Page 66 of The Art of Loving You

Jack.

I turned away from the window, away from the world with its colours and its beauty, hugging his pillow tight to my chest.

He felt further away than ever.

It was the sound of a heavy tread pressing against the gravel outside that made me reach for my dressing gown, a feeling of unease squirming in my belly. It was too early for the postman.

Who was outside?

Downstairs, I wrenched open the door as a figure disappeared out of sight.

On the step, my purse and laptop.

‘Liam?’

I ran after him, the ground cold and damp beneath my bare feet.

‘Liam, wait.’

He threw a panicked glance over his shoulder.

‘Please,’ I pleaded.

He slowed, stopped, his spine and shoulders rigid. Turned slowly to face me.

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say to him, how to convey that what I felt wasn’t anger. I’d had a cold and empty place inside of me where trust used to sit before Kenny stabbed Jack and now Liam had returned my possessions he’d also handed me back a little of my faith that most people were inherently good.

It was a lot to say and so I simply said, ‘Thank you.’

‘You shouldn’t thank me you should … I’m really sorry, Libby. I didn’t take any cash from your purse. I just … I forgot to be more Jack.’

Immediately I was transported back to the funeral, to Sid’s speech, to Liam’s promise.

Neither of us spoke. He shoved his hands in his pockets and toed the path. The same path Jack had trod on, Jack with his hopes and his dreams and his longing to make the world a better place.

‘I forgot too,’ I whispered. ‘I’m going to try, Liam. The centre. I can’t promise but … I’m going to try and …’

‘Be more Jack,’ he said softly.

I nodded, my throat swollen with emotion.

After a beat I asked, ‘How did you get here?’

‘I walked. It took me ages.’

My heart ached for him as I imagined him trudging through country lanes in his worn trainers.

‘Want a lift back to town?’

‘You going to get dressed first?’ He smiled.

Suddenly I became aware of the damp beneath my soles, the early morning air penetrating my thin candy-striped pyjamas. I wrapped my dressing gown tighter.

‘Yes. I might even have breakfast. Fancy a bacon sandwich?’

‘Yeah. I can make them while you get ready?’

‘So you can cook?’ I asked.

---