by L. S. Pullen
“I’m worried about her. But there’s something else,” he says.
“About you and Meg?” I say and realise I wondered that out loud. Is this when he is finally going to admit they want to be together? I’m not sure if I’m ready to hear it, but I guess I’ll soon find out.
“Yes and no. You know Jacob, Clara’s little boy?”
“What the fuck?” I mutter. “What? Please tell me he’s not hurt?”
“No, he was taken away by social services. But that’s not all. I think he’s mine… No, I’m certain he’s mine. Jacob is my son.”
I try to process his words and sit up, my hand knocking the glass off the bedside table. It tumbles to the floor.
“E?”
Thankfully, it doesn’t smash, but the remaining contents spill onto the carpet. I grab a towel off the linen bin and quickly soak it up, resting my back against the bed frame.
“Fuck, sorry, I knocked over my drink. What do you mean, he’s your son?”
My head is still buzzing, trying to process his words.
“Because he looks just like us when we were little.” I hear him moving. “Hold on, two secs,” he says. “I’m sending you a picture.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and wait for it to arrive. I tap on it, and sure enough, looking back is a mini replica of us when we were that age.
“Shut the front door,” I say, pulling the phone back to my ear.
“Well?” he asks, and I know he needs to know if I’m seeing what he is.
“The similarities are too much of a coincidence for him not to be… Hold up, did Meg know?” I ask. I’d be fucking shocked if she did, but I still have to know.
“No, she said she didn’t, and I believe her.” I let out a relieved sigh, more for them than me. I hate to think how they’d get past that.
“Fair enough. So what happens now?”
“I’m going to get proof he’s mine and then fight for custody.” I can hear the conviction in his voice. He will fight tooth and nail for that boy, and so will I.
“Of course you are. No way is my nephew staying with Emilio. You have my support.”
“Thanks, man,” he says, and I can hear the emotion in his voice. “There’s something else… I’m staying over with Meg tonight.”
I clear my throat and am honest when I say, “Good, she shouldn’t be alone.” And if she needs anyone right now, it’s Henry.
“Agreed. I didn’t want to keep it from you.”
We’ve had enough secrets, and I’m glad he’s told me, not that I would have expected anything else. Not when I’ve resigned myself to the fact they’ll get their acts together eventually, and when they do, maybe my heart will have finally got the memo too.
When I hang up, I find myself examining the photo of Jacob. He’s so much like Clara, but so much like Henry––and me too.
Though I sent Meg a text after Clara died, I haven’t seen her this past week as I had a programme that has kept me on lockdown. I haven’t even been able to help Henry with his training. He told me how much Meg’s struggling with the preparations for Clara’s funeral and not being able to see Jacob, saying she’s barely holding it together. I thought I’d be the last person she’d want to see, and he outright called me an idiot. And he’s still waiting on the paperwork from his lawyer for the right to request a DNA test for Jacob.
So here I am, walking towards Meg. Her head is cast down, her plait over her shoulder, and a stressed frown on her forehead.
“You look like you could use a hand,” I say, smiling when her eyes snap to me.
Her expression is of shock right before she bursts out crying and rounds the counter. I open my arms and pull her to my chest.
“Ah, come on, Meg. Stop, unless you want to see a grown man cry,” I say, and I’m not even joking. I hate seeing her upset.
She lets out a snort of laughter and pulls back.
“I’ve missed you,” she says, her eyes roaming over my face.
“I know, and I’m sorry,” I say. “I was trying to give you space, keep my distance after everything, but H said I was an idiot.”
She sniffs back her tears. “He did?”
“Yeah, he said you need me.”
When she nods and her shoulders relax, I know coming here was way overdue.
“I do,” she says, and for the first time in a long time, I see my best friend standing in front of me, not my ex-girlfriend.
“Then you’ve got me. What can I do to help?” I ask as I wipe away the stray tears from her cheeks, and the old feelings she once evoked in me from a simple touch are long since gone, and I don’t know whether to be relieved or sad.
“Tell me what you need.” There is one thing that hasn’t changed; I’ll still do anything for her.
“Can you help get the word out with the details of the service?” She steps away and goes back behind the counter, passing me a piece of paper with the details.
“I’m on it. The only time social media is freaking helpful.”
I go to Clara’s wall on Facebook, enter all the details for anyone who might visit her profile and then add it to my own wall. Maybe I’ll have it added to the local paper too.
Meg’s phone begins buzzing, and I peer up, her face draining of colour against her dark hair. She places her phone face down.
“Meg?” I ask, but she has a vacant expression. “You look pale,” I say, worried she’s either about to faint or throw up.
I step forward when she doesn’t respond.
“Meghan, I said you look pale. What is it?” I ask again, my tone harder.
“It’s Emilio,” she replies.
I grind my jaw and reach over the counter and grab her phone. I swipe the screen, entering her passcode, and when I see the message notification, I’m glad she never had the sense to change it. Opening the message thread, I swipe through them, my pulse racing.
I force myself to avert my eyes as I seek out H.
“Henry,” I call out when I see him, loud enough to be heard over the thrum of noise in the gym as I beckon him to come over.
