Page 61 of The Love of Our Lives
‘Well,’ Adam says, turning to me at the top, ‘I had a fun night.’
Blinking back the thoughts, I look up into those amazingly kind, if somewhat bloodshot, eyes; trace down those solid shoulders I know so intimately under his black fleece. If I leaned in two inches I’d be able to kiss him.
‘Me too,’ I swallow.
A pause; his mouth parts.
‘Well, goodnight, Emily,’ he says eventually, and with a final glance, he heads into his room.
‘Goodnight,’ I whisper, still standing in the hallway. My lips are aching for him, the rest of my body too and I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or not, but I want to be with him so badly right now, it takes all my effort to not follow him. A part of me can’t helpwondering, yet again, if something happened between Emily and Adam the first time.
Could she have fallen for him too?
A beat.
Could I be with him again if she did?Even if Emily isn’t actually here anymore, I still want to honour whatshewould have wanted, and who – if it’s going to stick in time forever. So what if that someone was Adam?
But then I think about Simon, the way he looked at me – the fact that we were actually engaged once, and he openly wanted to be with me forever, something I’m really not sure Adam can give. Not after what Charlie told me about him leaving Claire like he did. So, I know that I’d only be getting with Adam for me.
I go through to my dark room eventually, flop down on the bed to see if it helps, but it only feels worse somehow. I stare at the wall and try to imagine what Adam’s thinking right now, what he’s feeling. My whole body is firing with a mix of longing, frustration and drunkenness, and I wonder how I’m ever going to be able to sleep, knowing where I am and just how close he is. Although we live right across the hall from each other, there’s still something separate about it. But in this place, our doors are wide open.
Beckoning to each other.
Eventually, as with everything, my body takes over, and my eyes finally shut.
Sleep comes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The next morning, I wake groggily. My head is splitting and my mouth tastes like sandpaper left out in the sun. Reaching to find water, I find that I have none, and looking around the room, I suddenly realise where I am – in our old room, in the cottage. It’s all here again in the daylight – the eaves, the little Scottish paintings, the matching quilts at the foot of the beds, the lamp with the beaded tassels Cat found in a shop up here, her old reading books on the shelf:The Secret Garden,Little WomenandThe Baby-Sitters Clubcollection and, for a moment, I can’t breathe from it all.
The last day Cat existed on this planet.
Those final steps she took just outside this house.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
But then I look down at my hands – Emily’s hands – and my heart rate slows as I remember why I’m here: to spend time with good friends, to eat and to ski, and do all the things I never permitted myself to do before. Because I can’t deny that all of this isn’t largely for me – I remember so clearly watching as other people in the area piled into their lodges and chalets, loaded up with booze and ski gear, and I would wonder what it felt like, living to the max like that. Now, finally, that gets to be me.
Getting out of bed slowly now, I feel a bit hellish and regretful of quite how much we drank, how late we stayed up, but I manage to get my base layers on and brush my teeth before heading downstairs in search of sustenance. It’s already nine o’clock and I curse myself for missing the best part of the morning on themountains. Down in the kitchen, Adam is already dealing with the mess we left last night.
‘Hey,’ I croak, a touch of guilt kicking in as he looks at me coming down. He looks pretty jaded too, and I know I played a part in that. There are shadows beneath his eyes, and his hair is ruffled like he’s been tossing and turning all night.
‘Good morning,’ he says in a deeper voice than normal and places a very welcome pot of coffee on the table. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Rough,’ I say truthfully. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever had that much alcohol before.’
‘Well, just get some coffee into you,’ he says gently, ‘and you’ll be fine. But let’s maybe take it a bit easier tonight, Miss Party, all right?’
‘All right,’ I smile ruefully as I take a seat at the table. He pours us both a cup, putting milk in mine while leaving his black.
‘Do you fancy some eggs too?’ he says, pointing at the stove. ‘I could poach them, if you like.’
I pause, feeling all kinds of emotions rushing at me – breakfast together, coffees together, eggs on the stove.
Just like before.
‘That’s OK,’ I say, eventually. ‘I’ll get some toast in a bit.’
