I lean my bicycle against the red-bricked wall and take the few steps to the front door, my legs heavy and my trainers feeling like lead. I’ve had a long cycle to clear my head but I can barely remember the route here. I press the doorbell.
Gabriel answers and looks at me in surprise.
‘Hi,’ I say, quietly, shyly.
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Come in.’
I step inside and follow him down the narrow corridor to the internal main room, the familiar smells intensifying the butterflies in my stomach. He checks behind him to make sure I’m still there, in case I’ve changed my mind and left, or I’m not real. He has something jazzy playing on his record player, and there’s a large plasma screen on the wall.
‘You’re healed,’ he says, noting my boot-free foot.
‘You got a TV,’ I note. ‘A big one.’
‘I bought it for you. I had it stored in the shed for months,’ he says, a little awkwardly, nervously. ‘I was going to surprise you when you moved in. Surprise,’ he says weakly, joking, and I laugh.
‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘Coffee please.’ I’ve been up all night with Denise and Tom, crying, sharing stories of Ginika, discussing her funeral arrangements, wondering when in Jewel’s future would be an appropriate time to contact Jewel’s biological father. The big conversations and the small rolling softly into, over and under each other. All the ifs and buts. We were all exhausted but none of us could sleep. I don’t envy them the busy day ahead with Jewel, but I know that they will treasure every second of the gift Ginika gave them.
Coffee vapours fill the room as Gabriel pours water over the ground coffee. I wander away and into the conservatory, drawn by the morning light. Nothing has drastically changed, apart from the home office in the corner, which used to be in the spare bedroom, now Ava’s. I wouldn’t have thought it, but surprisingly it fits; buildings bending effortlessly to owners’ desires. I should take a leaf out of this house’s book. I look out at the cherry blossom tree, green leaves turning to gold. I recall last year waiting impatiently for it to bloom in spring, only for its petals to blow away practically overnight in a storm, at first coating the stones with a plush pink carpet before turning to slippery slush. How I’d like to watch it flower again.
Gabriel joins me and hands me a mug of coffee. Our fingers touch.
‘Thanks for fixing my mug,’ I say. Instead of sitting, he stands. Mug in one hand, the other pushed into the pocket of his jeans.
He shrugs it off, embarrassed perhaps at having done it. ‘You mean Gerry’s mug. I know you’re not a Star Wars fan. You said you’d throw it out, but I know you’re more inclined to keep things that are broken. Maybe I should have left it as it was. Maybe you wanted to fix it yourself. Maybe I was overthinking the mug.’
I smile. He’s right, I do keep things that are broken, but I also never fix them. I kept it there in the cupboard, a self-inflicted punishment, a reminder of what I had and what I’d lost. People not things, that’s what I should hold on to.
‘Are you still involved with the club? he asks.
I nod.
‘How are you doing?’ his blue eyes search me intensely, like an X-ray of my soul.
All of a sudden I want to cry. He sees it coming and puts the mug down, comes round to me, down on his knees and hugs me tightly, rubs his fingers through my hair as I let it all out and let it all go. The utter exhaustion takes over me and the months of work, worry, highs and lows, unleash themselves through my tears.
‘I was so afraid of this happening, Holly,’ he says, whispering into my hair.
‘It has been one of the best experiences of my life,’ I say, in an unnatural high-pitch, through my badly timed sob.
He lets go, pulls back and studies me, fingers still running hypnotically through my hair. ‘Seriously?’
I nod emphatically, through tears, though the sentiments may be hard to believe while he’s looking at me in this state.
‘I lost a friend yesterday. Ginika. She was seventeen years old. Her daughter is one. Denise and Tom are her guardians. I taught Ginika how to read and write.’
‘Wow, Holly,’ he says, wiping my tears. ‘You did that?’
I nod. Bert is gone. Ginika is gone. My time is finished with a diminishing Paul, I’m lingering with Joy despite her scrapbook of secrets for Joe being complete. ‘I don’t want it to end.’
He considers this, considers me, then lifts my chin gently with his fingers so that we’re looking each other in the eye, so close. ‘So don’t let it.’
‘How?’ I wipe my wet face.
‘Find more people. Keep it going.’
I look at him, surprised. ‘But you said getting involved was a mistake.’
‘And I was wrong. I was wrong about a lot of things. If you say it’s the best experience of your life—’
‘One of.’ I correct him, with a smile.
‘I was only trying to protect you. You told me not to let you do anything more, and I honestly thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t even wait to see.’
‘I know, and you were right. A little bit. I can’t hold you responsible, Gabriel. I did lose myself. I put the club first, when I should have put you first.’
‘I didn’t give you much of a choice,’ he says wryly. ‘I think we both made the same mistake. We chose one part of our life over us. I miss you so much,’ he says.
‘I miss you too.’
We smile, and he looks at me hopefully, but I’m not ready yet. I reach for my coffee and take a sip, try to compose myself. ‘How’s it going with Ava?’
‘Good,’ he says, pulling out the chair beside me. He turns it so he’s facing me, our legs touching, his hand on my thigh, all so familiar. ‘She’s calmed a lot. We’re figuring it out. But I made a really bad decision, a really big mistake losing you, Holly.’
‘I overreacted,’ I admit.
‘I didn’t support you. Can you give us another chance? Will you move in here? With me, and Ava?’
I look at him and wonder, but I’m tired of thinking, I only know what feels right and forgiveness is a gift. I feel so utterly relieved to be offered a second chance with him.
‘We have a TV,’ he offers, weakly.
I smile, and rest my head on his shoulder, and he covers me in gentle kisses.
I want to tell Ginika what has happened, that she was right, again. The tears roll. Bittersweet ones.