Page 92 of The Art of Loving You

‘I can tell you what I’d like to do to you, Libby, if only I could. Close your eyes.’

I had felt it all.

‘Trust me.’

My breath was rapid, my pulse light and fast.

I closed my eyes, inhaled and there it was.

Sandalwood.

Jack.

I raised my arms, spread my hands. Felt warm breath upon my cheek.

It was impossible.

It wasallimpossible but it was all I ever wanted.

Jack’s hands clasped mine, his fingers … God those fingers.

A tear leaked down my cheek.

John Lennon sang and just like we had on our anniversary, we spun slowly around the room.

This time, if anyone had peered through the window what would they have seen? A crying girl twirling around, arms empty, her hands being held by no one?

‘Jack. Jack. Jack.’ His name escaped my lips with every breath.

‘I’m here.’

But I knew he wasn’t, not really.

The song ended. A chill spread from my scalp to my toes. I opened my eyes and he was gone.

I waited until almost midnight before I trudged back upstairs where nothing waited for me apart from a freezing empty bed.

Still I cradled the sensation of us spinning, as though we were still dancing, keeping that feeling close to my chest.

Despite my earlier awkward conversation with Mum, Jack had made this one of the best days since I had lost him.

Tomorrow would be one of the worst.

Chapter Thirty-One

The following day brought a raging storm, rain hurling itself at the windows, wind shaking the frames.

But Jack.

It also brought Jack.

I had been lost in time, lost in the memory of last night’s dance when I walked into the snug. Jack was there and suddenly I was lost for words.

Would it always be like this? Appearing and disappearing. Never knowing when or if I would see him again. Instead of confusion, delight, all the things I had felt before, I was overcome with a helplessness so deep it threatened to sink me. I tried to smile at him because I knew that’s what he’d be expecting but emotion dragged the corners of my mouth down. I knelt to light a fire, striking a match against the kindling, finding the routine in the midst of such extraordinary circumstances comforting.

The flames danced, orange and bright, and I settled myself on the sofa next to Jack. In the pit of my stomach a tight ball of worry began to uncurl, tendrils of uncertainty pushing impossible questions into my throat. I tried to contain them but they spilled out nevertheless.

‘How long are you here for this time?’ I fiddled with my cuff. Unable to look at him. Knowing he had no more idea than I did. ‘Whydoyou think you’re here, Jack?’

---