Page 123 of (Not) The One
I shake my head as though shaking away flies from my stagnating brain.
‘I’m not sure what you mean byhelp.’
‘I’m not interviewing for someone to push me around in my bathchair, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘Ha, no. I’m sure someone of your advanced age would want a woman more experienced around for that kind of stuff. You know, someone who at least knows what to do in the event of a stroke.’
‘Your stroke action is more than adequate.’
‘And that’s why I’m not moving in with you,’ I sort of singsong in response.
‘Obviously,’ James adds quickly. ‘I’m not asking you to move in because I expect you to have sex with me all the time.’
‘Oh, God. That’s not what I meant—I was just pointing out that your jokes are awful.’
‘That’s a relief.’ His sly grin is quick to rise. ‘Because why wouldn’t we have sex at every opportunity. We have so far, right?’
‘Yes. And no,’ I add swiftly. ‘Yes, we’ve had sex at every opportunity. But no, I’m not moving in with you. Still.’
‘Miranda,’ he draws out my name over a hundred syllables. ‘You’re not listening to me.’
‘I am. I promise I am.’
‘Give me one good reason why you won’t. Just one.’
‘Because skinned knees are easier to mend than broken hearts.’
His response is in the pinch of his brows and I think for a moment that he finally gets it. That he understands. He sort of deflates before me, his head dipping between his shoulders, clasped hands dropping between his splayed knees.
‘Can you think about me for a minute.’
‘What?’
‘Try not to think about yourself. Just for this one moment. Maybe I’m not offering you the Prince Charming experience you seem to think I am. Perhaps I’m thinking about me.’ His head lifts, his gaze almost pinning me in place—pinning me to the arm of the sofa—like a butterfly under a piece of glass. ‘You’re havingourchild, Miranda, but I’m so outside of the experience. Our child. A child that may never live with me full time. I want to be part of this process. To see him grow. To see you grow heavy with him. And I want him to know me before he makes his grand entrance into the world. I want to talk to him, maybe even sing a little. Play music, read. Feel him move inside you while we’re curled in bed watching TV.
‘Whatever you think of me, whatever you can or can’t see yourself doing, please don’t shut me out from this experience. I’m asking for eight weeks. At least to begin with. Longer if it all goes well, maybe even up to his birth.
‘You talk about blurred lines, but if you give me this time, I’ll do whatever it takes. If you don’t want to sleep with me, I’ll keep my hands to myself. We’ll keep this purely platonic. I want to be part of your life, Miranda. But if you can’t see that ever happening, at least give me this.
* * *
‘Are you okay?’
‘Hmm?’ I turn from the window and watching the blur of buildings that is London. Not that we’re going very fast. In fact, it’s much the opposite. Maybe the blurring has more to do with my tired eyes.
‘Sorry? What did you ask me?’
‘I asked if you were okay.’ His hand covers mine where it’s pressed to the seat between us, his thumb caressing my knuckles.
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I answer with a small smile. I think small smiles are the order of the day because I don’t have the energy for anything else. Truthfully, I amexhausted. It was a huge relief to find I’d slept in and that James insisted on getting his driver to take me into work. What I didn’t expect was that he’d come with us, too.
‘You look tired.’
I shoot him another small smile. ‘I always look grotty after I’ve been crying.’ Also, after last night, I barely slept. And when he said thing between us could be purely platonic, he wasn’t joking. Last night, I’d lain in his arms, in his bed, and the only touches that passed between us were chaste. Over T-shirts, arms entwined. Honestly, it’s no wonder I look terrible because once his soft snores started to sound, I just cried and cried.
I am an awful person.
A selfish bitch.
