No, it’s my fault I feel like this, that we’re like this. But I can’t have that conversation while I’m driving.
Neither can I sit with the silence building between us, a gulf forming that I’m scared I won’t be able to cross.
She hasn’t said anything since we left the stadium and her mood has gone from vibrant and excited with Louis and Adele, to this: quiet, reflective, so far withdrawn from me as she watches the world go by outside her window while I drive us home—to my home. Something I agreed I would do on Thursday...but I’m not so sure it’s wise any more.
Not that I thought it was wise on Thursday night either, but then my concern was the total annihilation of the line between business and personal. A line that has long since gone. No, my concern now is that I’ve hurt her. Not intentionally, but that doesn’t make my non-disclosure right.
‘I’m sorry you found out like that.’
Her head snaps to me, the most animated she’s been since we’ve been alone. I flick her a brief look. Definitely hurt. Her eyes are hard, her lips pressed together like she wants to say a thousand things and is trying not to.
‘I tried to tell you by the pool the other night.’ I throw my attention back on the road but inside it’s all on her and how I’ve made her feel. ‘When I asked you what happened to Nathan, I wanted to tell you then.’
‘You should have.’
‘I know. But you didn’t want to hear it; you asked me to let it go.’
‘If I’d known that’s what you were about to say I never would have stopped you.’
My eyes flit to her again, the truth of her words forcing me to accept that I knew that too and I let her stop me because I didn’t want to ruin the moment either.
I sigh, the sound reverberating through the car. ‘I know. I guess I didn’t want to talk about it either.’
I feel her eyes on me, burning into me, so many questions itching to get out. ‘When did she die?’
I stare straight ahead. ‘Four years ago.’
‘She must have been very young.’
‘Twenty-five. We were the same age.’
‘What happened?’
The ache in my chest is sharp, brutal. I swallow. Tell myself it’s the same question I asked her and that she has every right to ask it of me. But she was an innocent party to her husband’s death. Me...
My mouth dries up. I should have kept up the silence, at least until we were out of the car.
‘Adele said she had an accident...?’
‘We—we had an accident.’ I lift my hand to my scar, a second’s touch that’s almost a subconscious gesture.
‘What kind of accident?’
My stomach lurches, my knuckles glowing white as I grip the steering wheel with both hands once more and sense her eyes fall to my fists, sense her compassion building. Compassion that I don’t deserve. And I can’t say it. Car accident. Two simple words that are too crushing to say out loud.
Because it was my fault. All my fault.
‘Valentine?’
Her voice is so quiet in the car. Or is it that my thoughts are raging so loud they drown her out?
‘Yes.’ It vibrates out of me, through the tension, the pain, the guilt.
‘It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me, not if you don’t want to.’
‘It’s not a question of want; it’s more...’ I break off. It’s what? I don’t know. The only person I’ve spoken to is Alan; not even the counsellors he tried to get me to see could make me open up. But Alan did and, although I found some peace through him, I’ll never be entirely absolved of the guilt. That’s on me.
She reaches across the car, her palm soft on my thigh. ‘How long were you together?’
She’s talking around it, encouraging happier memories and as my eyes flick to her and I feel the warmth of her palm permeate my skin a small smile touches my lips.
‘Seven years...’ I lower my hand to cover hers. ‘She was the one that pulled me out of the rut when my football career was over. My friends were great but when they’re all footballers too...’ I shrug. ‘My parents tried but you know how it is at that age.’
‘Hell, yeah.’ She laughs softly.
‘Exactly.’
She squeezes my thigh. ‘Sounds like you were very lucky to meet her when you did.’
A warm sense of nostalgia spreads in my chest, softens my voice. ‘I was.’
‘What was she like?’
‘Blonde, curvy, a big smile.’
‘Is that all you men think about? Appearances?’ Her thigh squeeze is more punishing now. ‘You know that’s not what I meant.’
‘No. I know.’ I think about it. ‘She was kind. Warm-hearted. Fun. She not only put up with my crazy antics, she was often the instigator of them. We were...how did Adele put it? Wild. Together. The perfect pair.’
I laugh but it’s awkward as the chill starts to creep back in. The thought that always accompanies the memory taking over, that if we hadn’t been so crazy, so fun-loving, maybe she’d still be here now.
‘But then you changed?’
‘Yes.’ It’s as though she’s in my head, going down the same path as my thoughts. ‘I realised life wasn’t to be played around with. If I’d taken it more seriously, if we’d taken it more seriously, maybe she’d still be here now.’
I take my hand from hers, focus on driving and ignore the question that still persists, weighing heavy in the renewed silence: What happened?
Hell, all she needs to do is carry out an internet search and she’ll have all the answers she seeks. But something tells me she’s not the type. Bruised enough by the media herself, she knows better than to use
