Page 76 of Save Us
It hurt not to hear from him all week, but that’s nothing compared to the pain his words cause me now. And at the same time, something’s become very clear to me.
“I didn’t spend years learning to love myself just to let someone like you make me feel like shit,” I say.
Wren shakes his head, steps closer again. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just didn’t want you to get the wrong impression about me or my friends. And after your message…I didn’t know what to say. Or if you even wanted to hear from me at all. I didn’t think about what it must look like to you.”
“To me, it looks like you only want to meet me in secret,” I reply flatly.
I’m almost expecting him to argue, to insist that I’mimportant to him. I wait for an answer. Ten seconds go by. Twenty. Thirty. Then I lose count and things get really awkward. I realize that I’m not getting an answer. Swallowing hard, I look into Wren’s face. I study his dark brown eyes, his black, curling lashes, the little birth mark on his right cheek.
Then I tear my eyes away and clear my throat.
“Take care, Wren,” I say, turning away and leaving him standing there on the pavement. It’s only then that I realize how sweaty my palms feel. How fast my pulse is racing.
And how badly my heart is aching.
Lydia
“What do you think of this one?” asks Ophelia.
At the last second, I stop myself screwing up my nose as I look at the little cardigans my aunt is showing me on her iPad. They’re piglet pink, glittery, and about the last thing I’d ever want to dress my children in.
“I think a bit less pink wouldn’t hurt,” I say diplomatically, at which it’s Ophelia who wrinkles her nose.
“You’re just like your mother. She would never go for color in your clothes.”
Over the last few weeks, I’ve looked through Ophelia’s photo albums, and I have to say that Mum had great taste when it came to dressing me and James. Most of our outfits were in neutral tones and always went really well together without being matchy-matchy. I want my babies to be that stylish too.
“Mum knew her stuff,” I say.
Ophelia sighs and takes the iPad back. She keeps scrolling through the shop website, putting pretty much anything in newborn sizes into her basket.
“I don’t know how you stand it,” she says after a while, looking at me over her sunglasses. “I’d be dying of curiosity if it were me.”
I lean back in the lounger, looking up at the underside of the striped parasol spread out over us on Ophelia’s patio.
“I am really curious too. But it’s more of a…thrill to wait.”
“When did you make up your mind to keep it a surprise?” Ophelia asks.
I stroke my belly, lost in thought. “This whole pregnancy has been a surprise, right from the start. When my doctor asked if I wanted to know the sexes, I just liked the idea of waiting. It’s in keeping with the theme.”
Since I’ve been staying here, I’ve lost the feeling that I need to whisper when I talk about my twins. Ophelia has helped me relax and to accept that all I can do is accept things as they come and make the best of them. She might not know it, but it’s all thanks to her support that I’m here, about six weeks from the due date, and not freaking out.
So I can deal with her taste in baby clothes being a bit off. But even so, I still shudder when I remember the neon-green dungarees she suggested with shining eyes—a garment that I’d only use as an insect-scarer.
“Your phone’s ringing, lovely,” Ophelia says, pointing to the little table between our garden chairs.
I push my shades up into my hair so that I can see the screen better. But when I see who’s calling, my heart sinks down to my boots—or rather my sandals.
It’s Cyril.
I pick up my phone and stare irresolutely at the small picture by his name. I took the photo at James’s and my last birthday party. Cyril put his hand on the back of my head and pulled me close, and I’m beaming into the camera like it’s the best evening of my life.
The memory of what Cyril used to mean to me collides with the knowledge of what he’s capable of, of what he did, and for a moment, I’m so overwhelmed that I don’t know whether to answer or throw my phone as far away as I possibly can.
After two deep breaths, I pick the first option.
“Hello?” I croak.
