"Now, please pack a bag, Amelia. I can't leave you here. They’re saying minus five tonight. I need to know you’re safe," I say with my voice fading to a whisper when I admit more than I should. I lean my forehead against hers and draw in her scent.
"Okay," she finally replies and takes a step back. "I have some more of Smutty's food in the kitchen. You must almost be running out. Can you grab it please?" she tries to shoo me out of the bedroom, probably so she can pack without me snooping.
"No need, I bought more yesterday," I shrug. "I have to make a few calls for work though. The trip to the hospital has put me behind schedule."
"Oh, shit. Sorry, I forgot about your dangly bits. I'm sorry that my tiny cat hurt your—" She points at my crotch and smirks.
"Your sincere concern for them is heart-warming." I can't help myself from grinning.
"What do you want me to do? Blow on them and tell them it'll all be better soon?" The minute she realises what she just said, her cheeks turn pink again. "I mean—" she stutters.
"I leave you to the packing. You have ten minutes," is all I reply. As much as I enjoy our banter, I'm freezing my arse off in here and I'm pretty sure Furball is waiting for his dinner.
When we finally make it back to my house the cat nearly has a fit because he wants his gourmet dinner. Amelia, of course, obliged him before spending another thirty minutes cuddling and playing with him. Now she is having a hot bath whilst I prepare dinner. It’s all starting to feel a bit domestic and I like it, which I'm not sure is a good thing.
"Hey," Amelia draws my attention. She’s leaning against the kitchen door with her wet hair in a towel.
"Feeling warmer?"
"So much. I love having a bath," she sighs.
"Well, you can have as many baths as you want whilst you’re here," I tell her, carrying two plates to the table.
"Oh, you didn't need to make dinner. I could have ordered us a takeaway," she argues before taking a seat.
"Worried I'll poison you?"
"No." She carefully sniffs the plate of tortellini in tomato sauce.
"Hey, I'm a decent chef, I'd like you to know," I mock protest as we laugh.
Amelia takes a spoonful and moans, “Wow, that's amazing."
"I know," I wink and we settle into a comfortable silence whilst eating. When we’re nearly finished, I tell her about mine and Coop's plan to hire a general manager and my initial hesitation.
"So, what made you change your mind on hiring one?" Amelia asks, scraping the last of her sauce.
I shrug. "Coop was right. We need to start enjoying our life a bit. We’ve been working nonstop since we left university."
"Okay, but why did you hesitate initially?" Amelia probes. I try to think about how to answer that.
"Coop has Lizzie. They want to travel and explore the world. I have an empty house. It feels sometimes lonely." Amelia swallows hard. "Forget what I said. I think I'm entering a midlife crisis. But luckily I have Fi, my niece and nephews, and I want to at least spend more time with them." And I want to spend time with you. Fear of scaring her off stops me from saying it out loud. And yet, it is the one thing I want to say more than anything else.
17
If You Don’t Love Yourself
Amelia
I stare at the empty plate in front of me. It would be easy to fall back to light-hearted conversation but something stops me. I need to say this. I need to. Be brave, Amelia. For once, open up to someone. You are safe with him.
"I tell you what being lonely means," my voice barely above a whisper. "Lying at home in your bed, watching TikToks and a simple video of a couple hugging is enough to make you cry."
I have never told anyone this and I'm not sure why I’m telling him now, but I feel the urge to say what I’ve kept to myself for so long out loud . Ben's eyes are on me but I can't meet them. I don't want to see the pity in them that I'm sure is there.
"To get some comfort," I continue, "I sometimes pull a heavy pillow against my back and pretend it's someone lying behind me whilst I cry my eyes out." I sniffle. "That makes me sound insane, doesn't it?"
"No, it doesn't." His deep, smooth voice contains no mockery so I look at him. His eyes are on me but there is no pity on his face. Sadness, maybe, but no pity.
"It is. I’ll tell you something else insane." I slide my chair back a little and hug my legs to my chest. "My number one wish is to find love of course," I confess. "To live with someone who truly loves me, someone who, when I walk into the room, has eyes only for me. Someone who wants to know what my day was like and who knows when I need him to just be there for me." I stare at the table. "But do you want to know what my second wish is?" I ask, hesitating.
"Sure," Ben replies gently as if scared he’ll spook me.
"I want someone to take me into a room and tell me over and over what all my flaws are," I reveal. "That I'm fat, I'm ugly, I'm boring, I'm uptight, I'm whatever else is wrong with me. I want them to hurt me so much that it kills the pesky optimism I have, this belief that everything will be alright in the end. Because it never is. I want to be hurt so much that I’m just numb and no longer have any hope."
Ben looks at me, concern etched across his face. "You don't mean that," he says.
"I do, seriously" I insist. "I could just live my life without the constant wish for more, for something better and someone else. I might finally be happy with the life I have. As far as I'm concerned, optimism is the greatest evil. If you're a pessimist forever expecting the worst you can only come out on top. If something works out despite your doubts, you'll feel like a winner. If it doesn't, well, you still win because you never expected it to go smoothly. Now, if you're an optimist, sure, things might work out, but they rarely unfold the way you imagined they would. And when you don’t get what you dreamed up, the crash is epic. I hate being an optimist but I can't flick the switch. It's ingrained in me and I can't alter it. I have tried! To curb my enthusiasm, to take things one day at a time, but optimistic thoughts sneak in and set me up for a fall, especially when it comes to relationships."
I swipe my finger over the rim of the plate to wipe up some sauce before licking it off my finger.
“I'm forty-one years old, and in all those years nobody has ever loved me. I've never been someone's first priority."
Ben opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. "No, I know that the issue is me. I'm not blaming anyone."
He looks puzzled. "How can you say that?"
"Think about it," I urge him. "What's the common denominator in all of these disappointments? Me. Clearly, it's me."
