“Some days it feels like she was here yesterday, other days it feels like a lifetime ago. In reality, it’ll be nine years this coming January.”
“That’s so sad.”
“Yes, it is.”
I had so many questions, so many things I wanted to say, trying to find the right words, words that would help me scoop his soul out of him — all the pain and the loss and the broken pieces — and lay them all out on the bench between us and love those pieces until they were better again.
But they would never be better again. How could something like that ever be better again?
I felt like a stupid teenager in stupid fake clothes, in my stupid flouncy shirt and my stupid frilly underwear, as though those stupid superficial props would have ever snared a man like Mr Roberts. They’d never snare a man like Mr Roberts.
I tried to string some questions together, wondering what questions are even acceptable to ask. I had no experience of death, or marriage, or grief. Or anything.
He solved the problem for me. “It was a car accident. She was on her way home from setting up an exhibition at the Birmingham Academy.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“So am I.”
“She was an artist?”
“A very talented artist, yes. She was twenty-eight when she died, just beginning to make real inroads in her career. It was her first solo exhibition, she was so excited. And I was so proud.”
“It’s so unfair. I don’t know how you’d even start to deal with something like that.”
“Slowly.” He smiled and it was sad and it hurt my stomach. He let go of my hand to reach for a cigarette. “You know what’s strange? What I think about sometimes?”
I shook my head.
“I was lucky enough to know Anna for ten wonderful years before she passed, and I always try to remind myself just how lucky I was. But now, every so often, I realise that soon I’ll have been without her for longer than I was with her. And that seems so strange to me.”
“That’s beautiful, that you focus on how lucky you were.” And it was beautiful. He was beautiful. Even his pain was beautiful.
He met my eyes, and he was so unguarded, so open and vulnerable, and in that one moment all the air around me seemed to disappear. “Those nights after Anna died, the sun would go down and the house would seem so lonely then, so quiet. I felt like I’d die from the pain before the sun came back up. But then one night it occurred to me that grief is the ultimate price we pay for love. And to grieve so hard means that you have loved so much, so very much. And I’d grieve all over again, die every single night without question, rather than have lost out on loving a woman like Anna. She was worth it, to love so intensely was worth it. A love like that is worth any price.” I pictured him staring out of the window at the rain, those fleeting moments I’d been watching as his guard came down, always watching. And now I knew.
I could feel the tears welling up. I tried to hide it, but a man like Mr Roberts sees everything, knows everything.
“I’m sorry.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
“Don’t be,” I said. “It’s okay.”
“I think I’ve made you cry more than enough just lately.” He smiled, and it made me smile through the tears. “I’m alright, Helen, really. It’s been a long time.” I felt so good there, held against his side, his arm so strong around me. I closed my eyes and listened to the river, and felt his lips press to the top of my head. “It feels nice to have a friend. Thank you.”
I leaned my head against his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
“Maybe it’s about time I started dreaming again.”
“What will you dream about?”
He shrugged. “That will take some thought. I’ll let you know when I know.”
“Please do.” I wanted to say so much more, ask him about life, the universe and everything that made up Mark Roberts. What he liked to eat, where he went on holiday, how he knew Anna was the one for him. If he’d ever had a pet and what its name was. Whether he had an innie or an outie belly button. If he could ever love me. Things any real friend should know.
The bleeping from my pocket put paid to all of that. I pulled out my phone to read the message.
Dad: Are you taking the piss? Five o’clock finish you said. Your dinner is going cold.
I tapped out a reply.
Sorry. We ran over time. Put dinner in oven, I’ll have it later.
Dad: Get home, Helen.
“Everything ok?” Mr Roberts wasn’t looking at my handset, he was looking at me.
“Only my dad. I have to go.”
And just like that he freed me from his grasp and pushed himself from the bench, then reached for my hand to help me down. I stood, awkward and mute, wishing he’d kiss me again, or hold me again, or anything.
He did nothing of the sort, just smiled and held up his keys. “I’ll drop you home.”
***