A Christmas Wedding(31)

I’m the first to speak. ‘Thank you. Today has been really nice. I didn’t know how much I needed it.’

He nods, and then abruptly presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.

‘Was this just about closure?’ he asks after a while, meeting my gaze directly, his eyes glinting in the low light. I slowly shake my head and watch as a strange series of emotions wash across his features.

‘Bronte,’ he murmurs, reaching for my hand.

I let him take it, allowing his long, cool fingers to slip between mine while my insides go berserk.

But, once more, thoughts of Lachie assault my mind, my golden sunshine boy, my warmth, my heart for over four years. I can’t let him go yet.

I extract my hand. ‘I’ll email you from Sydney,’ I say, reaching for the handle.

‘Fuck this!’ he mutters. His expression is anguished when he turns to face me. ‘I’m damned if I’m going to let you walk out of my life again.’

My mouth falls open.

‘I love you,’ he says. ‘Still. I know you’re not ready to start anything new. I know it’s too soon. I know you’re not over Lachie. But I can’t let you leave without you knowing how I feel, even if it makes me look like a complete dick. Again.’

My expression softens.

‘I love you,’ he repeats, his eyes shining. ‘I always have. I always will. I still think we’re meant to be together. Our timing has seriously sucked in the past, and I know it’s still not perfect, but I will wait until you’re ready. Okay?’

I nod, my throat swelling up.

‘I love you,’ he murmurs, taking my hand and pressing a kiss to the tips of my fingers.

I blink back tears. But whether it’s because of Lachie or because of my guilt or just down to goddamn timing, I don’t tell him I love him back.

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.’