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Back This Woman Save as PDF
Chapters (44)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise For Jodi Ellen Malpas
  3. Dedication
  4. Prologue
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. About Jodi Ellen Malpas
  44. Also by Jodi Ellen Malpas

I look at the pills in my palm, hovering over the sink. Being a father was the best thing that ever happened to me. How it happened wasn’t, but those three years I had with Rosie are the only three years of my life that I’ve been alive. I won’t fuck it up this time. I swear, she’ll never be replaced. Not ever. But I can love like that again. I look over my shoulder. I’m already loving like that again. Yet Ava isn’t guaranteed. I have to ensure she is. I inhale and tip my hand, sending the pills scattering in the bowl, and I run the tap, washing them away, watching each one disappear down the plughole one by one. “God forgive me,” I murmur, discarding the packet in the bin, tugging out the liner and tying it.

Then I stand in the middle of the kitchen, looking around me, searching for the sense I need to take back this craziness.

No sense.

Just more craziness.

Keep her.

I drop my head in my hands, gripping my hair harshly. I’ve officially gone too far. And yet, I know I will go further. As far as I need to. As much as it takes.

I won’t lose her, because despite this craziness, it’s respite too. It’s light where there has only ever been darkness. It’s genuine smiles when there have only ever been false ones.

It’s love when there has only ever been loathing.

This is the beginning of my life.

And there can never be an end.

19

I watched her all night long. Apologized a million times. Tried to convince myself to take back what I’d done. But I can’t. Short of crawling down the plughole and somehow miraculously retrieving those pills, there’s no going back.

I leave Ava in bed and take myself downstairs. My first port of call is the fridge. I grab a jar of Sun-Pat and sit myself on the worktop, taking solace in my vice as I check my phone. Three missed calls. Two from Sarah, one from John. I ignore Sarah, I’m not speaking to her, and call John, holding my phone to my ear by my shoulder so I can continue eating my breakfast.

“You had a visitor late last night,” he says when he answers. “Mike.”

“What did he want?”

“To talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“I don’t think he agrees.”

I look at the jar in my hand, grimacing and screwing the lid back on, my appetite gone. “I’ve made it clear to Coral.” I move my phone to my other ear, sliding down off the counter and putting the jar back in the fridge.

“Perhaps you need to make it clear to Mike.”