Meghan tries to snatch her phone back, but I hold it out of her reach.
I turn the screen to face her. “How long has he been harassing you like this?” I ask, trying to keep the anger from my voice.
She glances between Henry and me as he approaches, visibly swallowing.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
I pass him her phone and lean over to point out the offending messages.
And he is clearly as angry about them as I am.
“What the fuck are these, Meg?” His thumb swipes as he continues to read them. “They go back weeks.”
She is still yet to speak as she wraps her arms around her middle.
“Meghan?” His voice is stern.
“Sorry,” she whispers, and fuck me if I don’t want to pound something or someone.
“Why the fuck are you sorry?” he says, asking what we’re both thinking. “He’s the one sending them. Why didn’t you say something?” he asks, and I wonder the same as I feel his hurt. Henry has always had this need to protect, ever since we were kids, so when he turns to me, asking a silent question, I quickly put it to bed, holding up my hands. “I didn’t know either.” We turn back to face her.
“Meg?” Henry asks again more softly, and I know it’s taking everything in him to stay calm.
“I didn’t say anything because I was worried about Clara.”
His frustration is palpable as he scrubs his hand over his jaw. “This is serious, Meghan. He’s threatening you. What is it he says you have of his?” Henry asks as he flicks his eyes back to her phone, searching the messages.
“Drugs.”
I suck in a breath. That was the last thing I expected her to say.
“What the fuck?” Henry booms, and Meg tells us about how she caught Clara using and took them off of her and ended up leaving with them still in her bag.
Henry is pacing, and I feel his rage because it’s mi
rrored with my own.
“Where are they now?” I ask. One of us needs to keep a level head.
Her eyes dart to Henry and then back to me. “The glove box of my car.”
Shit.
“When you say a bag, how big are we talking?” I need to try and understand what we’re dealing with.
She shrugs. “A small zip-lock bag, with about a hundred or so pills.”
I expect they have a high street value. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be so intent on wanting them back. Meg takes her phone back from Henry.
“Do you think Emilio could be using? That he has something to do with her overdose?” she asks.
“Honestly, it’s a possibility, and I’m sure he was using the night of the fight with Ethan,” Henry answers truthfully, not that it’s news to me.
“I think we should go to the police,” I say, placing my hands on Meg’s shoulders, but she shrugs me off.
“And say what? I have a bag of drugs I stole from him? It’s my word over his. And what about Jacob?”
Henry’s entire body tenses. “She does have a point. At least let me get proof Jacob is my son. I don’t want him with Emilio when this does all come to light.”
I can’t argue with that. No way would I put my nephew at risk. “Fair enough, but we should at least talk to Olly. Maybe he knows someone who can help?”
Henry agrees. “But in the meantime, I don’t want you going anywhere on your own. We don’t know what lengths he’ll go to,” Henry says, and I agree. He has every right to be concerned for her safety.
Meg immediately goes on the defensive. “I’m not some damsel in distress,” she barks.
“I never insinuated you were but, Meg, he already laid his hands on you once before.” A flashback of the bruise on her throat comes back to me, and I clench my phone in my pocket.
“You’re a bad arse trainer, but this isn’t some random guy on the street or a drunk prick in a nightclub. He’s a professional fighter, and if he wants to hurt you, he will. And I won’t see him hurt someone else I care about,” Henry says, and I realise this is the first time he’s openly shown her affection in my presence. Part of me feels like I’m intruding when I speak.
“You know he’s right,” I say and pull out my phone, pulling up Olly’s number and sending him a text.
“So now you’re tag-teaming me?”
Henry reaches for her hand, linking their fingers in another open display of affection.
“If that’s what you want to call it, then yeah, we are,” he replies.
Henry knows without me even having to say anything that I am one hundred percent with him when it comes to keeping Meg safe. I stare between them, and the jealousy I might have felt a few short weeks ago is no longer there, and it’s strangely liberating.
“Olly’s free now. I’m going to talk to him, see what we can do about Emilio and him possibly doping at the fight.”
I lean in and kiss Meg on the temple and then hold out my fist to Henry.
“H, you good to stay with Meg?” I ask but already know the answer.
“I’m not letting her out of my sight.”
I nod. “Okay, cool. I’ll speak to you guys later.”
Walking away, I pause and call back over my shoulder. “And for the record, you two look good together,” I say with a wink, looking at their still joined hands.
It’s still going to take some getting used to. I am, after all, only human.
Chapter Nineteen
Charlotte
Waking up, I feel bloody dreadful. My entire body is sluggish with fatigue, and my head is pounding like it’s been run over by a freight train. And then the fogginess clears, and I remember why… the lifeless body we were unable to revive.
I finished a week of night shifts, and like last night, some days are harder than others. You never know what’s going to happen from one day to the next, so when you’re called to a scene with a patient dead on arrival, there is nothing worse. When you’re powerless to help them, knowing when their family and loved ones find out, their lives will be forever changed.
