Page 49 of Cuts Like An Angel: Part 3

Chapter Twenty-One

William

It made no difference to William that it had begun to rain. Not like it usually did. Mostly, he hated the feeling of when his hair was wet, or when his clothes stuck to him, but this time, he liked the way the droplets dared to come across him, spitting on him a little and then the breeze would take them away like the hands of loving parents, guiding their children from danger. He let his eyes close and the headache that had begun on the ride home, ebbed through his skull, rattling his brain and ending in his temples like pulsating heat.

When the back door of the house opened with its usual creak, he bristled, but didn’t turn around to look. There was no shuffling of a walker, no feet being dragged along the widened surface, and no torrent of abuse. It was Rosie.

His heart tightened.

“William?”

He leant forwards, pushing the swing back with his strong legs. That creaked too in the cold as its metal hinges rubbed against each other, but he ignored that, favouring sitting forwards with his head in his hands.

The swing rocked when Rosie sat beside him, and her fingers were gentle as they lay on his back. “Are you okay?” she asked in words that were calm, not full of hate and accusation like he expected from her.

“I’m …” He was about to say sorry. The apology was there in his mouth ready to form and come out, but he wasn’t sorry. Sorry would mean he’d not have been at the bridge. Sorry would mean maybe a woman whose heart was broken would be dead now. She’d have jumped. He wasn’t sorry for saving a life. “I didn’t mean to be so long,” he said instead, because he was sorry to have made Rosie worry.

“As long as you’re okay, it’s fine. I was getting worried. I called you, but it went straight to voicemail.”

He sat up straighter and dared to look at her. She was wearing his jumper, and for whatever reason, he liked it on her. Or maybe it was that he liked her. He liked the way her hair was pulled back and plopped onto her head in a mess that made her look more striking to him. He reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair away from her face. Her eyes were ringed red. “I didn’t mean to make you worry. I just needed to get out of the house.”

“I know. Next time, text me something, just to let me know you’re okay?”

“Hopefully there won’t be a next time.”

Bright eyes starting up at him. “But if there is.”

“Okay.” He took a breath and gazed out into the garden. It was becoming something of a project for them, but autumn and nature were grasping at it, trying to claim it back. He could see already where the vines had snuck their way back into the garden, and where the buds would be for next year. At least they produced berries that could be eaten. Not all things in nature were a pain to deal with. “Has my mother been okay? Does she need breakfast?”

“No. I took her tea and toast. If she’s eaten it, that’s another thing.”

“Well, if she hasn’t, she’s going hungry.” He rested his hand on her leg and she shivered. He assumed from the cold rather than his touch and took it to mean that because she grabbed his hand. “Do you ever think you deserve a real man? One who isn’t as fucked up as me? One who can be strong for you? It must be awful for you to have someone who doesn’t measure up.”

“William …”

“I’m serious. I’m the guy. I’m meant to protect you. I’m meant to be the one cleaning the kitchen when you have a meltdown. Not the other way around.”

“Says who?” she asked, sounding almost mad with it. “Who says I can’t be the strong one?”

Her admittance that she agreed made his skin itch. “I don’t know. People. Evolution. The anti-feminist movement.”

She moved closer to him, resting her thigh against his. “I love you, William.”

“But you think I’m weak?”

“No.”

“You think I’m not like other men?”

“I like that you’re not like other men.”

Her expression began to darken as she watched him, and he set his lips in a firm line.

“I’ve had other men. Men who think they’re men. It is because of men,” she said the word men and then did air quotes with it, “that I moved to England. Do you want to be like them? Do you want to be like my dad? Your dad? Are they men?”

No. His father was a drunk. He was weak, but a different kind of weak. Weak for the bottle and weak for his women. But he was a man. He was strong in other ways. “Mark is a man. Perhaps you prefer someone like that?”

“I prefer you. I’d rather have a man who cares for me and is seen as weak, than a man who thinks it’s great to treat a woman like a slave, like his little trophy and not give a damn about how I feel. Is that how you’d like to be?”

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