My return to Sydney is hideous. Walking into a flat devoid of Lachie’s things is unspeakably awful. It’s the middle of winter in Australia and the cold, damp days don’t help. I’m completely out of sorts when I return to work, but my horrible boss doesn’t give a toss about my jet lag or my post-break-up trauma. She just wants me to deal with the work that’s been piling up for me after she failed to hire full-time cover on the picture desk. And she wants it done yesterday.
Lachie comes over on the weekend to pick up a couple of stray items of clothes that I found in with my stuff.
It’s acutely painful to stand in front of him and not be able to touch him.
‘How was your trip?’ he asks, his arms folded across his chest and his bulging biceps filling out the sleeves of his lightweight jacket.
‘I caught up with Alex,’ I find myself telling him, straight off.
He nods, not seeming surprised. ‘I thought that you would.’
‘You’re not angry? Or upset?’
‘I’m a little sad,’ he admits. ‘But I always knew you hadn’t entirely closed the door on that one.’
I swallow, surprised that he’s being so philosophical. ‘How are things with you?’ I ask.
He shifts on his feet awkwardly. ‘I’m seeing Fliss,’ he reveals.
Despite everything, the pain takes my breath away.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. ‘It just sort of happened. I feel so bad after everything I said about her, but I don’t think I was being honest with myself. Or you. We just click. I still feel so guilty.’
I shake my head, not wanting to cry in front of him.
But I do, later. A lot.
Alex emails me soon after I arrive home to ask how I am, but he doesn’t make another declaration of love.
One day I come into work to find a joke from him that he heard that morning on the radio and I find myself laughing out loud.
We begin emailing each other more often, usually just short, sweet, jokey messages that brighten each other’s days.
A few weeks later, when I’ve finished packing up the last of my boxes, I have an overwhelming urge to speak to him. So I dial his number.
I like that I can picture him sitting on his sofa at home in his living room with a view of his garden while he talks to me about his day. I feel a million times better after that simple conversation.
August rolls into September and one day I realise it’s exactly a year after Alex first got back in touch.
‘Not coming to Sydney next month, I don’t suppose?’ I find myself asking him by email.
‘Do you want me to?’ he replies, almost immediately. It’s late at night in England so he must be checking his emails on his phone.
‘Yes,’ I reply, my heart in my throat.
‘I’ll look into flights,’ he responds.
A couple of days later, he tells me he’s booked his ticket to come the following week. Just like that.
I ring Bridget in a panic.
‘Why are you flipping out?’ she asks bluntly. ‘You wanted him to come, right?’
‘Yes. I think. But Bridget, what if it all goes horribly wrong? I’m so scared he’ll break my heart again.’
She doesn’t say anything for a long moment and it’s disconcerting because I can’t see her face – we’re not FaceTiming.
‘I don’t think you need to worry about that,’ she says gently. ‘I think this is your time. Embrace it.’
The following week, I get up very early on Saturday morning and drive to the airport.
I’m a nervous wreck as I wait for Alex to come through the arrivals hall, but the look on his face when he spots me makes it worth it, a million times over.
‘You came!’ he gasps, engulfing me in a hug.
I didn’t tell him that I would.
‘Thought I’d better return the favour after you drove me around in England,’ I reply with a smile, my stomach continuing to somersault as he pulls back.
He gazes down at me, his hands still resting on my waist. His dark hair is squashed half flat on top, his eyes are tinged red from lack of sleep, and he has five o’clock shadow gracing his chiselled jaw.
But he’s still breathtaking.
He reaches up to brush his thumb across my cheek, leaving a tiny series of sparks fizzing electrically across my skin. I cover his hand with my own and realise his is shaking, ever so slightly.
‘My car’s this way,’ I say.
Neither of us can stop smiling on the journey to his hotel. He checks in, and then I wait on his comfy double bed while he has a shower and a shave. He doesn’t want to rest.
We’ve only got the weekend before I’m back at work – my office is around the corner from where he’s staying. It’s a flying visit – he’s leaving next Sunday night. He and Neal have a big client meeting on the Wednesday after he gets home. This was his one free week for the next month and he didn’t want to delay coming. He plans to work from his hotel room during the day and catch up with me at lunchtime and in the evenings. There is no way I’m staying late this week.
The bathroom door opens and Alex comes out, wearing nothing but a towel.
‘Forgot to take my clothes in,’ he apologises, going to his suitcase and dragging out jeans, a long-sleeve dark T-shirt and underwear.
My eyes track his return journey to the bathroom, watching the rivulets of water dripping from his wet hair and running down his leanly muscled back. He closes the door and I bite my lip, flustered.
It’s probably a good idea we get out of this hotel room sooner, rather than later.
It is the best day. We wander around Sydney’s botanical gardens and eat lunch at one of my favourite restaurants on the harbour, and, when it starts to rain, we head to a museum. At some point, he takes my hand and barely lets it go for the rest of the day.
But, by six o’clock, Alex is properly flagging, so we head back to his hotel to order room service. He sits on the bed to make the call, while I stay on a chair by the window, and, when he’s hung up, he flops back onto his pillows.
‘I’m knackered,’ he admits, looking over at me.
I return his smile.
‘Come here,’ he murmurs after several seconds have passed, edging backwards to make room for me.
I hesitate momentarily before kicking off my shoes, then I go over and settle onto the bed beside him. We lie with our heads resting on the pillows, facing each other.
Neither of us speaks, we just stare, his lips tilted up at the corners as he mirrors my expression.
I feel a pull from deep within me, and it’s almost as though strings are sprouting from inside me and are attaching themselves to him.
No, not strings.
Roots.
‘I love you,’ he whispers.
‘I love you, too,’ I reply.
He draws a sharp intake of breath and slowly reaches out to pull me closer. I’m happy to go to him, sighing contentedly as his fingers stroke over my hair.
As I rest my hand on his chest, I’m reminded of Lachie. He and I lay in this position almost every night for years.
Alex and I only had one night together.
Just one night.
He shouldn’t feel as familiar to me as he does.
Lachie drifts out of my mind again and there’s no anguish. I feel very much like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
Alex’s stomach rises and falls slowly and his hand stills in my hair. I draw away to stare down at his sleeping face, his dark lashes creating miniature fan shapes across the tops of his cheeks.
I am so full of love for him.