Page 46 of Into These Eyes

Stupid, pig-headed man. Well, we’ll see about that. “I want you to accompany me to the Christmas dinner for work.”

“Not inter—” His eyes flash with realisation, then soften. “Sorry … what was that?”

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself grinning. I’ve got him. “The firm puts on a lavish dinner for employees and their partners for Christmas. I’ve always gone alone. I’d very much like to not go by myself this year.”

His searching eyes gaze into mine as he shuffles on his feet and scratches the back of his head. “Yeah, ah … I’d love that.”

This time, I don’t hide my smile. “And you have a suit to wear?”

He lets out a huff, the quirk of his lips telling me he knows he’s fallen into my trap. “No.”

“So, it’s agreed. We’re going shopping on the weekend.”

The following week, as we finish dinner, Gavin swivels away from the breakfast bar and faces the bare dining table. “Not doing any work tonight?”

“It’s the first day in court tomorrow. Big case. I’ve prepped all I can, so I’m taking the night off.”

Rising, I take our empty plates into the kitchen.

Gavin follows, opening the dishwasher, waiting for me to hand him the dishes after I rinse them at the sink.

A little routine that’s developed over the last week.

At first, he wouldn’t let me help, but he’s relented.

Possibly because of the deep conversations we get into while we clean up.

If I happen to get home early enough to catch Benny still here on the days he helps Gavin, we convince him to stay for dinner.

Already I’ve grown so fond of him, it’s hard to believe he was in prison for so long.

I just hate watching him leave. It’s okay for us, we’ve got each other, but Benny has to go home alone to that same sad situation Gavin came from.

“You don’t mind working such long hours?” Gavin asks.

Handing him the last of the dishes, I shrug. “I’ve been doing it so long, I guess I’m used to it.”

“And what’s your end goal? To make partner?”

As he wanders over to the breakfast bar with a damp cloth, I shake my head. “That’s not likely to happen in such a big firm. But I have been considering what I want lately. And I don’t think it’s being constantly exposed to so much evil in the world.”

He stops wiping down the counter, his full attention on me. “Then don’t.”

If only it were that simple. “I just feel that … if I quit, I’ll be abandoning the people who need help.”

“You deserve to be happy, Jamie.” He walks back to me at the sink and rinses the cloth. “You’ve put in a lot of years helping others. Maybe it’s time to help yourself, to do what you want. Have you imagined what that might look like?”

It’s the strangest thing, having someone ask what I want for myself. I don’t think anyone’s bothered before. So, for the first time, I put what I want into words.

“What I want is my own practice. Not criminal law. Something people need that doesn’t involve dealing with the ugly side of human nature. I’m not sure what yet, but to be my own boss, to be in control of how much work I take on and what that work is … that’s the end goal.”

His eyes hold mine and I know he’s thinking about what I’ve said. He listens .

“I can see that. You like being in control.”

I nod. “I’ve had enough chaos in my personal life. Control at work keeps me … grounded.”

“I get it. I’ve barely had any control over my life. Even when I was getting my degree, I knew it was pointless. I should’ve concentrated on a trade instead.”

I move a little closer and gently rest my hand on his forearm.

Stop touching him.

I don’t.

“No. You’re too smart, too intelligent in here,” I place my palm in the centre of his chest. “You didn’t make the wrong decision. You’ll be using that degree before you know it. And you do have control. You’re here instead of that caravan. You controlled that.”

He glances at my hand resting on his chest, then into my eyes. “That decision could only be made because of you. For me, being in control means making my own way, a career, a car, a place of my own.”

My heart constricts. Of course he wants his independence. That’s his end goal. And I desperately want that for him. That’s what I’m fighting for. To free him from the shackles my father ensnared him in.

But as images of coming home to an empty house, of eating alone, of not feeling his eyes on me, burst into my mind, I’m hit with the realisation that what I want for him, will mean losing what I want for myself.

His presence has added a richness to my life I hadn’t known was missing. The more time I spend with him, the more attached I grow. I don’t want it to end.

Plastering on a smile, I reluctantly remove my hand from that beating life inside his chest. Pushing down a feeling I can’t quite grasp, I say, “The day will come when you have all of those things.” He tilts his head slightly, like he’s seeing straight through me.

“One thing I do have control over is the ability to endure. No matter how long it takes.”

