Page 48 of Omega's Forbidden Heat
“How fucking noble of you.”
“It wasn’t like that.” He kicks at the gravel. “I would have confessed it. When she found out about you, I was prepared to claim her. But your mum was resolute. She wasn’t prepared to ruin me like that, to ruin my life, and I guess she blamed herself — for coming to me, for tempting me like she did.” He plunges his hands into his pockets and leans against his car, lifting his eyes to the sky. “I thought I was doing the right thing. But I regretted it. Oh, how I regretted it. I ended up marrying someone else, but that was a mess and it ended ages ago.” He closes his eyes. “Your mum was the one, I am certain of that, and I let her go. I should never have let her go.”
“It’s too late now. Too late to say all that when she’s gone.”
He nods. “But if there’s anything I can do to help you, Jack.”
“I don’t want your help and I don’t need it either.”
“Your mum wrote in her letter that you’d say that too.” He smiles sadly. “But she wanted me to help you, to make sure you were ok.”
“It’s a bit late for that too, isn’t it? Plenty of years you could’ve helped us out.” He tips back his head, digging his knuckles into the corners of his eyes. He thinks of his mum asleep on the sofa, dressed in her nurse’s uniform, of finding her there in the morning. He thinks of her sitting at the kitchen table, her glasses on the table in front of her, rubbing at her temples, her eyes screwed shut. He thinks of her hovering at the side of his bed, there whenever he’d called for her in the night. “You have no idea how hard it was for her.”
The older man watches him, wiping at his cheeks. “I did help, financially. You really thought your mum could’ve afforded this place on a nurse’s salary?”
‘So that’s why you’re here. You want a cut of the house sale.”
“No, I — you always were a difficult boy.”
“I wasn’t. You just never gave me a chance.”
“If I was hard on you, it was only because I wanted you to do your best and make something of yourself.”
“Well, that worked out well, didn’t it? My life is truly fucked before it’s begun.”
“No, Jack, you’re still young. You have your whole life ahead of you. It’s not too late for you. Not at all.”
Jack stares at him. Mr Stephens has never spoken to him like that before. Words of encouragement, words of belief.
“You don’t know me anymore. You never knew me in the first place.”
“Yes, I do. You’re bright and there was always something about you that made everyone love you. Your friends, the teachers, the other pupils. It always reminded me of your mum — the way you drew people in with this sort of energy, it just radiated off you. God, I both hated you and loved you for it. You’ll find a way to get that back.”
Jack’s tongue sits heavy in his mouth. “It’s gone.”
“You’re a fighter, a survivor like her too. You’ll find your way. And if you need my help, you only have to ask.” He glances at his watch and strolls towards his car. “Good luck, Jack. If you want to contact me, it’s up to you. I’m at the Willborough School now.”
Jack steps to the side of the driveway and watches this man, his father, climb into his car and back down the drive. When the car reaches the end, it pauses and Mr Stephens glances momentarily at him, meeting his eyes. Their eye colour is the same, he sees it now. Almost the same shade of blue. Then Mr Stephens twists his head to peer out into the lane and swings the car away.
He rushes into the house and up the stairs, throwing open the door to his mum’s empty bedroom.
Where did his aunt put them? Did she burn them like he asked?
He ducks his head into the wardrobe and flings open each of the drawers, but there’s no trace of his mum left. Everything she owned, every single piece of her is gone. And it hits him like a truck, his heart aching so badly he clutches at his chest, digging his nails into the flesh above his ribcage. He wants to reach inside and scoop out this stupid, useless muscle and throw it out the window, stamp on it, rip it apart until it just stops hurting. Why can’t it leave him alone?
He collapses down on his back.
He shouldn’t have thrown those things away. He’s just like his father, throwing her on the rubbish heap and forgetting she exists.
Why did she never tell him? Sure, he’d stopped her when she’d tried. But she could have tried harder, forced the truth on him. He knows he’s stubborn sometimes. He needs someone to keep coming at him, not to give up so easily, to show him he is wrong.
And she wrote Mr Stephens a letter. Not him. No letter for him. Shit, even the bitter old trolls in the village write letters to Amy. But his mum? She couldn’t write him a letter? A good bye? One last piece of advice?
Because right now, he could really, really do with some advice. Her advice. Her embrace and her soft words, telling him he’s okay. It’s going to be okay.
Telling him this pain will fade.
Telling him how to fix everything.
