Page 135 of Unspoken Words
Max’s inquisitive eyes found the paper bag in my hand, and he pointed to it. “What’s dat?”
“Come here and I’ll show you,” I said, indicating Connor put him down.
Dropping to one knee to be at the same height as Max, I went to open the bag to show him but shut it instead. “There’s just one problem … you can’t wear one with your plaster on.” I shrugged. “It won’t work.”
He pouted.
“Wanna know what it is?”
Max nodded and helped me open the bag.
“It’s a super cool Iron Man tattoo for your arm.”
He pulled the sheet of tattoos out and held it up. “WOW! Look, Daddy, Iron Man.”
Connor’s smile went from one ear to the other, his dimples as big as freakin’ fruit bowls. “WHOA! Can I have one too?”
I nodded, extra enthusiastic. “Yeah, we all can. But they only stick on your skin. That’s why you need to have your cast taken off.”
Max held out his arm, the one without plaster. “This one.”
“No.” I laughed. “This one.”
I held up his other arm and drawn in texta all over the plaster were many ampersands of various sizes. My heart skipped a beat, and I looked up at Connor, his misty eyes a storm of many unspoken words: love, regret, why, maybe … one day. I could read them as clearly as the lyrics to his songs.
He took my hand in his, helped me to my feet, and traced over the heart on my wrist. “There’s always an And, Ellie.”
Every nerve ending in my body sparked to life, my fingers trembling, my knees weak. “I know, but just … not yet.”
Something sparked in his eyes. “Yet?”
I pulled my hand free and stepped closer to the front door. “Are you both coming?”
I was about to continue walking when I felt a tiny hand slide into mine. I looked down, and Max smiled up at me. My entire body heated, a sense of immense fondness fizzling my cheeks. And in that moment, I knew this boy was a thief like his dad, stealing a piece of my heart I’d never get back.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ellie
In the weeks that followed, I flicked on a professional switch and directed all of my energy to the album, successfully completing my part in its production, which meant a lot of time spent with Connor. It was both delightful and awful—strictly business—although the moments when we were in the studio, him seated on a stool, guitar in hands, his voice awash with emotion as he sang of wanting what he couldn’t have, those moments weren’t professional at all. They were real—his unspoken words to me and mine to him. They were everything.
They’d also cemented what I knew I had to do—go home, back to Darwin, and sort everything out. I’d avoided it long enough and couldn’t endure another day pretending I had nothing waiting for me to face.
“You’re leaving?” Connor asked, his voice curt.
We were standing in his living room, his towering silhouette by the window as he stared into the backyard.
“Yes, the songs are finished. You don’t need me anymore.”
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes full of steam. “I’ll always need you.”
I sighed and took a step closer. “I need to go home and sort things out. I can’t put it off any longer.”
He turned to face me and hung his head. “I knew this day would come. Again.”
“Again?”
“You leaving me. I just didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to believe that you’d stay with me this time, that we’d pick up from where we left off.”
