Page 66 of Two Wrongs
Ivy
Please don’t traveldown tomorrow. I’m ill.
Fin’s text arrives late Friday afternoon, a week or so following Rory’s last visit to the village.And stupid Mac punching him.I’m sitting at reception, having finished for the afternoon, though Ted is still working on his client’s blowout.
What’s up? Is it the flu?
She’d mentioned earlier in the week that the office drones—her description—were dropping like flies with some kind of stomach bug.
I think so. Throat. Nose. Vomiting.
I’m just about to text to tell her to take care and to say I’d check in with her tomorrow when I receive this:
I know I said I never wanted to see him again, but I said a lot of things.
My heart sinks as I read Fin’s text, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard as I attempt to fashion a reply becauseshe knows. She knows Rory’s been looking for her—maybe even found her.
Sorry. I’m so sorry. Don’t hate me. Please don’t cut me out of your life.
My heart is literally pounding out of my chest, and little Vlad seems intent on reaching out to grab it. Maybe he’s mistaken the pounding as some kind of baby rave. Before I have a grip on the right verbiage—or my panic—another text arrives.
I said a lot of things, felt a lot of things, and I understand why you were trying to protect me.
But I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me. All these weeks.
Why didn’t you say?
I thought he’d moved on. Do you have any idea how this feels—like you’ve been replaced? Cut out, or pasted over by the shape of someone else?
Why, no, I have no idea what that feels like. Please fill my ears with your tales of woe while I rub my poor, single parent belly and revel in how just life is.
Of course, I don’t answer this way, but it doesn’t stop the sudden flow of fury through my bones. My thumbs hover over the screen again as I attempt to tamp down my emotions to a rolling boil. I won’t give into anger. Into jealousy and pain. Envy because it doesn’t take the brain of Britain to work out she’s seen him. Talked. Meanwhile, I—
I push it away—the anger. The jealousy. Push it the fuck from my brain while reminding myself to add another pound to that fucking tin. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I’ll shove a fucking fiver in! My nose begins to tingle as tears prick at my lids. Life is so unfair, and even when I’m trying to do the right thing—get on the right path—I keep screwing things up for myself and other people.
But I can’t help howI feel.Sad. Empty. Pissed off.
But what about Fin, and how she must feel. Jesus Christ, I’ll get myself to mass on Sunday to ask for forgiveness for the things I keep screwing up. She deserves to be happy, and we had no right to interfere.
I pick up my phone again and quickly jot out,Sorry. I’m so sorry. Don’t hate me. Please don’t cut me out of your life.But then I erase it.
This. This is what I type instead of a whiny, selfish response.I know it wasn’t the right thing to do—at least, my heart did—but my head said it was for the best. I didn’t want to see you get hurt again, and you were still coming to terms with what happened with your douche of a husband.
Quit the melodramatics, she responds.No one’s cutting a bitch. At least, not yet. But let’s just say you have a lot of ‘splaining to do, Lucy.
So you’ve seen him? Rory? I can’t tell you what a weight lifted this is. I hope you’re happy. Please tell me you’re happy. OMG, are you cheating on me with a new best friend because who the flip is Lucy?This. This is me deflecting. Maybe not melodramatic, but definitely over the top.
I’m happy Mac didn’t ruin his face. He’s too pretty for words. Gotta go. Must spew again.
‘Hey.’ Brandishing her phone, Nat wanders in from the treatment room. ‘Have you seen Dylan Duffy just flew in?’
‘Here? In Auchkeld?’
‘How, on a magic carpet? Though, I suppose, technically, he could land a helicopter on the farm’s cow pasture if he came to whisk you away. Is that how you see it in your dreams? Dylan and his mighty aubergine flying in on hismassivechopper to rescue—’ Her teasing diatribe stops suddenly, the final word hanging in the air. ‘Have you been crying?’
‘It’s hay fever.’
She eyes me sceptically. ‘You don’t get hay fever. Spit it out.’
