They chatted about nothing nearly as intense as they finished their dinner, and then moved over to Emily’s rather angular sofa to enjoy the dancing flames of the wood burner. It felt both weird and right when Emily scooted next to him and he put his arm around her, enjoying the feel of her snuggled close, her head on his shoulder. They were silent as they watched the fire, and it felt enough—or almost—to simply sit here with her in the warmth and the dark.
Then Cass scrambled up into their laps, and he let out a laugh. It just felt too perfect.
“I don’t think I’ve been happier,” Emily said quietly. She tilted her face up to meet his gaze, a furrow bisecting her forehead. “Does that scare you?”
“Should it?”
“I don’t know.”
For an answer, because he didn’t have another one, he kissed her—a gentle brush of their lips. At least that was what it was meant to be. But as with every time he’d kissed Emily David, it turned into something much more. Her hand crept upwards, her fingers wrapping around his neck as he deepened the kiss and their bodies shifted on the sofa. Blood roared and sang as she pressed even closer to him, and reluctantly Owen lifted his head.
“We should probably stop.”
“Should we?” A smile tilted her lips upwards but he saw the hesitation in her eyes and he knew he’d made the right call. “I’m not a child, you know,” she added, and Owen let out a laugh that was mostly groan.
“Trust me, I know that.”
She chewed her lip, scanning his face. “I’m not fragile, either.”
“Emily, you’re one of the strongest people I know.” And yet strong people could be fragile, too. And the last thing, the very last thing in the entire world Owen wanted to do, was hurt her. “This is our second date, you know. We don’t have to rush.”
“I know.”
“Anyway, I meant to ask about your mum. You’re visiting her tomorrow?”
“Assuming she still wants me to, yes.”
“Why don’t I drive you there?”
She looked at him in surprise. “You’ll just sit in the foyer again, you know.”
“I know. I’m coming to like that foyer. Very comfortable chairs.” He smiled, and she smiled too, and then he brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. “No one should go through that kind of thing alone. The pub’s still closed tomorrow. Let me drive you.”
She hesitated, her smile like a flower that had only just begun to unfurl. “Okay,” she said at last. “Thank you.”
Chapter Sixteen
The heavy rain had downgraded to a misty drizzle by eight o’clock the next morning, when Owen pulled up to Willoughby Close in his van.
“How’s The Drowned Sailor?” Emily asked as she climbed inside the passenger side. Owen, she saw, had made somewhat of an effort at tidying up—the paper coffee cups were gone, along with some of the rubbish from the floor.
“Not yet drowned,” he returned with a quick smile. He looked and smelled gorgeous—fresh and damp from a shower, wearing his usual rugby shirt and jeans. “There’s still water in the cellar, but I think it’s under control.”
“Good.”
“How are you feeling about today?” Owen asked as he drove out of the close.
“I don’t know. I’m not letting myself think about it too much, really.”
“What happened the last time your mum stopped her medication?”
Emily sighed as she gazed out the window streaked with raindrops. Spring was coming to Wychwood-on-Lea, daffodils and tulips unfurling under the drizzle, everything muted and grey and yet still coming to life. Spring happened anyway, no matter what was going in life. It was a heartening thought.
“She was doing really well,” she began after a moment. “She had a job, which isn’t all that usual, teaching pottery at a day centre for the elderly. She was feeling normal, if that’s a word I should use. I don’t know if it is, or what normal is, for that matter. But she wasn’t flattened the way the medication can make her—as if she’s viewing everything from behind a gauzy curtain. That’s how she’s described it. Anyway.” Emily blew out a breath. “I think she felt well enough—confident enough—to stop taking the pills. She went cold turkey, which is never a good idea, and it resulted in what her consultant called ‘a sudden and severe psychotic episode.’ I wasn’t there—I got a phone call, just like I did this time. She’d been at work, and she just…” Emily shrugged, her throat tightening as she recalled the consultant’s description of what had happened. “Screaming. Throwing things. Hurting herself. It took three aides to restrain her.”
“I’m sorry, Emily.” Owen’s tone was low and heartfelt, and it would have made her eyes sting if she’d let it.
“So am I. It came out of the blue that time. This time I had warning.”
“You can’t beat yourself up over that.”
“It’s easy to say that.” Just as it had been easy to dismiss her own fears, because she was far away and sometimes she needed a break from worrying about her mother, a realisation that made her feel only guiltier.
“I know how easy it is,” Owen said quietly, and Emily turned to look at him.
“You feel guilty.”
He shrugged his assent. “Yes. I suppose.”
“About your dad?”
A pause, heavy, like a weight in the air. “My whole family, really, but yes, my dad.”
“Why?”
Owen flexed his hands on the steering wheel, his gaze straight ahead and yet restless. “For a lot of reasons.”
“Will you tell me at least some of them?”
“I got out. I suppose that’s the main one.”
“From Cwmparc?”
“From that whole way of life.”
“That’s not your fault.”
Owen shot her a knowing look, a faint smile curving his mouth although his eyes looked sad. “Exactly.”
It was strange to think that she and Owen were similar, Emily reflected as they drove in silence towards Oxford, and then on to London. She’d assumed from the beginning that they
