struggle to even think on it, let alone speak. ‘I just know I’m scared—scared of telling him and not knowing how he will react. Of leaving myself open...bare...having him crush me like he did before.’
Her eyes glisten in the firelight. ‘I know, and I understand. But you need to do this and trust that he’ll do right by you. He’s not the same man who ran away.’
‘You say that like you know him now.’
‘I know him well enough.’
‘How can you? He’s hardly been here.’
She doesn’t answer me, and I get the sudden impression there’s something she’s not telling me.
‘Marie?’
‘He’s been in touch a lot over the past few months...visited too, ever since the funeral. I didn’t say anything because... Well, I guess it’s been a habit for so long—none of us mentioning his name for fear of upsetting one another, and I guess more so with you.’
‘With me?’
‘Yes, love...’ She looks at me, guilty now. ‘Because every time he came up that look would come over you and...’
Her eyes fall briefly to where my hand still presses against my abdomen and I know what look she means. I know then that she’s been protecting me. That while I’ve been trying to look out for her, she’s been doing the same right back. And so the guilt returns.
‘I didn’t want to hurt you,’ she finishes.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise.’
‘You shouldn’t feel like you can’t talk about your son to me.’
She shakes her head. ‘You’ve had enough pain, that’s all.’
‘And you haven’t?’ I raise my brows.
Her smile is soft, wistful. ‘I love you like a daughter—you know that—and I just want you to be happy. I want both of you to be happy.’
My heart squeezes tight in my chest. Happy. I just can’t imagine it. Not with Cain back in my life as a constant reminder of what I’ve lost, of what we’ve lost—only he doesn’t know it.
Our daughter, our little Rose, is a burden I carry alone. Yes, I had his family, all of whom suffered her loss with me. But they hadn’t felt the pain of a mother, of a parent.
Liam would have loved her. He would have brought her up as his own. And, no matter how twisted, how messed-up that would have been, it had been our plan. To give her everything I’d lacked growing up: a stable, loving home, a mother and a father...grandparents.
I swallow as the brandy rises in my throat, the rolling of my belly meeting the pain in my heart. Would Cain feel it like this? This sickness? This empty hole inside? The skin-prickling grief that you don’t want to believe it has happened to you, to your precious little bundle?
‘Have you said anything to him?’
My voice is distant as I ask the question, my head still filled with images of being in that hospital bed, her frail body unmoving in my arms, my body in a weird state of post-labour numbness.
‘No—good heavens, no.’ Marie’s eyes are wide with her insistence. ‘It’s not my place. Don’t get me wrong, I hate keeping it from him—especially knowing how much the past haunts him. But—’
I scoff. I can’t help it.
‘It does, Alexa, and you know that deep down.’
I’m quiet. I can hardly deny it.
I wrap an arm across my stomach and lean forward, staring into my brandy as if the amber liquid will have all the answers. ‘What if he can’t forgive me?’
