Within Reach (23 page)

“Fine. You want the truth? You got it. I am in love with you. Probably have been for a while. Which just goes to show how bloody stupid I am. That honest enough for you?”

Despite the fact that he must have guessed how she felt, he rocked back on his heels a little. “You should have said something.”

“Why? So you could let me down easily? I know the score, Michael. I loved Billie, too, remember.”

“This isn’t about Billie. This is about you and me.”

That really got her goat. “Bullshit. It’s not about Billie. She’s been the third person in this relationship from day one. If you can even call it a relationship.”

“You think I’d be out here if it was just a roll in the hay? If you weren’t important to me?”

Suddenly all the fight went out of her. She pressed her palm against her forehead, searching for calm.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” she said quietly. “I was just trying to put things back the way they were.”

“I don’t think that’s possible. Do you?”

His words made tears burn at the backs of her eyes again.

“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”

It was all ruined now. Their friendship. Her time with the children. Nothing would ever be the same now that he knew. He’d feel sorry for her. Wouldn’t know how to talk to her, whether she’d take things the wrong way…

“Angie. Don’t cry.”

She choked out a laugh. “It’s a little too late for that.”

“Come here.”

He pulled her into his arms. She tried to push him off but he wouldn’t let go and after a few seconds she gave in and let him comfort her.

He smelled so good, and she loved him so much. She pressed her face against his chest and sobbed, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders.

“Angie. It’s okay,” he said, his arms tightening around her.

It wasn’t, and she knew it, and so did he.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” she said, her words muffled by his T-shirt. “I swear to you, I didn’t. I loved Billie as much as you and the last thing I wanted was this. But it happened and I couldn’t stop it.”

“I know.”

She felt him press a kiss to her temple—such a simple gesture, and such a perfect illustration of who he was as a man and why she loved him.

He was so loyal and kind and loving. It was why he still loved Billie, why he would never love her. She slid her hands from his shoulders and pulled away from him. He let her go, but she could feel his reluctance.

“You can’t help me get over this, Michael. You know that, right?”

He took a moment to answer. “Yes.”

The final nail in the coffin. She accepted the pain of it. Owned it.

“I need to go now. And you need to let me go.”

He didn’t move. She reached out and laid her palm against his chest. She could feel his heart beating, sure and strong. She looked him dead in the eye.

“I love you.” It was the first and last time she would ever let herself say it. “Now let me go.”

He still didn’t move and she pushed him away, forcing him back a step.

“Come inside and talk,” he said.

She shook her head. “No. There’s nothing to say.”

His gaze held hers and she could see how much he hurt for her, how much he regretted her pain and that he was the cause of it.

“It’s okay, Michael. I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

She got into the car and started the engine, then reached for the door handle. He was blocking the door, and she looked at him, not saying a word. After a long beat he stepped out of the way and she pulled the door shut. She waited until he’d taken another step back before she pulled away from the curb.

She told herself not to, but she couldn’t stop herself from looking in the rearview mirror. Michael was standing very still in the middle of the road, watching her drive away.

He faded into the distance, finally disappearing. She blinked away a fresh flood of tears.

It was all over. Now all that was left was the salvage operation. One day, they might be able to be friends again. She hoped so, because he’d been a wonderful friend.

But he was going to take some getting over first.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

M
ICHAEL
WENT
INTO
THE
house. Charlie and Eva were
watching TV, so he sat beside them and stared at the screen.

He had no idea what was on, but at a certain point he
registered it was past eight and he hustled them both into the bath and into
their pajamas and finally into bed.

He walked through the house, switching off lights, then made
his way to his own bedroom. He lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, going over
and over what had happened in the street, feeling the weight of Angie’s head
against his chest again, hearing her words.

I love you. Now let me go.

There had been a time not so long ago when he’d thought he was
the luckiest man alive. He’d had a wife he adored, two great children, a career
he loved. And then the heart had been cut out of his dream and for a while he’d
been lost.

He’d found himself again, after a time in the wilderness. With
Angie’s help, he’d learned how to live again. But he hadn’t been prepared to
fully commit—to throw himself fully into the hurly burly and risk of life, with
all its dangers and pleasures and perils—and his reticence had wounded
Angie.

He fell asleep at some point. He woke with an ache in his
chest. A tightness that didn’t go away even when he rubbed the heel of his hand
against his sternum.

Under any other circumstances, he’d be dialing emergency
services, but he knew the ache was not medical in origin. The ache was about
Angie, a physiological expression of his regret for hurting her.

She was a wonderful woman. Creative and generous and smart and
loving. She’d given him everything of herself. Her time. Her energy. Her empathy
and sympathy. Her love. And he’d given her a broken heart.

He rolled onto his side and stared at the empty pillow beside
him. He’d never had the chance to wake up with Angie in his bed. To share a
morning talking and laughing and making love before slipping into a leisurely
day. Everything they’d had had been hurried and furtive, shoehorned into
whatever time or place had been available. He’d shortchanged her on every
score—and she deserved the world.

