Page 8 of A Castle in the Sky: Fern & Connor
He stared at her, the colour draining from his face.
"They could've taken her, do you understand that, you fucking gormless minger?" she raged, her tone raw. "They could've takenour childinto care because ofyourchoices. Because you can't say ‘no’ to your mother or your ex, even when it comes to the safety of the one person who trusts you completely. Now even she knows you don't have her back."
Connor tried again, but she talked over him.
She looked up then, eyes rimmed red but blazing. "Social services are going to be talking to you lot next. You, your mother, andMatty. I have expressed my concerns about Jacob being in that house. And if you don't like it, you can just fuck off."
Connor couldn't speak. He could only watch as she brushed past him, the pen holding her hair tumbling to the floor, clattering like a punctuation at the end of a sentence he'd never get to finish.
Connor bent to retrieve it, fingers closing around the smooth plastic like a delaying tactic to keep her there while he found the right words to explain.
She reached the doorway and paused, one hand resting on the handle, her knuckles white.
"Our marriage is over," she said, her voice almost frightening in how calm and dead it sounded. "After two years of this torture, let's get this over with peacefully. Or you'll find out just how nasty I can get."
Connor's breath hitched. "Fern—"
She turned her head slightly, not enough to look at him, just enough that he could see the outline of her jaw clench.
"And I want answers," she said. "I was afraid to ask because I was terrified the answer would be ‘yes’. Because I loved you…”
Her face crumpled, tears running down pale cheeks, her heartbreak plain to see. “I loved you too much and that got my child hurt. Are youfuckingMatilda?"
He froze, the question hitting so hard he couldn't even form a denial.
"Is Jacob your child?"
He didn't know what she read on his face, but it only made her eyes frost over.
Her laugh was dry and humourless. "I can see you actually need to think about this."
She turned the handle and pushed the door open.
"Don't worry," she said, her tone icy, every syllable precise and cutting. "You'll have plenty of time to decide without your wife hanging around your neck like an albatross."
The door swung shut behind her and the sound seemed to echo through the small room like a gunshot.
Connor stayed where he was propping himself up against the wall before sliding down, staring at the empty space she'd left behind, the pen still clutched in his hand. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeped steadily, proof that life went on, even after his had just fallen apart.
Chapter 7
He didn't remember falling asleep.
The seat was stiff against his back, the steering wheel cold beneath his fingers when he startled awake to the pale grey light of dawn. The hospital car park was nearly empty, save for a few nurses briskly walking toward their cars in their puffer jackets after the night shift, their chatter muffled by the glass.
Connor sat there while the pink rays of sunlight pierced the grey. His neck ached, his mouth was dry, and every thought that tried to form ended in the same hollow ache of failure. He couldn't get the image of how small Coral looked in that hospital bed out of his head.
He'd spent the night in the car because he hadn't known where else to go. Fern had told him to leave, but he couldn't bring himself to drive home to an empty house. So, he'd stayed here—close, but not close enough. Just in case.
When the first proper light spilled over the hospital roof, he rubbed his eyes and started the engine. He needed a shower and fresh clothes. He needed a plan to make it through the next hour.
The drive to their house took about twenty minutes. It was a nice neighbourhood, the school just a stone-throw away. The front door creaked as he pushed it open. Everything was too quiet. The living room still smelled faintly of the lavender candles Fern always lit in the evenings. There was a half-eaten slice of toast on the kitchen table with a now-cold cup of tea next to it. Her cardigan was draped over the back of the sofa, one sleeve turned inside out. The sight of it hithim harder than he expected. He picked it up and buried his face in its softness.
He stood there for a long time before forcing himself upstairs for a quick shower. He changed his shirt, splashed water on his face, and stared at his reflection. There was a faint line of dried blood where her nails had caught him, now a thin scab running down his cheek. He looked like someone he didn't recognise—tired, older, and hollow-eyed.
With a sigh, he grabbed a duffel bag and packed what came to mind: T-shirts, socks, his old hoodie. Then, after a pause, he went to the chest of drawers in Coral's room.
The air still smelled of her—shampoo and crayons. A half-finished drawing sat on the small desk, three stick figures holding hands beneath a bright yellow sun. He had to look away.
