Page 18

Sophie

You can do this – for Bernard . He needs the money and so do you.

The reunion will be like ripping off a plaster – painful, but over soon.

I’ll pretend I need to leave in twenty minutes to see another client.

I inhale deeply and walk towards the café.

Staring through the window, I’m distracted by two large, promising-looking carrot cakes in the glass stands on the counter.

Adam was right – this looks exactly like my kind of place, but that can’t be why he’s picked it.

I doubt he remembers my obsession with finding the perfect proportion of spicy, light sponge and cream cheese frosting.

I drag my gaze away and scan the bright interior; it’s almost empty.

A small, freckled girl with auburn hair in bunches is sitting alone at a table, drawing with coloured pencils, and an elderly couple are chatting and sipping from large mugs.

My gaze is drawn back to the child – she’s wearing a cobalt-blue T-shirt and an oversized orange cardigan, sleeves pushed up, revealing a bandaged right hand.

I’ve made it before Adam and have time to buy myself a drink and a slice of cake. I’m about to walk in when my phone buzzes in my handbag. I fumble for it quickly. There haven’t been any more nasty messages via my website, but I’ve been on edge all week. Thankfully, it’s only a text from Bernard.

Hope it goes well. Say hello to Adam and his panda from me! B x

When I glance up, a tall, good-looking guy with gold-rimmed glasses and tousled light-brown hair has appeared at the back of the café. The sleeves of his blue shirt are rolled up, revealing tanned, muscular arms. My heart races.

Adam.

I reel backwards, blood rushing to my head.

His number drills into my forehead, taking my breath away.

I steady myself against the doorframe and blink repeatedly, but his digit remains the same.

How is this possible? Adam is young – twenty-eight, like me.

He looks ridiculously handsome, and not seriously ill. Which means...

Bile rises in my throat. Oh God. I wish I’d never let Bernard talk me into coming.

I could have carried on with my life without ever knowing this agonising truth.

I want to flee before Adam spots me, but I’m unable to move.

I can’t tear my gaze away as he pulls out the phone from his pocket and answers a call.

He was eighteen the last time I saw him and still a boy.

He was gorgeous, kind and brilliant at everything – apart from surfing.

If I walked into a crowded room and saw him, everyone else melted away as butterflies danced across my stomach.

It felt as though time was suspended and it was just the two of us.

He’s having a similar effect on me now, except I want to cry.

I take in his easy grin, the small mark on the side of his nose and the contours of his face, which I used to know and love, reacquainting myself with him.

Adam’s frame is more muscular, his jaw fuller, and his hair is slightly lighter, but I notice it still curls up at the ends.

I remember raking my hands through it when we kissed deeply.

I gulp as my stomach rolls. My gaze travels across his face.

He has days-old stubble and dark shadows beneath his eyes –maybe he’s become a bad sleeper, like me.

The glasses suit him. Back then, he wore contact lenses because he didn’t want to look like a ‘ten A*s boy’.

Adam must have come straight from work –he’s wearing smart tan trousers, but in my memory he’s forever frozen in time as a boy in shorts, T-shirts and scruffy trainers.

Tears sting my eyes. This detail – which is tiny and silly in the grand scale of things – is extraordinarily painful.

I’ve missed Adam’s transformation into the man he’s become.

Someone else has filled in all those gaps, watching as he matured over the years.

Will they be at his side, holding his hand, when he takes his last breath? Will they comfort him if he’s in pain and say it’s okay to let go?

Adam puts the phone in his pocket and strides towards the tables.

A lopsided smile lights up his face. For a second, my heart leaps because I think he’s spotted me.

But he’s noticed the solemn little girl.

Her pigtails quiver as she scribbles. I expect him to veer away, but he walks over to her table, picks up the cookie from her plate and takes a bite.

What the hell? Her mum or dad will go ballistic!

She scowls at him but doesn’t cry out to a parent for help. Adam attempts to see her picture, but she protectively curves her arm, shielding it. He ruffles her hair affectionately and sits down opposite her. She pats it down, glaring fiercely, and continues drawing.

My stomach drops, fairground-style. Oh God. I see the resemblance – she shares the same wrinkled brow and look of determination in her eyes he had whenever he stared at mock maths papers. Their face and eye shape are identical.

I fumble for the sunglasses in my handbag and drop the case, almost losing my balance as I bend to pick it up. My hand’s shaking as I focus on snapping open the box, keeping my gaze firmly fixed on anything, anyone , but Adam.

It doesn’t make any difference where I look. I can’t stop seeing his digit; can’t block out its tragic significance.

It sears through my heart, sharper than a dagger, and causes far deeper damage than any serrated edge.

Adam is a dad and has 24 days left to live.