There is complete silence in the room now, apart from the vague sounds drifting in from outside. The beep of a car horn. Chatter from the corridor. The squeak of a bed being wheeled across the linoleum floors of the hallway.
Everyone is looking at me, waiting for the answer they assume I am going to give. I know I must look shocked, surprised – and that that is okay. Of course I do. I only hope I don’t also look horrified.
My eyes skim across Wendy, who is almost out of her chair in anticipation, and I meet the gaze of Linda, Harry’s mum. She is nodding at me, misty-eyed, about to cry, twisting her fingers together.
I see John, his dad, standing proud and tall behind his wife. His hands are on the back of her chair, gripping it so hard his knuckles are white. He is begging me without even saying a word, his serious eyes wide and desperate, his nostrils flaring.
They want me to say yes. They will be crushed if I say no. They will bleed for their son, for his suffering, for this humiliation and rejection by a woman who is supposed to love him. A woman he has built a life with, a woman who should stand with him at his lowest point. A woman who would never abandon him.
I know what they want, but I’m not sure I can be that woman. Without the earthquake, I would have said no. Without meeting Alex, I would have said no. Without Harry’s paralysis, I’d have said no.
I want to say no now, with all my heart. Saying no would have nothing to do with his condition. Nothing to do with what happened to us. Saying no would simply be because I don’t love him, not in that way. Not now.
I pull my eyes away from the intolerable pressure of his mum and dad, across Wendy’s waiting face, and finally force myself to look at Harry. All of this has only taken a matter of seconds, but to him it must feel like an eternity.
I expect him to seem annoyed. To be running out of patience. To be full of his usual confidence, steady in the unshakeable belief that I will say yes. That I was always going to say yes.
Instead, what I see on his drawn features surprises me. Harry doesn’t look confident. He doesn’t look annoyed, or steady. He looks scared, and weak, and vulnerable. He looks, for a split second, defeated. It is a side of him that I have never seen in all our years together.
It is a look which moves me in a way that no amount of fake bravado ever could. A look that makes me realise that maybe it’s not completely over between us.
‘Yes,’ I say, finally, my voice quiet. ‘Yes, I’ll marry you, Harry.’
Chapter 15
I stagger from the room minutes later, in tears of presumed joy. I plead the need to fix my face, and escape feeling nauseous, as though I am going to be physically sick. Harry catches my eye as I leave, and I try to smile, tell him I will be back later.
I close the door behind me, still hearing the cheers and the applause ringing in my ears. Still feeling the clasp of Linda’s trembling arms around me. Still astonished at the sheen of moisture in John’s eyes as he hugged me tight, whispered ‘thank you’ into my ear.
Still wondering if I imagined that look of desperation on Harry’s face as he asked me to marry him. Still confused at what just happened.
I manage a few steps away from the door. I hold up my hand, look at the ring shining under the strip lighting. See the shaking as I try to hold boneless digits steady.
Leaning back against the wall, I suck in some deep breaths. Ignore the strange looks I am being given. I close my eyes, and ignore everything and everyone, until I am calm enough to run. I run to the lifts, and I run to the balcony, and I run to the edge of the world.
I need to be free and alone, to process what has just happened. To try and understand the mass of conflicting emotions I am feeling. To distinguish between the guilt and the genuine love and the sense of duty and the instinct to flee. Each and every one of them feels real.
I love Harry, in my own way, and I know that he needs me. Maybe I could fall in love with him all over again? Maybe this will be a fresh start for us, hope drawn from the most horrendous of circumstances?
But if that is truly the case, then why does this ring on my finger feel more like a mark of ownership than a symbol of love and happiness?
I cling on to the balcony wall, drained of all strength, and look out at the sprawling city and the winding roads and the distant hills below me. I listen to the chaos of life in the streets beneath, and have no idea what I really want any more – not even in this one single moment, never mind for the rest of my life.
No idea until I hear familiar heavy footsteps behind me. Until I smell his shower gel. Until I turn around, and see him. Tall, blonde, solid before me. I reach up and place my hand on his chest, feel his heart beating beneath my fingers. Stare at him, unable to speak.
I realise now why I ran here, to this place. It wasn’t only to hide. It was because this is our place. Because I knew I would see him here. Because I needed to be with him, if only for a few minutes.
He glances down at my hand. Sees the ring. The smile fades from his face as our eyes meet. He frowns, looks confused, then … angry?
‘He asked you to marry him? In there, with the cameras rolling? In front of everybody?’ he says.
I nod, helplessly. It wasn’t fair, but it happened.
‘And you said yes … of course you did. How could you not? Maybe … maybe it’s for the best.’
His voice is flat, empty of emotion, but his eyes tell a different story.
I want to throw my arms around him. I want to kiss him, and hold him, and tell him how I feel. I want to be brave, and selfish, and honest. I want so many things that I cannot have.
