Page 107 of Paper Roses

“Stop,” I say quietly, my eyes burning with tears. I lift his hand to my face and kiss the long fingers. I listen to the song playing for a few beats. “It’s not like the lyrics of this song,” I say. “I want you to love me happily and joyfully and withoutany regret in your heart. I need more from you than being just friends. I’ve never mattered to anyone, and I deserve that,” I finish simply.

“You deserveeverything. You’re the best man I’ve ever known.” I’m stunned to see tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says thickly. “I’m sorry I can’t be that man. I just can’t, Artie. I think of loving someone, and panic comes over me. I’m a coward.”

“Don’teversay that to me. You haveneverbeen a coward,” I say fiercely. “You’re the bravest man I know.”

His face contorts as though he’s struggling to explain or protest, but he can’t get out the words.

I press my fingers to his lips. “It’s really okay, Jed.”

We listen to the rest of the sad song. When it ends, he asks, “What will we do?” He sounds suddenly young—like I’m the older, wiser person—and maybe I am in this.

I sit back. “I’m leaving.”

“What?” He jumps to his feet and begins pacing by the fire, his movements clumsy. “But you can’t.” His face suddenly darkens. “Are you going tohim?” he demands.

I gape at him. “Who?”

“Ben.”

“No, ofcoursenot. Whatever gave you that idea?”

When he remains stubbornly silent, I pass him the other letter I’m holding. “I’ve had a job offer, and I think it might be best for both of us if I take it.”

He looks down at it, scanning it, and frowns. “It’s in Germany.” He pauses. “Karl Nesbitt. Why do I know that name?”

“We did his daughter’s wedding last year.”

Recognition and outrage dawn on his face. “The arrogant wanker who’s been trying to poach you ever since?”

“Yes, he’s working in Berlin for a year. He contacted me on LinkedIn when his current assistant gave his notice. He offeredme the job. This was him putting it in writing. It seems like a good time to take it.”

“So, I won’t even get to see you anymore?” He sinks into the chair as if someone has cut his strings. His face is white and drawn.

I get up and perch on the arm of his chair, stroking his hair back, feeling the soft strands and the way he leans into my touch like an old dog who’s scared but still needs affection. It makes my heart burn with tenderness.

“I think it’s best,” I say softly. “It’s only for a year and it’s a good job. I’ve always wanted to see Berlin,” I say, trying for cheerfulness.

“But what about the house? You’re just going to leave after you waited so long for it?”

I think about telling him that my house is just bricks and mortar. What I always longed for was a home and I’d found that in him. But I don’t want to make him feel any more awful than he already does.

“I’ll rent it out for a while,” I say instead.

He looks dazed. “God, I never even thought about that. I’ll get out of the way for you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say immediately.

“I do.” He sucks in a deep breath. “I’ll move back to my flat.”

“Thank you.” It’s funny what manners make you do. The thought of someone else living in a place I consider to be ours, fills me with indescribable sadness, but we’re still talking as if we’re at a garden party—so horribly civilised. “I’ll arrange the divorce.”

“No,” he jerks out.

I scan his angry face. “What do you mean?”

“Leave it for a bit. Get settled into a new country first.” He’s talking very fast. “I won’t contest the divorce when you get around to it.”

“I didn’t ever think you would,” I say in stupefaction.

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