He set her down gently in her chair, bending down to pick up her towel and hand it back to her. She took it without a word. She looked so vulnerable, sitting there, shivering. Knowing how much she would hate the observation, he immediately felt guilty. She had fought so long and so hard to regain her independence. She was strong and she was determined and she had a stubborn streak in her that had driven him to drink on several occasions. But she wasn’t invincible.
He pushed her over to the bench and sat down with a heavy sigh. Reaching over to snag his own towel from where it had landed earlier, he wiped his face and rubbed his hair dry. She sat facing him, staring at the empty bench, shivering.
“I know you thought you were helping,” she said finally. “But I really need to do this. I need to talk to him, I need to know, and I need you to back off for a while. Please?”
He continued to dry himself off, then stood up and wrapped the towel around his waist, tucking the end in to hold it in place. She wasn’t going to give up, he realised, watching as she rubbed at her legs half-heartedly. He wasn’t surprised.
He sat down again and reached over to turn her chair around and drag it backwards so she was in front of him. He started kneading her shoulders firmly, the muscles taut beneath his fingertips. After a few minutes, he eased off slightly. Her shoulders were shapely and toned, testament to the strength of her upper body. Also testament to the strength of her spirit.
“Okay,” he said, standing up and bending low to take hold of the handles of her chair. “If that’s what you want.”
She let him push her towards the changing rooms, something she rarely permitted.
“I do,” she said, the words coming out with a deep sigh, laced with both relief and fear.
An ache rose up in a wave from his gut, lodging in his throat. He was going to regret this, he could tell. He stopped beside the entry to the women’s changing room.
“I wish Tom were here,” she said quietly, taking control of her chair.
She propelled herself slowly into the changing room, her head bent as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders.
CHAPTER 8
“Some choices we live not only once, but a thousand times over, remembering them for the rest of our lives.”
- Richard Bach
Jack had been waiting for half an hour, he realised as he checked his watch yet again. Standing up, he paced the length of Ally’s porch before sitting down again in the same spot.
He had slept on the couch last night. Desperate for peace, he had polished off the rest of the whisky and waited to pass out. Only, it hadn’t happened as instantly as he would have liked. He had lain on the couch, staring at the ceiling as it spun before him. He tried to conjure up some words of wisdom that his father might have offered, had he been there. All he had successfully done was give himself strange, fractured dreams last night and a giant hangover this morning.
He turned his hands over, studying them. Bruised knuckles stared back at him. Was Callum right? Should he go? Was he only doing this for his own selfish reasons, or did he really think he could make a difference? He recalled Ally’s discomfort as they had talked about the accident – the pain was clear and raw, and he wanted to shrink away from it but he found himself caught. He had been hiding from it for so long, it seemed like it was part of a nightmare, not completely real. But seeing it like that, having it pour out of her and slam into his stomach that way, was something else entirely.
Callum hated him, he saw it in his face, never mind the words that spilled out of his mouth. He didn’t blame him, either. Deep down, he had hoped for some sign that there might be a chance he could claw their friendship back from the brink, that he hadn’t screwed it up for good. He knew now that that was clearly a pipe dream.
He felt like he was drowning. He wished his father was here – he would know how to stop everything from falling apart. Self-pity tried to claim him as he desperately struggled to keep his head above water.
This morning, eager for some peace, he had decided to go to the cemetery to visit his father’s grave. He got as far as the cemetery gate but he couldn’t make himself get out of the car. Ashamed and angry, he had driven back to the house and locked himself inside. He spent the rest of the day in there – wandering, lost, his mind in pieces. At one point, he found himself staring at the notes on the fridge door.
Church newsletters. Shopping lists. Articles from the local paper. Appointment reminders. Handwritten notes. Everything looked normal, yet in reality it was the opposite.
Then had come the epiphany, of sorts.
He drove straight to Ally’s house before he lost his nerve. Only she wasn’t here. Determined to talk to her, he settled in to wait.
Glancing up towards the road, he saw tunnels of light punching through the darkness. His gut clenched as the car turned into her driveway. This was her decision, not his. He just had to let her make it. He owed her that, at the very least.