The Things We Need to Say: An emotional, uplifting story of hope from bestselling author Rachel Burton
thinks about what Fran had said before he left the house, about wanting to start again. He has wanted their marriage to work all along – even when he was sleeping with someone else it had never been with the intention of leaving Fran. He thought he’d lost everything. He never thought he’d hear Fran say she wanted to try again.
Initially he’d thought she was talking about something else, and he said he wasn’t ready. He wasn’t, and he was certain Fran wasn’t either. But it doesn’t mean they can’t talk about it. They’re not too old to try again. Not quite. Not yet.
But if they are going to try again, they have to build it on honesty and it has to start with him. He has to tell her the truth as soon as she gets back from Spain. He has to let her have Spain first; he has to let her see how strong he already knows she is. He knows that leading this retreat is going to help her so much and the strength she gains from it will help her make whatever decision she needs to make.
Because, whether he likes it or not, that decision has to come from her.
Will slows to a walking pace as he passes the row of cottages at the station end of the village. The station itself has been closed for years but the trains between Cambridge and Newmarket rattle past the back gardens of the cottages once an hour, making these houses less sought after, cheaper, mostly let to tenants who come and go. He comes to a stop outside the house at the end of the terrace. There is something he has to do.
*
He stands outside the door of Karen’s cottage remembering the first time he came here on that cold, wet October evening, soaked to the bone and distraught. He remembers how the candles in the jack-o’-lanterns had all gone out in the rain, how there were only a few straggling teenagers still out trick or treating. He remembers how nobody came to their house that night for treats, knowing better of it, knowing that Fran still needed to be left alone.
He remembers how he’d walked out on Fran, shouting at her when she was at her most vulnerable, slamming the door so hard as he left that he thought the glass panels would shatter.
If he could live through that night again, would he do things differently? Do we ever have a choice?
He knocks on the door remembering the last time he was here on Christmas Eve. He remembers how cold it was and how he thought his heart was never going to mend. After Karen had let him in he sat on the bottom of her stairs and wept like a child. And when he’d cried every last tear out of his body, he had told her it was over, that he had to try to make his marriage work, that the thought of being without Fran was more than he could bear. Karen had nodded and he’d walked up to her, stroking her cheek with the pad of his thumb.
‘I never meant to hurt you,’ he’d said. As though anybody could ever have come out of any of this without being hurt.
And here he is again, knocking on Karen’s door one last time.
‘Will,’ she says, surprise in her eyes, and something else. Hope, maybe?
‘Karen,’ he replies. He tries to remain as distant as he can.
‘I’m sorry about last night,’ she says, the hope in her eyes flickering for a moment before disappearing. ‘Sometimes I just get so lonely, especially when the kids aren’t here.’
Will sighs. He knows all about loneliness and the crazy things it can make you do. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘But you know I’m not the person who can help you. I should never have let you believe I was. I’m—’
‘You’re sorry,’ she interrupts. ‘I know. We’re all sorry.’ She looks away from him. ‘I sent a text,’ she goes on. ‘I know I shouldn’t have. It’s the last one – I promise.’
‘I’m going to tell Fran,’ he says.
‘About us?’
Will nods. ‘She’s away next week, teaching in Spain. But as soon as she’s back I’m going to tell her.’
‘I thought you never wanted her to know.’
‘She deserves to know. And you deserve to know that I’m going to tell her.’
‘Is that really the reason?’ Karen asks. ‘Or is this some sort of big act of contrition. Do you think telling her is going to appease your guilt or something?’
‘I don’t think anything will ever appease this guilt,’ he replies quietly. ‘But I have to do it for our marriage.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘For everything we’ve been through.’
Karen looks at him then, a flash of understanding crossing her face.
‘I can’t imagine how it feels,’ she says. ‘What it must be like to go through that.’
‘I hope you never have to.’
‘What if she leaves?’
‘I don’t know what will happen,’ Will says. ‘But I do know that I have to be honest with her. She’s my wife.’
He feels as though Karen wants to say more, as though she wants to reach out and touch him one last time, but he is already backing away down the path. He raises a hand as he shuts the gate behind him and starts running back up the hill towards his house, his wife, his life.
He wonders how much longer this will be his life.
She is still sitting at the bottom of the bed as he comes into the bedroom.
‘There you are,’ he says, his running shoes in one hand, wiping the sweat from his brow with the other. ‘What are you doing up here?’
‘Just finishing packing,’ Fran replies, trying to smile. She doesn’t know how she is going to do this.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks. She sees the tension in his jaw and knows instinctively that he has a headache and is pretending he doesn’t.
She nods. ‘Just a bit nervous about tomorrow.’ Why is she doing this? Why doesn’t she just come out and ask him?
He walks over to her, bends down, kisses her forehead.
‘You’re going to be just fine,’ he says. ‘I promise.’
Am I, Will? Am I? she thinks.
‘I’m just going to grab a quick shower and then I’ll start dinner – OK?’
She nods again, watching as he lifts her suitcase off the bed and puts it in the corner of the room. She watches as he picks his phone up off the nightstand, unlocks it, and frowns as he checks his messages. He strips off his sweaty clothes and leaves them in a pile on the floor, disappearing into the en-suite. Usually she’d pick them up, put them in the laundry basket. Today she leaves them where they are.
She waits, listening to the water running, the sound of her husband singing softly to himself. She feels a wave of nausea wash through her. She tries to stand up, but she feels as though she is going to faint.
She waits.
Eventually Will comes out of the shower, still humming to himself, his hair damp, the towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He looks so beautiful: her incredible, handsome husband. The man who saved her from her own loneliness all those years ago and taught her how to live again.
But suddenly he isn’t hers any more. Someone else has touched his skin, run their fingers through his hair, felt him against them, inside them. Fran has to blink back tears to stop him seeing how upset she is. He sees her looking at him and comes over to her, sitting on the bed next to her.
‘I love you,’ he says. The smell of his aftershave sends another wave of sadness through her. She doesn’t reply. She doesn’t know what to say.
‘It’s OK to start getting on with our lives, you know,’ he says gently. ‘You don’t have to feel guilty because you’re trying to move on.’