The Things We Need to Say: An emotional, uplifting story of hope from bestselling author Rachel Burton
to feel something, anything. She hadn’t been sure she would be able to and, as it turned out, it was months before she truly started to feel anything again, but she wanted to try before the gulf that had opened between them became too wide to traverse.
He had carried her upstairs that night. It was the first time they had gone to bed at the same time since the previous summer, and while she wasn’t able to feel the things she used to be able to feel, at least her husband had been there with her.
But later, even later, when he thought she had fallen asleep, she had felt his arm slip out from underneath her, felt the mattress lift as he got out of bed. She had heard him slip back into his clothes and pad across the bedroom and down the stairs. She had heard the door of his study open and close and she knew she had lost him again, to his thoughts and to his sadness.
She had wondered if anything would ever be the same. They had kept trying, from that night onwards, to find a new sort of normal, but he had nearly always come to bed after her, always woken long before her, neither of them able to sleep more than a couple of hours at a time.
Until now. Now she understood that, deep down, under all the pressure and the pain, they were still just Will and Fran. They could still find happiness again. Now she began to understand how much he had been through as well.
The bathwater is starting to cool and she needs to finish her packing before Will gets back so they can spend the evening together. She pulls herself out of the water, wraps herself in one of the big, soft white towels, and walks across the landing to the bedroom.
It is then that she notices Will’s phone on his nightstand. It isn’t like him to leave his phone behind. She notices the light flashing, signalling a message, and for a moment she feels something shift – as though the atmospheric pressure has changed slightly.
If somebody had asked her, afterwards, why she did it she wouldn’t have been able to tell them. All she remembers is walking over to the nightstand, still wrapped in the soft white towel, and picking up Will’s phone, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. She’d never looked at his phone before, never checked his messages or emails, never answered a call. But that afternoon she is pulled towards the flashing light on the phone and she will never be able to explain why.
Later, looking back at this moment, she would wonder if she’d made the right choice. But sometimes life isn’t about choices. Some things are just meant to be.
Will has never been secretive about his phone or his laptop. He leaves his emails open in the kitchen all the time and everyone knows his PIN to everything is his birthday. He is just arrogant enough to believe that nobody will ever try to hack him.
Fran walks over to the nightstand and picks up the phone, tapping in 310170. She will remember the touch of her fingers on the phone screen for a long time afterwards. Almost immediately she wishes she had never looked.
I miss you so much, Will. I wish we could be together again like we used to be – just one last time. You know where I am. Kx
The number isn’t saved to his phone, and there are no other texts or calls to or from it. It is almost as if Will had gone out of his way to make sure they were all deleted. Fran knows exactly who ‘K’ is anyway.
She turns the text message back to unread, locks the phone, and returns it to the nightstand. It isn’t until then that she feels it: the sensation of the world tilting on its axis. Nothing will ever be the same again.
She thinks about Karen Barden, a woman who works in the village pub. Someone she barely knows. Fran had seen her flirt with Will sometimes; she’d seen Will flirt back. She hadn’t thought much about it. She’d had bigger things on her mind. She’d barely thought about Karen Barden at all until now.
She unwraps the towel from around herself, hanging it over the back of the door to dry, and slowly dresses. Then, carefully and methodically, she begins to work her way through her list, packing everything she needs for Spain.
One of the things that she has always loved about yoga is the way it has helped her to be aware of the present moment, to focus her mind on the task at hand. The reason she’d taken it up all those years ago, long before she’d even considered teaching, was to help her stress levels at university. Now, in her bedroom, the bedroom she shares with her husband who she suddenly feels she doesn’t know any more, she takes some deep breaths and focuses.
Inhale. Exhale.
Will has already brought her suitcase down from the attic for her, leaving it open on the bed. She feels the shudder of tears in her throat. The little thoughtful gestures, the things he does without having to be asked. She always thought he was perfect, even though she knows there’s no such thing as perfect.
Inhale. Exhale.
She slowly folds and rolls her clothes, feeling the texture of the fabric beneath her fingers. Yoga clothes, sundresses, bikinis, sarongs, shorts, vests.
Inhale. Exhale.
She notices the familiar smell of the fabric conditioner that she’s used for years, the one her mother used. She squeezes socks and underwear and sandals into stray corners of the suitcase.
Inhale. Exhale.
She remembers all the conversations she and Will have had about this retreat over the last few months – about whether or not she should do it. He constantly encouraged her, ignited that flame of excitement and adventure inside her that has helped her to feel alive again, told her how strong she is. Now she wonders if he wanted her out of the way.
Now she needs that strength more than ever.
Inhale. Exhale.
She picks up the small plush Piglet that sits by the side of her bed. She presses it to her face, the toy that will always remind her of everything she and Will have been through. Almost as an afterthought she puts it in her suitcase too. It feels as though she is leaving for longer than a week.
She pushes the suitcase lid down with the weight of her upper body and slides the zip around. Then she sits at the bottom of the bed and waits for her husband to come home.
For months after Mum died, I missed her so much. We’d spoken on the phone three or four times a week after I moved to London and to not have those conversations any more left me empty. I didn’t really know anyone in Cambridge then and, after Mum, I found myself living a quiet, isolated life. I went to work, I went to yoga, I watched TV, I read, I went to bed. And then the next day I would do it all over again. The days seemed endless, pointless, always seeming to require too much effort – as though I was walking through jam.
Until Will came along.
The first time Will stepped inside my house was a Sunday morning in February. It was one of those days when the sky is the colour of slate and the air completely still. One of those days when it’s bone-achingly cold. A typical East Anglian winter. Will turned up on my doorstep with champagne and eggs to cook me brunch. I hadn’t invited him.
He looked out of place in my tiny house – too big for the rooms – but he brought life and happiness and laughter to walls that hadn’t known anything but my sadness since I’d moved in.
Will had been slowly bringing me out of my shell. I don’t think he knew it at the time, but he was helping me rediscover who I was. I’d always thought of myself as somebody who wanted a big life, who wanted to travel, to drink champagne, to fall in love. Until I met Will I’d never even left the country. He brought me out of my chrysalis, let me spread my wings. He transformed me.
After we’d eaten the eggs and drunk the champagne he cleared the dishes. I sat on the kitchen counter and watched him as he slowly dried his hands, not taking his eyes off me. He was looking at me in that way that made me feel as though I was the only person in the world. And then he walked over to me and kissed me.
It wasn’t our first kiss. That had been in his car the previous Wednesday. Since the Christmas party we’d