Page 43 of Friends Who Fake It

“I remember you being there for me. I remember being glad for that. And a little surprised.”

Warmth radiated through her like a wave. She cleared her throat, not letting his ego-stroking. “Why would you have been surprised?”

“We weren’t that close.”

Warmth gave way to something else. Crumbling earth beneath her feet. She looked away sharply and felt only the little girl she sought to protect, always. Alone and afraid, aware that she was being tolerated. That she wanted so much more from the people in her life than they wanted or needed from her.

She couldn’t respond. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that they had a closeness that defied explanation. A sort of connection that didn’t hinge on time spent together or stories shared, but that was ridiculous. Their closeness, as he would see it, came after his father’s death, when Willow had shown herself to be loyal and discreet. Two qualities she knew Francesco valued, almost above any others.

“I always wondered why you put your life on hold to get me through that, if I’m honest.”

She blinked quickly, the question making her mouth dry out. “You were hurting.”

“No,” he shook his head. “That’s not it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t act like I was hurting. I acted—like I was fine.”

“But you weren’t fine.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I recognized what you were feeling. You acted fine, but I saw you as stoic. You had the weight of the world on your shoulders. You were holding it together, but I just knew that behind closed doors, it would crumble apart.”

“How did you know?” he pushed. “How did you see that, and no one else did?”

She appreciated that at least he hadn’t gone all macho and tried to deny it. After all, his father had died. That had to bring with it a world of grief.

“I guess I just recognized the feeling.”

“Because you feel it?”

If he was going to be honest, then she would be, too. “Yes.”

“Losing your mother must have been tough.”

She sipped her prosecco. It was dry and super bubbly, so she savoured the feeling as it travelled through her. “I was very young,” she admitted. “I don’t remember her that well. Just little bits and pieces.”

“Yet you feel it, still.”

Willow expelled a soft breath. “It’s hard to explain,” she murmured.

“Try me.”

When she looked at him, and their eyes met, she felt a rush of emotions that she couldn’t explain. He was looking at her as though understanding how she felt was the most important thing in his life.

“I just…” she tried to find the words, but a streak of compunction held her silent. A feeling that she was being disloyal, when Meredith had probably done her best, made Willow reluctant to say what she truly felt.

“Tell me,” he said, gentle but insistent, and beneath the table, his hand curved over her knee. Sparks fizzed through her entire central nervous system.

“I guess, we have this idea in our minds of what a mum is meant to be like,” she said. “From movies, books, TV. It’s something I’ve always…dreamed of. That closeness.”

“And you wanted it from Meredith?”

“I don’t know if I ever consciously wanted it,” she said, then shook her head, because that wasn’t accurate. “I mean, I wanted her to love me, for us to be close. Genuinely close, like a mother and daughter. Not to replace my mum, but just to…”

“Love you like her own daughter.”

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