Page 96 of The Reality of Us
A galloping horse stole her heart, thundering away with it. A few tears leaked out, dripping down her cheeks. She wiped her face quickly, hoping her family would pretend they hadn’t seen.
She cleared her throat. “Owen said all that?” Of course he had. While she’d been paralysed with embarrassment, heartbreak and anxiety, he’d been trying to fix things and realising he couldn’t do it for her. He was so damn amazing.
Dougie squeezed her hand. “I know you haven’t wanted to know what’s happening online, but things have been pretty bad for him too.” The horse in her chest was joined by the rest of its herd. Their hooves beat in time with the blood pounding in her ears. “He’s been followed, and his office was vandalised a few days ago.”
The pit in her stomach that was always there these days opened up. God, if he was hurt … “Is he okay? And Frankie?”
“Everyone’s fine,” Rico said. “Owen’s working remotely.”
Relief flooded through her quickly, pushing her back against the couch. “I just want it all to be over.”
“Then finish it. No one else can do it for you,” her father said. “Hiding will just destroy everything you’ve worked for. We don’t always see eye to eye about your choices, but these last few months you’ve been so different, Alice. You seemed happy. Driven. If you don’t fight this, you’ll always be the girl who went on reality TV and married a guy who treated her terribly. Everyone will think you’re a drug user who lies.”
“Which we know isn’t true,” Marguerite said gently.
“But no one else does! You’re so much more than who you think you are, Alice. Look at what you’ve done with this candle business. You know everyone’s been buzzing about it if even I’ve heard about it! And your mother said you’ve approached her hospital about doing a special charity candle for them.” Douglas dragged a hand over his face. “Don’t give up because it’s the easy option. Sometimes I think we made you feel like you were not enough or too different, but we were trying to protect you. You keep telling us you can fix things, Alice. I’d love for you to show us how.”
The horses in her chest slowed to a trot, her cheeks aching from the salty tears she couldn’t stop. Rico passed her a box of tissues. “But everyone will think …”
“Who cares?” her mother asked, chuckling at the shocked look on Alice’s face. “Don’t look so surprised. I gave up caring what other people thought years ago. Do the right thing for you, Alice. Live your life by that motto and you’ll be fine. I promise.”
“Tell her about the messages now!” Dougie said.
Alice blinked, shaky hands wiping at her eyes. “What messages?”
“You’ve clearly made an impact on everyone in Wattle Junction. Aside from hearing from Owen, I’ve had calls from”—her father pulled a small notebook out of his breast pocket and flipped until he found the page he was searching for—“a Lulu Hampshire-James, Joan Mandrill, Eloise …”
“… Hamilton,” Alice finished for him, her chest squeezing. “What did they say?”
Everyone in Wattle Junction hated her now, surely? After what she’d done to Owen? He was one of them. All the friendships she’d built during her time there, despite her rocky start in the small town, would disappear now. If this were a divorce, and it hurt more than her actual divorce did, she’d lose custody of everyone and everything in Wattle Junction automatically. Her fingernails bit into the palms of her hand. Once she figured out a new location for her candles, there’d be no trace of her left in the place she’d thought of as her first real home as an adult.
“They wanted to make sure you’d seen the videos.”
Jesus. Fucking videos. Alice never wanted to hear that word again. Her eyes met her father’s.
“Here.” Marguerite pulled her phone out of her small handbag and found a page she’d booked marked on YouTube.
The screen filled with images of Wattle Junction. The fountain in the park all lit up at night. Trivia at the pub, Teddy’s blond hair shining behind the bar as he filled a pint. In the background, Wyatt was holding a cocktail shaker above his head.
Her shearers’ shed. Boxes stacked on the shelves, the table covered in rows and rows of her candles all drying.
Text appeared, and she squinted to read it.
“Here”—her mother passed her glasses over—“we have the same prescription.”
Did you know scrolled across the screen. Followed by The Emancipation of Alice has donated over $10,000 to charity since its launch only three months ago?
The image changed to the racks of designer gear she’d auctioned.
Or that Alice organised and operated a wardrobe sale that raised over $14,000 for children in hospital?
The lounge room at the retirement home was next. The knitting circle were all there, big smiles on their faces, half-finished scarves and beanies hanging from their needles.
And she volunteers to teach knitting every week?
Tears dripped down her cheeks, her mother’s glasses fogging up.
The next image caused a garbled sob-slash-snort. There she was, a small dot against the high cliff, one hand raised above her head, a red flag held triumphantly. In the bottom of the picture, so out of focus he was easy to miss, was Owen. She knew he was smiling up at her.
