Page 33 of Crossed Paths
Whatever Alex shared with me—about the hurt, the wreckage Darren left behind, the way she rebuilt her life carefully and quietly—it’s hers. And as much as I want Peter to understand, to see how far she’s come, it’s not mine to explain.
I let out a slow breath and try again.
“You know what Darren did to her,” I say, voice low. “How he made her feel like nothing. Like she couldn’t trust her own instincts. It’s only natural she needs time. Longer than most, probably. But she’s still here. She let me in. That means something.”
Peter doesn’t speak right away.
Just watches me.
Like he’s trying to work out if this is some mad joke, or the beginning of something real.
Bernard shifts again, this time nosing at Peter’s hand until he gives in and offers another morsel. It’s a strangely comforting presence—this old dog playing peacekeeper.
Peter finally speaks, voice quieter now. “Just… promise me you’re not taking the mickey.”
I look at him, dead-on. “If you mean that I am trying to prank you, no. Of course not.”
He doesn’t look away.
“And if you mean mess around with Alex,” I continue, “then I swear to everything—I’m not. I’m a hundred percent serious. About her. About us.”
I pause, throat tight.
“She’s not just someone I care about, Pete. She’s my life. She’s my love.”
The words hang there, heavier than I expected.
And then it hits me.
I’ve said it—tohim—before I’ve even toldher.
I open my mouth to say as much, but before I can get the words out, there’s a sound.
A low, unapologeticpffrrrrtfollowed by a moment of stillness. Confusion. A brief, naive hope that maybe it was the wind.
Then the smell hits us.
Fucking hell!
It's like someone cracked open a vat of sulphur and despair. The stench is immediate and unforgiving—ten rotten eggs, a dead badger, and a hint of something that might once have been vegetable matter but now belongs in a cautionary tale.
We both lurch back in unison, faces twisted in horror.
“Bloody hell,” Peter gasps, grabbing the rest of his Scotch Egg and stumbling upright.
I follow suit, scooping up my sandwich and nearly tripping over Bernard, who remains blissfully unbothered, stretched out like a small hairy grenade of purechemical warfare.
We stagger several feet away, eyes watering, barely able to look at each other.
We stare at the dog, then at each other, then back at the dog.
“That came out of him?” I whisper, as if Bernard might detonate again if spoken to too loudly. I should have known when he set off a stink bomb on our first walk, but back then I naively thought it had been a one-time incident.
Peter shakes his head slowly, awe-struck. “That dog needs a different diet.”
A familiar chuckle bubbles up behind us.
Mrs Higgins, cardigan flapping in the breeze, appears at our side. “Oh, I see Bernard’s made himself known,” she says brightly. “He’s toxic, isn’t he?”