“I’m sorry.”

The words sounded woefully inadequate in the quiet of his
bedroom. He hadn’t said them to Angie last night. He’d said everything but, then
he’d let her drive away.

He glanced toward the phone on the bedside table, wondering if
she would be up yet, wanting to call to make sure she was okay.

A stupid idea if ever he’d heard one. What was he going to say
to her, after all?
Hey. Still feeling crap because I’m a
selfish, dead-inside bastard?

Yeah. That would be really helpful.

Instead he showered and got the kids out of bed. He drove Eva
to school and came home and settled Charlie with his building blocks. Angie’s
car hadn’t been out front when he returned, but he walked to the French doors
and glanced at the studio in case. It was locked tight, the windows dim. Pretty
much what he’d expected, even though it made the ache in his chest
intensify.

He rested his forehead against the cool glass of the French
doors. He hated this. Hated knowing she was hurting, and that he was the cause,
and that he could do nothing about it.

Except stay away from her, of course.

The day ground by. Every time the phone rang he hoped it was
Angie, even though he knew it wouldn’t be. Not today. Yet when the doorbell rang
after lunch, his heart still gave a ridiculous, hopeful lurch. Maybe she’d had
to come over. Maybe she needed something from her studio.

It was a courier, delivering some blueprints from the practice.
He dropped them on the dining-room table and stood staring at the floor.

How long was it going to be like this? How long before he could
see her and talk to her again?

It’s never going to be the same, idiot. Even if you can go
back to being friends, it will never be the same. You’ll both know that the
other thing happened. Every look or touch or phrase will be loaded. Time to
face facts. You’ve lost her, and you’ll never get her back. Not the way you
want her.

The thought made him so angry he kicked one of the dining-room
chairs, sending it skidding across the floor with a screech of wood on wood. He
pinched the bridge of his nose in the thick silence afterward, aware that he was
behaving like a spoiled child who’d had his favorite toy taken away.

More than a little lost, he retreated to his study, rubbing his
sternum every step of the way. The phone number Angie had left him for the
after-school carer lay to one side of his desk. He picked the piece of paper up,
one thumb plucking at the corner. Then he reached for the phone. Angie had said
she wouldn’t move until he’d made alternative arrangements for Eva. Sorting
something out ASAP was the bare minimum he could do.

* * *

I
T
HAD
BEEN
A
LONG
TIME
since Angie had spent the day in bed. She wasn’t a moper, generally speaking,
but after last night’s confession and resulting scene with Michael, she didn’t
feel up to facing the day. So she didn’t. She ate toast in bed, then reread a
favorite book, taking comfort from a story where she knew the outcome would be
good and just and right. She showered after lunch and put on fresh pajamas and
crawled back into bed to doze. Michael haunted her thoughts throughout, slipping
into her mind despite her best efforts to block him out. His body. The way he
kissed her. The way he touched her. The smell of his hair. The texture of his
skin. The timbre of his voice.

When she wasn’t thinking about him she thought about Eva and
Charlie and how much she was going to miss them. By midafternoon she’d worked up
a good head of misery and she gave in to the hot pressure behind her eyes and
pressed her face into her pillow and had a good howl. She fell asleep with wet
cheeks and woke feeling thick-headed and sore-eyed. The bed felt like a cop-out
now more than a sanctuary, and she pulled on workout gear and went for a brisk
walk. When she got back, she started making phone calls.

She spoke to the real estate agent, arranging to sign papers
for the new studio first thing the next day, then she checked in with the
removalist to see how quickly he could accommodate her. If he wondered why she
was moving again when she’d barely settled in to her new premises, he didn’t say
anything. Which was just as well, since she was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able
to provide even the most benign of excuses without getting emotional about
it.

She took herself out for noodles at The Vegie Bar around the
corner on Brunswick Street for dinner, then walked along the busy street,
peering in at the displays in the many boutiques and jewelry stores. After she
deemed she’d been out and about long enough, she went home and crawled into
bed.

She dreamed of Michael, a sweet, beautiful dream where his arms
were around her, his heart beating beneath her ear. She knew that he was hers
and she was his, that everything was as it should be. Then she woke up to
reality at three in the morning. Michael belonged to Billie. Always had, always
would. Allowing herself to believe anything different was pure self-deception.
She spent the rest of the night on the couch, curled beneath a rug while she
stared at late-night television.

Her phone beeped with a text message the following morning as
she was on the way to the real estate agent’s offices. She saw Michael’s name
and her heart did a crazy, painful twist in her chest. She opened the message
and read that he’d spoken to the woman her friend had recommended to look after
Eva and Charlie. If their face-to-face meeting went well this afternoon, she was
in a position to start the following week.

