Amelia almost felt sorry for him. His uncertainty was patently obvious. How could he see his son in such obvious distress and not simply rush into the room and bundle him into a reassuring hug? Perhaps he would have if Amelia hadn’t reached him first. Perhaps it was her being here that was confusing him.
She grimaced, turning her attention back to Cameron, very close to wishing that it had all never happened. Even as she thought it, she pushed the very idea away. She’d never regret what they’d shared.
‘There, there,’ she murmured, stroking the darling boy’s hair, brushing her lips over his brow. ‘I’m here, darling.’
‘I just...’ His little voice was so sad, and Amelia’s heart ached for him. ‘I miss her so much.’
‘Of course you do,’ she agreed, catching one of his hands and squeezing it.
Without intending it, her eyes moved to the door. Santos was blocking it. The light cast from the lamp was faint and golden, shading his face in a collection of geometric shadows.
‘Would you get Cameron a drink of water?’ she suggested quietly.
‘Water, nai.’ His voice did funny things to her stomach. He moved quickly, turning and leaving, relieved to have something to do.
Amelia kept talking to Cameron, reminding him of all that she knew about Cynthia and of England; of the first day they’d met—short little anecdotes that seemed to work. When she made intentional little mistakes, Cameron, in that way children had, effortlessly corrected her. ‘No, I wasn’t wearing a red shirt, because we were dressed in house colours; it must have been blue.’
Santos didn’t take long, striding across the room. She looked in his general direction rather than towards the wall of muscles that was right at her side.
‘Thank you.’ She held the glass out to Cameron. He’d stopped crying now, though his breaths were shallow. He drank half and then Amelia stood, almost bumping into Santos—she would have done so had he not moved quickly, sidestepping her with easy athleticism. She placed the water on the bedside table and rearranged an exhausted Cameron, easing him back against the pillows, his little face dark in contrast to the crisp white pillows, stroking his hair until his eyes grew heavy.
‘Amelia?’
His voice was thick with tiredness.
‘Yes, dearest?’
‘I’m glad you’re here.’
Her heart flipped over in her chest. She straightened, watching as sleep devoured him, turning his breathing rhythmic, relaxing his little face.
Santos moved behind her, surprising her, and she stiffened, bracing her body to ward off its usual, predictable, unwanted response to his proximity, but he was only turning off the lamp. The room plunged into darkness.
Amelia moved towards the door, aware he was right behind her, crossing into the corridor.
‘What happened?’ he asked, almost unnecessarily.
‘He had a dream. About Cynthia.’ There was a little light out here, coming from a room down the hallway. A quick glance showed the foot of a bed. Santos’s room? Great. That was a detail she’d prefer not to know.
‘He was so upset.’
‘Well, yes,’ Amelia agreed. ‘He woke up thinking it had all been a terrible nightmare, that his mother was still here, only to realise he’s living that nightmare.’
Santos’s jaw clenched tight and Amelia could have kicked herself for being so insensitive.
‘I don’t mean that knowing you is a nightmare—’
‘I know what you meant.’ His eyes lingered on her face, so her heart skipped a beat.
‘Anyway...’ She let the word hang in the air. What was she waiting for? An invitation? How ridiculous.
‘You’re so comfortable with him.’
That pulled on her focus. She lifted a brow, but before he could say anything else he put a hand in the small of her back, guiding her a little way down the hallway, away from Cameron’s bedroom.
‘I’m a schoolteacher,’ she said quietly. ‘I spend my days with six-year-olds, and I’ve known Cam for years. It’s easy for me to be comfortable with him.’
He nodded, but his eyes were still appraising her, distracting her, making it hard to concentrate. What genius? she thought with a self-deprecating grimace.