“I don’t know how you did it,” I murmur. “You’re so strong, Gavin. I couldn't have … I don't think I could have survived. At least, not the way you have.”

“I’m sure you would have. I’m nobody special.”

Yes, you are. You’re special to me.

I keep my mouth shut and swallow over the lump in my throat.

He might only be in my house because of that threatening note, but that’s not why I want him here anymore. Sure, he makes me feel safe, secure and comfortable. It’s the other things he makes me feel that have me wanting to get closer to him, to know him on a deeper level. Intimately. In every way.

“So, why haven’t you started your own practice already?” he asks, startling me out of my head.

“Oh, I … ah … The timing’s never been right.”

“Are you waiting for that moment when life stands still?”

I blink at him. “I’m waiting for that moment when I’m not drowning in responsibilities.”

Concern clouds his eyes. “I hope I’m not one of them.”

“God no.” That’s the last thing I want him to believe. “You … you make me feel like I can breathe again.”

As our eyes hold, a new energy shifts between us.

“That’s some compliment,” he murmurs.

My face heats as every hair follicle on my scalp prickles.

The moment’s so intense, I glance away, my gaze falling on the oven clock. It’s far too early to go to bed. He’ll know I’m running away. And I don’t want to run anywhere. What I want, is to spend more time with him.

“Do you, ah … want to watch something on TV?” I ask.

Half an hour later, we’re sitting on the couch, tears streaming down our faces, stomachs aching, as an old Frasier episode comes to an end.

Swiping at his eyes, he turns to me. “You have any photos or home movies? I’d love to see what you were like as a kid.”

I smile. I haven’t looked at them since Mum’s death. I’ve been too afraid that the filter I’ll see her through will destroy the memories in my head. But the idea of revisiting those images with Gavin at my side sends that fear fluttering away.

After retrieving my tablet, I sit next to him, and as it powers up, I try to remember Anika’s instructions on how to cast the screen to the TV. Before I get the chance, Gavin rests an arm over the back of the couch behind me, his eyes fixed on the tablet.

Well, maybe I can’t remember how to do that casting thingy. Unlike the TV, the tablet demands we sit close. Sliding over a little, I position myself so we’re almost touching.

“You’re so lucky to have all of this,” he says. “We had videos and photos, too. But for me, they’re gone. I’d love to see Mum again. She’s faded away so much.”

My heart creaks on its axis, straining toward him with empathy. Although I haven’t looked at these in so long, I’ve always known they’re here, waiting. It’s one thing to avoid them, but knowing they were gone forever would be gut-wrenching.

“Your father … wouldn’t he have them?”

With his gaze fixed on the tablet screen, he shrugs. “Whether he does or doesn’t, I’ll never know.”

Tension radiates off him and even though he refuses to look at me, I see a hard veneer glaze over his eyes. His father’s abandonment hurts him deeply.

“Will you ever forgive him?” I ask gently.

He taps the tablet screen. “Come on, I’m dying to see how cute you were as a kid.”

Unlike everything else he’s happy to talk through, his father is clearly off limits. So, I don’t push it. But I won’t forget about it either.

I tap on the first thumbnail, then pause it before it plays. “There’s a lot of footage. Just tell me when you get bored.”

He grins down at me, warmth flooding back into his eyes. “Settle in. Could be a late night.”

I let out an amused scoff and play the video of me, as a newborn, in Mum’s arms. It’s then I realise that resting the tablet on my lap doesn’t allow Gavin the best view.

“Here,” he says, taking hold of the side closest to him and moving it on his thigh where we can both see it better. “Well, there’s no need to ask if this is your mum. She’s beautiful. Or maybe it’s that ugly little scrunched up thing she’s holding that’s making her look so attractive.”

“Hey!” I jab him in the side with my elbow.

He chuckles, his hand suddenly on my shoulder, squeezing gently before disappearing to the back of the couch again.

Over the next few hours, we watch, with Gavin pausing the footage frequently to ask questions.

He can’t get over how much I look like Mum, and how beautiful she was.

When Mum’s laughter bubbles from the speakers, I gasp.

It’s been so long since I’ve heard it, it’s almost like her ghost is whispering in my ear, reminding me of the loving, happy mother I lost.

I only wish I could reconcile that woman with the one who cheated on my father.