There was nothing more, but it was enough. This afternoon, in
all likelihood, she would no longer be an integral part of Eva and Charlie and
Michael’s lives, and once she’d moved her studio to her new premises there would
be no reason for them to see each other at all. Not that she intended to cut
herself out of the children’s lives. She wouldn’t do that to them, even if she
wanted to. But from now on she would simply be Auntie Angie again, a
visitor.

Michael’s confirmation came through later that afternoon, a
brief text to let her know that he had Eva’s child care sorted.

So. She was officially free to move. She took a deep breath and
rang the removalist and booked in for the following Tuesday. Then she took
herself window shopping again, just so she could be amongst the noise and energy
of other people.

If Billie were alive, she wouldn’t be so desperate for company
that she was reduced to pretending to shop. If Billie were alive, she would be
drunk on margaritas and Billie would be passing her tissues and coming up with
painful punishments for the man who’d done her wrong.

But, of course, if Billie were alive, none of this would be
happening. Angie would never have fallen in love with Michael. Her world would
be whole instead of fractured and piecemeal.

Angie averted her gaze from her reflection in a shop window,
not wanting to see the misery in her own eyes, and kept walking.

There wasn’t much else to do, after all.

* * *

M
RS
. G
RAFTON
WAS
FIFTY
-
FIVE
,
friendly and smart with a sense of humor. That she liked children was
immediately obvious, and it took Michael all of five minutes to decide he would
be comfortable leaving Eva with her. It took him a lot longer to text Angie to
let her know she was off the hook for Eva’s child care. He did it, though, and
he got through the rest of the day, too, as well as the weekend.

He was late leaving for work on Monday and when he rushed out
to the garage to warm up the car before loading up the kids he nearly plowed
straight into Angie on the doorstep as she fished her keys from her handbag. She
froze, her face a pale oval, her deep blue eyes darting to his face briefly
before she looked away.

“Michael,” she said.

She didn’t sound or look happy to see him, but he was
profoundly aware of the sudden rush of blood through his body as his heart began
to pound away. He felt as though the sun was shining on his face for the first
time in days, simply because she was standing in front him, because he could
smell her perfume and hear her voice and breathe the same air as her. The urge
to touch her, to reassure himself that she was real and warm and here, was
almost overwhelming. He settled for tightening the grip on his briefcase and
clearing his throat.

“Angie. How are you?”

He gave himself a mental kick for the question, but it was too
late, he’d said it, and she was forcing a smile, pretending that everything was
normal.

“I’m good, thanks. How about you and the kids?”

“We’re all good.”

They both fell silent. Angie didn’t look at him again, her gaze
instead fixed on the corner of the doormat. A small frown formed between her
eyebrows, a faint, worried crease that told him more than words how hard this
was for her.

The ever-present ache in his chest tightened its grip and he
lifted a hand and rubbed the spot above his heart, a fast-growing habit that
never seemed to have any
effect.

“I guess you’ll be packing today, with the removalists coming
tomorrow,” he said.

“Yes.”

He nodded. For some reason he was having trouble swallowing and
he cleared his throat again. “Well. I’d better get the car warmed up. Running a
bit late.”

“Yes.”

She stepped aside so he could pass. He walked briskly to the
garage, everything in him rejecting the stiff formality of their brief exchange.
Was this what it was going to be like for the foreseeable future between
them?

“Jesus,” he muttered, rubbing his chest again.

Things only got worse. On Tuesday he came home to find Eva
red-eyed from crying. He knew why—Angie had moved out today. He said all the
right things to his daughter, assuring her that just because Auntie Angie was no
longer in the studio didn’t mean she wouldn’t see her anymore. He knew without
asking that Angie had delivered the same assurances, and that she would do her
damnedest to honor her commitment to his children. None of it took the desolate,
hurt look from Eva’s eyes.

He waited until after dinner before he went out to inspect the
studio. He went with a beer in hand and stood in the empty space, staring at the
spot where Angie’s workbench had once been.

He’d built this studio for Billie but in just a few short weeks
Angie had made it her own. Now, whenever he glanced out the kitchen window and
caught sight of the empty windows, he would think of her. Of how he’d hurt her
and screwed everything up, and how he much he missed her.

Sick of himself, he returned to the house, locking the studio
behind him. He put the kids to bed and went into the study and stared stupidly
at plans for a house extension that he was supposed to be finessing. He couldn’t
stop thinking about Angie. About how empty his house felt without her, and how
much he wanted to hear the sound of her voice and touch her soft skin and hold
her close….

Everything felt wrong without her. Displaced. Over the last
year and more, they had woven a life together, him and Angie and the kids. They
had pulled together through their grief and they had come out the other side and
found happiness again. Together. And he missed her. He needed her. He wanted
her.

He loved her.

He sat back in his chair, stunned by the sudden moment of
self-knowledge.

Of course he loved her. When she was around, the world was a
better place. He loved her laugh, the way she smiled with her eyes, her slim,
supple body, her generous heart, her boundless creativity…