The Lighthouse Witches(60)

I laughed. His face was close to mine, and he kissed me, lightly at first, then deeper. I pulled away, and he looked embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean . . .”

“I want to stay,” I said. “I want this. But . . .”

I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I think I have cancer. Every woman in my bloodline has died from it.

“Och, it’s fine,” he said, and I realized I’d stood there, staring and silent, for a long time. I could see he was upset.

“No, no,” I said. “It’s not you.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, stung. “Ah, OK,” he said. “It’s not me, it’s you. I get it.”

“No,” I said, but I already knew I’d made the situation worse.

He bit his lip, his eyes on the ground. I didn’t want to upset him, and it struck me then how much I really did care. No, he wasn’t my type. His dress sense was terrible, and his taste in music was beyond my comprehension. But he was gentle and bighearted, and I loved his eyes and his tattoos and he made me laugh. He could fix anything. Just not me.

I’d expected him to turn and walk out at this point, but he was already talking, uncharacteristically tripping over his words. “Look, I haven’t . . . I haven’t meant to come on too strong,” he said. “If I have, I apologize.” He took a step back, as if to create a more neutral space between us. A distance that marked friendship instead of romance.

“I wasn’t lying,” I said. “The thing is, I’m sick.”

“Sick of what?” he said. “Me? Men in general? What?”

I sighed and covered my face. The truth was, I didn’t even know how to begin to tell him. I hated being vulnerable, and I knew I’d start crying the minute I said it out loud.

Just then, he said, “I thought we were honest with each other.”

He sounded wounded and self-righteous, and I bristled. “I don’t think I’m the only one who isn’t honest.”

“I’m honest,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Why did Cassie’s mother leave?”

He looked down slowly, clasping his hands when he didn’t know what else to do with them. “We . . . drifted apart. And she struggled with it.”

“Struggled with what?”

He looked down. “Motherhood.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He glanced toward the girls’ bedroom, where laughs and chatter could be heard. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “I don’t . . . I don’t talk about it very much.”

“I know.”

He lifted his eyes to mine and sighed. He was reluctant to talk about it but did all the same. “Cassie was two. Jane just left. No note, no warning. She’d taken a suitcase, so I knew she’d not been kidnapped or anything. We didn’t hear from her for about a year. And then I heard through the grapevine that she’d got married and was living in Brighton.”

“That must have hurt.”

He nodded and chewed his cheek, his eyes on the floor. “She had problems with depression. I didn’t realize how bad it was. When she found out she was pregnant, I was over the moon. It was an accident but I was thrilled. Looking back, I can see she was devastated.” He looked up, gave a sad smile. “I think she only went through with it because I was making such a big fuss. I should have given her space to . . . speak up about her feelings.”

He spoke hesitantly, as though these were words he’d never said aloud, maybe not even permitted himself to think. I felt moved by how honest he was in sharing this with me, laying himself bare.

“When Cassie was born, I tried not to work too much,” he said. “You know, to be supportive. Night feeds, and so on. But it was easier said than done. And I could see Jane was sliding back into that dark place she’d been in before. I just kept thinking she’d get through it.”

I nodded. “And how is Cassie about it?”

“For years she asked if I was leaving her. Every single day, I couldn’t leave her at nursery or school without her worrying that I’d not be coming back.”

“Does she ask about her mother now?”

“Now and then. I think it would have been a lot easier if Jane had left before Cassie was old enough to talk. If she’d left when Cassie was an infant, she’d likely have no memory of her mother. But she does. She remembers what Jane looks like, things they did together. It’s scary, actually, how much she remembers. I sometimes wish I could put a spell on her, take away her memories of Jane.” He looked up at me and cleared his throat, righting himself. “Anyway. It is what it is.”

“Luna and Clover’s dad died five years ago,” I said. “He’d been a father to Saffy, too. They were all destroyed by it. So yes, I wish I could erase their memories, too. It would certainly take a lot of pain away, wouldn’t it?”

“A lot of good, too, I suppose,” he said. “Cassie’s asked more than once if Mummy left because of something she did.” His voice shook, and I reached out to touch his arm.

“It must be heartbreaking to hear a child ask if she made her mum abandon her.”

He nodded, dabbing his eyes.

“What about when Cassie got sick?” I said. “Didn’t her mother want to see her then?”