The truth. The same truth I’ve been trying to keep in mind for the past eighteen months. But instead I’ve let Katherine and Edward get inside my head...and my heart. I was fine before—just fine. I didn’t need them. I didn’t need this world where I could never belong.
Charlotte is laughing now. Her whole demeanour reminding me of his mother. My stomach rolls, my heart aches, tears prick...
Oh, God, not here...not here.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I repeat, trying to move past her.
But my movements are too quick and my glass collides with her. Champagne runs down her front and she lets out a yelp.
‘You silly girl!’
‘I’m sorry... I’m sorry... I’m so sorry.’
And I’m running—running so fast I can’t draw breath. I can’t feel the ground beneath my feet. I can’t see past the tears, the burn...
I squeeze my eyes shut, open them again, and I’m in a cold, narrow corridor. Ted is in my hand and a woman is walking away from me. A woman I love. A woman I have done everything to try and keep.
‘Mummy! Mummy!’
She doesn’t turn and I clutch Ted tighter.
It’s not my mother any more. It’s Edward. Edward walking away.
‘Edward!’ I choke on the pain, the anguish. ‘Edward!’
He doesn’t react. His pace is slow and steady, unbreaking, but I can’t make my feet go after him.
‘Edward!’
He disappears. Just like Mum. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t want me...
‘Summer.’
My name is faint, far away.
‘Summer.’
I shake my head, feel softness all around me, an inviting warmth...
‘Summer, wake up.’
It’s a nice voice. Hushed, husky, deep. There’s a hand on my shoulder, gently shaking. A familiar, comforting scent in the air. My eyes flutter open and I squint against the subtle light of the room. Where am I? Who...?
Rich brown eyes come into focus—‘Edward!’
I scramble back against the headboard, clutch a hand to my pounding chest, my dream and reality colliding in one.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you...’
I glance around the room. The door between our bedrooms is open. I can see his bed in the distance, the quilt thrown off as though he’s left it in a hurry.
Did I scream? Did I...?
My eyes return to his, the dregs of my dream still pulsing through my veins... If only it was purely a dream and not a reminder of the past—of that scene in this house, of my mother walking away many years before...
I used to have it often, but it’s not hounded me in years, and I know our conversation over dinner and my return to this place—to him—are to blame.
‘Sorry,’ he says again. He’s perched on the edge of my bed, his hand now resting on the quilt between us. ‘You sounded distressed.’