Reckless

Jeff’s eyes were locked on Tracy’s. “Why?”

“You know why. It would never work.”

“Why wouldn’t it work?”

“Because we’re completely incompatible!”

“That’s horseshit. We’re totally compatible.”

“We drive each other crazy,” said Tracy.

“I know.” Jeff grinned. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

Tracy couldn’t help but smile at that. But the light mood didn’t last long. Reaching across the table, Jeff took both Tracy’s hands in his.

“Tell me about Nicholas.”

Tracy frowned. “What do you mean? Tell you what?”

“Everything. What he looked like when he was born. What his favorite breakfast cereal was. What position he slept in.”

“STOP!” Tracy shook her head violently. She tried to snatch her hands away but Jeff tightened his grip. Other diners turned to look at them. It was painful to watch Tracy, twisting and writhing to get away from him, like an insect with its wings on fire.

“I can’t talk about him,” she pleaded. “Not with you. Not like that.”

“Like what?”

Tracy swallowed hard. “As if he were still alive.”

She gazed down at the tablecloth, avoiding Jeff’s eyes. He gave her a few minutes, then reached for her hand again.

“You can talk about him, Tracy. You have to talk about him,” Jeff said gently. “If you don’t let the grief out, it will kill you in the end. It will poison you from the inside out like battery acid. Just like it did to Cameron Crewe.”

Tracy looked up sharply. “Maybe that’s what I want. Maybe I want it to kill me.”

Jeff said, “I don’t believe that. You know that’s not what Nick would have wanted.”

Angrily, Tracy brushed away tears. “You don’t understand, Jeff. If I let the grief out, if I let it go, I’m scared I’ll be letting him go.”

“You’ll never let him go,” Jeff said. “Neither of us will.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“This isn’t just about you, Tracy!” Jeff cut her off, not angry exactly, but exasperated. Desperate. “I need to talk about him. To learn about him, about his life. I missed it. I missed all of it, and I can never get those years back. If you don’t talk to me about him, what am I left with? How can I grieve?”

Tracy felt terrible. The pain etched on Jeff’s face was every bit as real as her own. How had she not noticed it before? In Paris, or Megève, when they’d spent time together? It must have been there. Was it because Jeff’s face had reminded her so much of Nicholas, she’d stopped seeing him as a person in his own right?

Yes. That was it.

But she saw him now. Jeff, her Jeff. Reaching up, she stroked his cheek.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Jeff kissed her hand. “Don’t be sorry. Just talk to me. Please. Talk to me about our son.”

And so, falteringly at first, Tracy talked. She talked until they’d finished their meal. She talked when Jeff paid the bill. She talked as their coffees turned cold, and the restaurant emptied, and at last the manager came over and politely informed them that they were closing now, to prepare for the evening’s dinner service.

Outside, the sun glowed low and red over the mews. Crisp, golden leaves swirled around Tracy and Jeff’s legs and crunched beneath their feet as they walked hand in hand back up towards Notting Hill Gate.