Page 43 of A Castle in the Sky: Fern & Connor
Not Jacob's father.
He didn't know how he would react. He only knew that he had to deal with it. Just like he dealt with betrayal from the women from his childhood. From the father who left him and never looked back. From his best friend, who didn't want to rock the boat, even for his own nephew.
Instead, the first thing that came—rising up viscous and ugly—was relief.
A hot wave washed away by a cold wash of shame so strong his stomach lurched.
A warm hand closed around his.
"Connor," Fern murmured, her gorgeous blue eyes worried. "We're done here. Let's get you out of here."
She cared even when he had lied to her in so many ways As he looked back at her through blurred, burning tears, it hit him yet again that he had never been worthy of her.
He hadn't even realised he had crumpled the report in his hands. The next thing he knew, she was gently prying the report from his fingers and placing it on the desk. The lawyer said something about getting in touch if they had further questions, and Connor nodded, his head moving on instinct like an automaton. He was vaguely aware of Fern mentioning the unknown allegations that DC Anand had mentioned. The lawyer made notes while she talked, and he stared like an idiot.
The room tilted when he stood. Fern tightened her grip on his arm and steered him toward the door.
The reception area was quiet, the air smelling faintly of toner and some kind of floral air freshener. The receptionist glanced up, her gaze flicking between them as curiosity flickered bright in her eyes. Connor barely registered her; he only knew that he was moments from coming undone.
He stopped just before the door and turned, his free hand finding Fern's shoulder. She startled, but he hauled her close anyway, arms banding around her like a man wrapping himself around a life raft.
For a moment she went rigid, palms pressed flat against his chest as if deciding whether to push him away. Then her hands dropped with a sigh. She stood still in his embrace, letting him hold her.
His great shoulders heaved. He heard the sound he made—half-sob, half-shudder—and hated himself as salty tears wet her hair. Hated that, with all the wreckage he'd left strewn through her life, the thing cracking through him now was relief that Jacob wasn't his. The question that had gnawed at him for years had finally let go.
"We’ll figure it out," Fern said as she gently patted his back. "Come on. There's a café downstairs. You need to sit and digest all this."
The receptionist was openly watching them now, but Fern didn't care. She untangled herself from his arms but kept his hand in hers, leading him to the lift as if she'd done this a thousand times before. She had spent the last year subconsciously learning how not to lean on him, waiting for the moment when he would let her down completely. It was strange, because before they returned to Whitley Bay, he was her protector. He was the one who pampered her and supported her through those early months of turbulence when her company was still in its fledgeling phase. He was strong when she had a setback. He was always at the end of the phone if she neededanything. And then they moved here and slowly, without them even noticing it, their roles had reversed, with her doing the lion's share of childcare, cooking, and cleaning while supporting him through everything.
Now he followed, dazed, focusing on the small details because everything big was too much. The warm pressure of her fingers. The softpingof the lift. The way his heart thudded in his ears, out of sync with the world around him.
The café was tucked into a corner of the ground floor, with cozy worn booths and reclaimed wooden tables. A low murmur of conversations and the hiss of the coffee machine made up the background noise. Fern guided him to a table by the window and gently pushed him into a chair.
"Stay," she said, like he was Coral after falling off the swing. And like Coral, his pain was silent and internal.
He stared at his rough hands on the table. They were shaking. There was grease in the crevices and lines of the skin of his rough, calloused hands, as well as underneath the fingernails. When Fern came back a few minutes later and set a paper cup in front of him, he realised his fingers were like ice.
"It's too hot to drink yet," she said. "But if you hold it, it'll warm your hands."
Once upon a time, she would've taken his hands between hers and rubbed and blown on them. She would've tugged them under the hem of her sweatshirt, pressed them to her stomach or between her breasts and squealed about how cold he was, laughing when his hands wandered.
When was the last time?
He saw the memory flicker across her face in the way her gaze lingered on his fingers, the brief flattening of her full lips.
That was gone now. He'd burned it down.
He wrapped both hands around the cup, and slowly, heat seeped into his numb fingers. Fern sat opposite him, her back straight, handbag on her lap like she was ready to stand up and walk away at any second.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Somewhere behind the counter, crockery clinked. A child whined about wanting the pink milkshake. Someone laughed out loud. The world kept turning, like his entire life hadn't just been reordered by a sheet of A4 paper upstairs.
Finally, Fern cleared her throat.
"So," she said. "What now?"
He swallowed. The coffee scent turned his stomach. "Is there... " His voice came out rough, so he cleared it and tried again. "Is there any way you can give me another chance?"
"I don’t know," she said after a moment, “Poor Jacob.”
