Page 197 of This Woman Forever

“Rosie?”

My inhale is so sharp and deep, my entire body lifts. It also gives Amalie my answer. “Did you just take my call to remind me of all the shitty things that have happened in my life?”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Take it as you will,” I snap.

“And here he goes, being all defensive as usual,” she muses. My mouth opens, ready to launch, but no words materialize. I have nothing to say to that. Why? Because no alcohol is involved? Because I’m lucid?

Sober?

Have I suddenly realized that I’ve played a significant part in my estrangement from my family too?

A small silence falls between us, Amalie waiting for my scathing counter, me wondering what to say. “Are you still drinking?” she asks, her question soft and loaded with anticipation.

My knee-jerk reaction is to bellow a resounding, angry, insulted no. As I always have. But I don’t have that right, and I can’t be mad with Amalie for asking. “I haven’t had a drink since I met Ava.” Not strictly true, but sharing my four-day absence will serve no purpose here. “She’s pregnant, Amalie. I?—”

“You drank throughout Lauren’s pregnancy.”

“I didn’t love Lauren,” I say tightly, and again, I can’t be mad. My family never saw me when I was sober while Rosie was alive. They just saw the broken man I was when she died. And by then, I was beyond hope. There was no point wasting their time. They couldn’t fix me. “Listen, I didn’t call to debate my fuck-ups.”

“Then why did you call?’” she asks, making me scowl. Smart-arse.

“To see how Dad is.”

“Do you care?”

“Well, clearly I fucking do, Amalie, because here I am on the end of the phone asking.”

“So what’s changed?”

My God, I suddenly remember how exhausting she is. Testing. Takes no shit. “I don’t know, Amalie.” I sigh and scrub my hand down my face. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

“Wait,” she blurts, now urgent. “Does this mean there’s a chance?”

I don’t need to ask what she means. And I can’t bring myself to say no. Forgiveness is a medicine I’m yet to try. I hang up and before I can even think to call John, Amalie texts me.

I’m going to take that as a yes. Don’t push me away again. And it just occurred to me... I’m older than your wife. Weird.

And there go my eyes again. I have a fucking headache. A knock sounds, taking me to the front door. I swing it open and find Clive holding up a tube. “Morning, Mr. Ward, a delivery for you.”

“Thanks, Clive.” I take it, close the door on his smiling face, and rush to my office, slipping the wallpaper behind the door for the decorator. I look at the wall. Fucking amazing. But it was absent some really important pictures I took recently, so I hopped onto the suppliers website while Ava was swimming on Saturday and added them to the design, got express shipping, and called the decorators back in. This wall’s cost a small fortune. But, again, fucking amazing.

When I’m back in the kitchen, I call John and lower to a stool. “Morning,” I sigh, hearing the sound of Ava’s hairdryer in the distance.

“Sounds like you need a holiday.”

“Ha,” I quip, droll. “Are you still okay to pick Ava up for work?”

“Indeed. I’m on my way. Does she know?”

My lips roll as I stand and go to the fridge, collecting my peanut butter.

Better than vodka, bro. Well done.

With my phone wedged to my ear, I start dipping. “I didn’t think I’d push my luck after telling her Sarah’s at The Manor.”

He laughs. “Probably wise. How did she take it?”

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