Page 25 of The Last Kiss

“I’m scared.”

“Me too. Me too. But I can keep going, I can fight this as long as I can.”

Her face tells me otherwise. Liv absorbs facts the way I inhale chocolate. Two years ago, when this all started, she did all the research, things that I never bothered to read up on.

Maybe she should have come to the appointment with me.

But then I would never have…

I shut down the thought of my mystery man and the way things were in his arms.

One night.

No names.

No strings.

And a good bloody job too. My sister’s face is telling me all too clearly that there is no way I can dodge this bullet. Damn her and the facts. I much prefer fantasy and illogical random thought processes.

Much better that way.

Without anything more to say, I leave her in small pieces at the kitchen island and tiptoe down the plush carpet to Lenny’s nursery. Inside it’s warm, calm. In his cot he’s wrapped like a little tubby pudding of gorgeousness.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” I murmur, running my finger down his cheek.

He’s all warm, flushed cheeks, long lashes resting. Six months of cuteness.

“Lenny, time to wake up.” I’m louder, this kid can sleep.

Still there’s no movement so I lean into his cot, lifting him into my arms. He’s wearing a sleep bag, legs all tucked up like a frog, hair damp from where he’s been so cosy.

I snuggle him close, breathing in that baby smell that can’t be bottled.

I’m a strong, independent woman. But with my nephew in my arms, a bundle of upchuck perfection, I let the barrier come down and I cry for all the things that I will never get to own.

Some paths I guess you are meant to walk, others will always remain closed.

Sitting in the rocking chair in the corner, I cradle him tight, gently shifting us forward and back with my feet, tears landing on the strands of his dark hair, until Liv comes to find me and unwraps him from my hand, leaving me in a rocking chair with empty arms.

“Okay. Don’t shoot me down.” Alone in the house, I’ve squeezed myself into some of her jeans, rolling them up three inches—the bitchand a shirt I think might well have been a breastfeeding one.

We are in her living room. I say living. I mean showroom. I shrug to myself. Hell, she can do what she likes. If being pristine brings her joy then I’m all for it.

“Go on.” I nod and take a sip of my wine. I think we’ve made an unspoken agreement that we will drink away the day.

There are days for healthiness.

There are days for wine.

Today constitutes wine. Although she has made me drink some vile green juice her friend Charlie recommended. I heave just thinking about it.

“Don’t freak out,” she says.

“Well now I will.”

“I think you should speak to Mum and Dad.”

Kick a woman while she’s down, why don’t you?