Page 150 of Mistaken Impression

“Yes.”

“For good?”

“Yes.”

“But why?” she asks, sounding doubtful. “I don’t understand, Mac. I thought…”

I’m not sure I want to hear what she thought. That alarm bell is ringing in my head again, so I cut her off before she can elaborate. “Do you remember me telling you about someone I left behind in Boston?”

“Yes. Of course I do.”

“Well…”

“You’re staying for her?” she says, raising her voice, her doubt replaced by anger as she finishes my sentence for me.

“Yes, I am.”

“But what about us?”

That alarm bell is deafening now. “There is no ‘us’.”

“There could be, though, couldn’t there? Please, Mac. I want you back. Why do you think I’ve been making so much effort… spending so much time with you over the last few months?”

“I don’t know. Because we’re friends?”

“Friends? Don’t kid yourself. This was never about friendship.”

“It was for me,” I say and she falls silent. “I told you that was all we could ever be.”

“I know. But I didn’t think you were serious.”

“Then you should have said. I’m not a bloody mind-reader, and you told me you were over me. You called me arrogant for assuming otherwise.”

“You led me on, Mac.”

“No, I didn’t. Whatever you thought was going on between us was only happening in your imagination.” I hear a sniffle… or what sounds like one. “Look, I’m sorry if this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but Ella’s the only woman I’ve ever loved, and I’m staying here to make a life with her. I think it’s best if you don’t call me again. I won’t risk my relationship with Ella… not for anyone.”

I half expect her to start crying in earnest, but after a few seconds, she screams, “I hate you, Mac,” and hangs up.

Well, that was different… and typically melodramatic.

Without giving it a second thought, I go to my contacts list and delete Moira’s number. Then I turn to see Ella, still holding the baby’s clothes, and looking at me, fear etched all over her face.

I pocket my phone and go straight to her, taking the rompers and putting them down, before I pull her into my arms. She’s stiff, untrusting… but I hang on.

“Who was that?” she whispers.

“Moira.”

She leans back and then pushes on my chest, trying to get away, although there’s no way I’m letting her, and eventually she stops struggling and glares up at me. “Moira? As in your ex-girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“Have you and she been…?”

“No, we haven’t. I told you, there’s been no-one since we broke up, and I meant it,” I say and she relaxes, just slightly.

“But you have been seeing her?”

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