George opened his mouth to protest, but Veronica stopped him.

“You are afraid, George. I know it, I see it. You’re afraid of letting me down, you’re afraid of failing, you’re afraid of what it’s all been doing to us, you’re afraid of even talking about it.”

“But you’re not?” said George, part question, part statement, part awe.

“I was. Not anymore.”

Now, George part-laughed, a smile slowly finding its way across him. “I knew you’d be back,” he winked.

“What?”

“There’s the woman I married.” He stretched out his hand over the sushi. “Hi there, nice to see you.”

Now it was Veronica who laughed, wholly. “And the man?” she asked, taking his palm in hers, feeling the warmth of it. “He’s been AWOL too, you know. I’ve missed him.”

“Working on it,” George nodded. “Working on it.”

Their hands hovered over the table top. Despite the muggy air, neither one wanted to let go, savouring the heat of forgotten skin. Eyes locked, they stayed this way. While a breeze slipped through the open window. While their soups grew cold. While the TV blared next door. Until eventually, sincere gazes turned amusing, the physical display of it striking them both at the same time as acutely comical, and in a way they hadn’t done in almost a year, together, they creased into hysterics.

“Maybe this was the reason,” breathed George, when finally they managed to stop. “For the neighbours. Maybe it was the universe’s plan.”

Veronica smiled at him tenderly. “Let’s go away,” she said. “Let’s just be us, somewhere else for a minute.”

“France?” George concurred. “Saint Paul? Colombe d’Or?”

“This weekend,” she nodded. She was unable to stop smiling now, unable to stop smiling at George, and it was only absentmindedly that she noticed it had been hours since Rosie had itched.

Simone

Just like that, he is magnificent again.

It is as though the last of his anger has fallen from fist to wood, and when Terry returns home, it is to kiss Jasmine, and joke around with Dominic, help with dinner, compliment Simone on the cleanliness of the flat and her quick thinking, and then envelop her in a long, meaningful embrace. That night, he pushes the hair away from her shoulders and traces his fingers over the imprints that remain around her neck.

“I’m so sorry, Simone,” he whispers into her cheek, tears daubing her skin. “I didn’t mean it. I love you. You know I love you. I just get so mad trying to protect you. I know I need to sort out my anger. I know it. I won’t do it again.”

He has promised this many times, yet there is part of her that longs to believe him. Still.

“I’m not my father,” he says.

“I know.”

“I’ll sort it out.”

She kisses his head. Simone does not possess the confidence to affirm that yes, he must sort it out, or to suggest he lay off the substances that trigger the worst of it, stop spending his money on that, start investing his self in them. He’s not looking for this. He wants affirmation of his remorse, he needs to be forgiven, absolved.