Page 40 of A Manny for Christmas

Nor do I have the privilege anymore of taking my caregiving duties any further than a simple facial rub. This week, I’ve run her a bath every evening and left her to it. No bathing her. No wrapping a towel around her body, or holding her close in bed in a futile attempt to ease her pain. The door has shut firmly on that aspect of our relationship.

But, honestly, it felt good to blurt out that combing my fingers through that fucking hair of hers had made me hard. As had running my hands over the incredible, oiled-up contours of her beautiful face. Relearning her bone structure. Feeling the knots in her neck and shoulders unravel under my touch.

Apolite strangerwould have tried to grab a cushion while her eyes were shut and get the hell out of that room before she noticed. But what’s the point in pussyfooting around the truth? I don’t want to make her uncomfortable in her own home, obviously. Just as I don’t want to be a total sleaze bag when she’s suffering and merely looking for relief from her pain.

But it can’t come as a surprise to either of us, surely, that there’s still a physical attraction between us. That was a key part of our relationship, right till the end. Right till she took that agonising decision to walk away from something that was ninety-five percent fucking miraculous in the present to honour her own desires for her future.

So sue if me I got a boner the first time I properly touched the woman who still holds the position of being the love of my life. A woman whose beauty has only ripened with age, if that’s possible. And whose hair—hair I have fucking itched to get my hands on since I turned up on her doorstep—was settled in my groin like a pile of golden silk.

I don’t seem to have offended her. If anything, she’s got the same memo as me: that we know each other way too fucking well to be tiptoeing around each other with excruciating politeness. As she’s shaken off her sinus infection, she’s got more casually physical with me. Nudging me out of the way with her hip. Prying my mug out of my hands so she can refill it for me. Allowing me to give her a thirty-second shoulder rub while standing by the AGA when she got home from work yesterday. She even booped me on the nose with the tail end of her plait this morning as she thanked me for de-icing her windscreen again.

I’ll take it.

On a superficial level, I’ll take anything that means we can co-exist under the same roof for the next few weeks without things being awkward as fuck between us. It makes life more pleasant for all four of us.

But on a more profound level, a level I’m not sure I’m comfortable analysing too fully at this point, being like this with her makes me happy. Being intimate. Relaxed. Touchy-feely. We’re back in each other’s lives in the most unexpected way—a way I definitely didn’t see coming when she walked out, all those years ago—and I’m grateful.

I just wish this increased closeness wasn’t making me feel certain things.

Want certain things.

Think about certain things far too much.

Like stepping up behind her when she’s cooking at the AGA and dropping featherlight kisses to the nape of her neck.

Or pulling her down on the sofa to watch TV in my arms.

Or following her shapely backside upstairs when she goes off to bed at night with just a mug of herbal tea to keep her warm.

I’ve been telling myself it’s only natural. Last time we lived under the same roof we were fucking insatiable. She gave me free rein over her body, and I returned the favour. No wonder that most primal part of me, my dick, is confused when I fail to turn washing up into a make-out session. When I bid her goodnight and head up the kitchen stairs to my own lonely room instead of following her hungrily.

My dick’s not the only body part playing close attention. I have to admit, watching her with Toby and Daisy transfixes me. She’s a wonderful mum, like I knew she would be, and I ache with a physical pain when I consider that she’s doing it all alone. The good bits and the bad bits. The cuddles and the processing. Seems to me that so much of parenting is logistics and manual labour and running to stand still that it would be easy to lose yourself in that shit and not have much time or energy left for the good bits.

But Molly is doing a brilliant job of mothering and fathering these two.

I’m watching closely. I notice the little things. Like how she puts a smile on her face when one of them calls her, no matter how exhausted she is. Or how she squats down to their level and really listens when they speak to her. Or how, when they ask her for something, she doesn’t just come out with a knee-jerkno, but considers and explains her reasoning before letting them down gently.

I don’t know a thing about parenting, but I understand two things from my short stay here.

It’s utterly exhausting, especially when you’re doing it on your own.

And Molly’s really fucking good at it.

I got a chance to talk to her last night about Toby’s issues at school. I didn’t want to bother her about it when she was ill, though I’ve been checking in with him each morning. From what he’s told me, this Tristan kid has managed to keep his hands to himself this week. Still. I want eyes on that little fucker every day.

‘Toby’s getting a hard time from some little dick in his class called Tristan,’ I said as we washed up after dinner. ‘He told me you were aware of it.’

She sighed. ‘Yeah. It’s been going on since the start of term—they were in different classes last year, so we didn’t have an issue.’

‘Have you kicked up a fuss? Can they not do something?’

Molly paused her scrubbing and looked up at me. ‘Believe me, it makes me sick to my stomach. I just want to go in and punch him, which is awful.’

I nodded and grabbed the wet colander to dry. I felt like punching the little shit too.

‘But it’s not as straightforward as that,’ she continued. ‘It sounds like Tristan has a tough home life. I think his dad is AWOL, and his mum is pretty young and struggling to cope.’

‘Toby’s dad is AWOL,’ I reminded her. ‘Doesn’t mean he goes around bullying smaller kids and generally being an arsehole.’

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