Page 127 of Every Silent Lie
“I didn’t ask how big it is, I asked if I could use it.”
“You can use it.”
“Thanks,” he whispers, lowering his lips to my cheek, taking my breath with that chaste peck, before he saunters off.
“Dec,” I call out, stalling him at the door. He looks back. “Thank you.”
“Shut up.” And he disappears, leaving me to make the call to Thomas.
Thomas wasn’t available, so I left a message with Crystal while I ate another slice of cake. Somehow, I don’t think it’s of any consequence to Thomas whether I go to work or not, since he’s apparently selling TF Shipping.
Dec, in the same clothes he turned up in last night—wool blend grey trousers, a navy, thin-knit quarter-zip over a shirt, and his coat and scarf—stands over Mr. Percival’s turkey again, staring at it. “It’s definitely dead,” I say, pulling my hat and gloves on.
“Ha ha,” he drones, taking my hand. “Watch it, there’s an icy patch.”
“Whoa!” My feet slip from beneath me, and I grab Dec’s arm with my spare hand, now clinging to him with both hands.
“What did I just say?”
“Not soon enough,” I mutter, steadying myself. “Christ, it’s cold.” I look up at the sky, no longer blue, but bright white, the clouds packed with snow just waiting to burst out and coat everything beneath in a few more inches.
“Hold on to me,” he orders, like he missed me hanging off his body. “It’s—” His head snaps to the side when a giant snowball cracks him in the temple, exploding and covering us both with slush.
“Oh my,” I breathe, hearing the familiar sounds of cackling kids fading into the distance as they scarper.
His eyes closed, his jaw ticking, his nostrils flaring, Dec gives his head a sharp shake to dislodge the snow in his hair, while I press my lips together, trying my damn hardest not to laugh in his face. “Little buggers,” I murmur, reaching for his shoulders and brushing off the snow.
“Yeah, little buggers.” His words are tight, sardonic, meaning he has a select few other words he’d prefer. I give him a straight-lipped smile when his eyes open, and he rolls his beautiful greys, scanning the vicinity. “Fuckers.”
I lose my battle to hold my laughter back and bury my face in the crook of his neck, if only to hide the sight if I can’t the sound. He leaves me there for a time, his arm wrapped around my waist, pressing me into his side. “Come on,” he murmurs, nudging me out with his chin. “We’re sitting ducks here.” Moving his hold to my hand, he walks us onto the street and looks both ways. “The coast is clear.” Another chuckle erupts, and Dec smiles across at me as we walk, pleased with himself. “I’d take snowballs like they were being fired out of a machine gun if it means I get to hear that sound all day,” he muses, almost to himself.
I hug his arm, resting my head on his bicep, so thankful for this man, especially in this moment. He’s skived work for me. Is trying to keep me busy, make me laugh. “Where are we heading?” I ask, our pace slow and easy, not because of the hazardous conditions, but because slow and easy is how we do things.
“We’re just walking,” he says, gentle and relaxed. “No agenda. Wander, talk, if you feel like it, grab a drink, dip into a few shops if you like.”
I smile into his arm. “Okay.”
* * *
We walk for an hour straight, hardly a word between us spoken, until we end up on the corner of Hyde Park. Dec spots a small shepherd’s hut that’s been converted into a mobile coffee cabin. “Hot chocolate?” he asks, pointing to an A-frame sign propped up outside. “It’s apparently award-winning.”
“Award-winning hot chocolate,” I muse, smelling the coffee beans as we approach. “Sure.”
“Marshmallows?”
“That’s a really fucking dumb thing to ask.”
“I’m going to take that as a resounding yes and never ask you that question ever again.” He raises his brows to the server, who’s casting a smile between us. “Two hot chocolates, one with marshmallows, one without.”
“What?” I ask him on a gasp. “No marshmallows?”
He wrinkles his nose. “Camryn, I’ve eaten enough cake this morning to put Bruce Bogtrotter to shame. I don’t know if my cholesterol levels can take much more.”
I throw my head back on a laugh. “Oh my God, Matilda is our favourite film. I can’t believe a man of your standing knows who Bruce Bogtrotter is.”
Dec stares at me, and all amusement drifts from my face when I realise what I’ve just said. “Yours and Noah’s?” he asks softly.
Oddly, I don’t fold in on myself. I don’t crumble at the realisation that I’ve talked in present tense about my dead son. “Yeah, mine and Noah’s.” The lump in my throat though? That’s there. And it’s okay for it to be there.