I spend way too long in the shower before finally dragging myself out and slipping into a baggy jumper and leggings. I towel dry the ends of my hair but am in no mood to sit there for half an hour with a hairdryer, so I run a brush through the tangles and then throw my damp hair into a bun.
And then I raid my fridge. I’m not a big drinker, but today calls for alcohol. Popping the cork from the bottle of Prosecco, I pour myself a large glass and head to my couch and sink into the deep-filled cushions.
I reach for the remote but don’t turn on the TV. I just stare at a blank screen, tucking my legs up underneath me. I sit in silence whilst sipping my wine.
The woman’s face is etched in my mind. I wonder how many people will be mourning her. I know first-hand how nothing lasts forever, and yet, it never gets any easier.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m numb to it, but then I am reminded that I’m still human, and if anything, I feel too much. Even when I try to hide it or bury it deep, there’s no escaping it, no matter how hard I try. My thoughts become dark and I try to push them away as I finish my glass of wine.
I’m back in my kitchen and pouring myself a second glass when my doorbell rings. I think about ignoring whomever it is until it rings again. With a heavy sigh, I carry my full glass to the door and look through the peephole—Ethan.
Pulling open the door, he smiles, but it falls short when he sees the glass in my hand.
“How did you get up here?” I ask.
“Someone was just leaving,” he says, hooking his thumb over his shoulder.
“Oh, come in.” I turn around and walk back to my living room, my body heavy with fatigue as I sit down on my sofa. He closes the door behind him and follows me, sitting down on the opposite end.
“Sorry, did we agree to…” I wave my hand up and down. “I’m not really in the right headspace.”
I stare at the blank TV and sip my wine. It’s going straight to my head. I didn’t eat when I got home this morning and passed out until I woke and forced myself to shower.
“Lottie, forget that. What’s happened?” he asks, eying the glass in my hand, and I can hear the concern in his voice.
He doesn’t push but reaches out for my free hand and squeezes it gently. Instinct tells me to pull away, but I know better than anyone how sometimes we all need a physical connection.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.
I shake my head, taking another sip of my wine.
The silence which falls over us becomes almost deafening, and I crack under the weight of it.
“We were called to a scene, early hours of this morning, and the patient was dead on arrival. Head-on collision.” My voice sounds hollow, and it breaks on the last word.
Ethan says nothing as he takes the glass from my hand, placing it on the coffee table before he pulls me into his arms. I remain stiff at first until his hand strokes my back.
“I’m sorry, Lottie. That had to have been rough.”
I nod but don’t speak. Instead, I listen to the steady beat of his heart, my ear against his chest. My tears are silent at first, and then they turn to small sobs, which makes me feel even worse because it’s a selfish reaction to cry for myself when that woman is the one who is dead.
“It’s okay, Lottie. Let it out,” he says, holding me tighter.
Eventually, I pull back, wiping my face with the sleeve of my sweater. Classy, I know.
“I’m sorry. You came here to hook up, and here I am crying into your shirt.”
He lets out a soft chuckle. “Come on, we’re friends too. It’s not just about sex,” he replies.
My cheeks heat. “Yeah, well, it’s a lot I just dumped on you, sorry.”
Shaking his head, he grips my shoulders gently.
“Don’t apologise, ever. I’m in awe of your empathy for someone you never even knew,” he admits.
“Sometimes I worry I’m numb to it all until
we have a bad call, and then I realise I’m far from it.”
Eying me, he searches my face. “You’re only human, Lottie.”
I nod. Of course, he’s right. “I just wish you hadn’t seen me like this though.”
“Well, too bad, because I couldn’t think of anything worse than you alone, drinking away your emotions.”
I cringe because when he says it like that, it’s all kinds of wrong.
“Hey, do you fancy getting out of here?” he asks, getting to his feet. He picks up my glass and walks into the kitchen.
I follow behind him as he places it in the sink.
“And go where?” I ask. “I’m not dressed to go out.”
His eyes trail a path over the length of my body, and I’m suddenly very aware of the fact I’m not wearing a bra when my nipples betray me from his appraisal of my outfit.
“What you’re wearing is fine, but you might want to grab a jacket.”
I go to shake my head but he’s in front of me in two strides, cupping my face between his calloused palms, his touch both soft and strong, equal parts exhilarating.
“Come on, I promise it’ll be fun. You won’t regret it.” There’s something in his expression, the begging me with his eyes, and I find myself unable to refuse.
“Okay,” I concede.
His smile causes my stomach to somersault, and my breath catches. Leaning in, he gives me a chaste kiss, but I feel it everywhere. He pulls away far too quickly.
“Good, now go grab yourself a jacket, and maybe wear trainers,” he says, glancing down to my feet.
I turn and head for my room when I feel him swat my arse and I quickly look over my shoulder.
He holds up his hands in feigned horror. “Sorry, but if you could see what I can, you’d have done the same.”
I shake my head and hold back a retort, because damn if it didn’t just send my ovaries into oblivion.
Grabbing one of my bras hanging off my dresser, I quickly slip it on, doing up the clasps and then pull on some socks, followed by my trainers. Opening my wardrobe, I reach for my leather jacket and my small shoulder satchel.