Page 81 of The Interview

We say our goodbyes, and the instant I close the front door, Cam says, “Is Ash okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. Why?”

“She didn’t say a word. Even when I told Marley to wind his neck in, I expected her to say something, but she didn’t say a word.”

I tried to think back over the evening, but so much has happened, I don’t remember whether Ash spoke up or not.

“I… honestly, babe, I’m exhausted. I’m literally running on empty. I’ll talk to her tomorrow, but right now, can we just shower and go to bed?”

“Of course we can,” he says as he pulls me against his broad chest and wraps me in his strong arms.

We stand there for a long moment. Just us. The house, our home, is unusually quiet now, especially after being so full of life, people, and noise these past few days.

“You hear that?” he asks.

“What?”

“The sound of our imperfect fairy tale.”

I step back to look up at him.

“Sean been coming to you in your dreams and giving you lessons in poetry and lyrics?” I ask.

“Has he fuck. I made that one up all by myself.’

“I love it.”

“Enough that it’ll get me anal?”

“Absolutely not. But if you make me a sleepy time tea, you might just get some front door action.”

“I’ll take it. Go get showered. I’m gonna lock up the house, then I’ll bring it up,” he says before he turns me around and smacks my arse.

“Watch out for Maca!” I call out as I head up the stairs.

“He don’t scare me. Bloke wore eyeliner, for fuck’s sake. What’s he gonna do? Draw on me? Sing me a song?” I hear him mumble on his way to the kitchen while I grin all the way up to our bathroom.

I turn on the shower, then connect my phone to the speakers.

“Romeo and Juliet” plays.

“Give me a fucking break.” I look to the ceiling, singing along to the song,thatsong, while I attempt to wash away the day.

I lie in bed staring into the darkness. It’s just gone three in the morning, and after a hot shower, a sleepy time tea, and an orgasm, I crashed out before nine last night. I vaguely recall stirring when the kids arrived home, but

have no idea what time that was. Until a few minutes ago, I’d been sleeping soundly.

Now I’m lying here, with Cam snoring beside me as I stare up at the ceiling with a million and one thoughts churning through my brain. Front and centre of those thoughts is Sean. Namely, his visits to me.

What are they? Are they real? Are they dreams? Something supernatural? My own mental health issues?

They’ve been happening for so long now—almost from the time I lost him—that I’ve never really questioned whether they’re real or not. I’ve just accepted they happen and been grateful for that very brief connection without overthinking it too much. I know, right? A first for me, because I didn’t want it tonotbe real.

But the last time he was here, the things he told me, the conversation we had, then for Lennon and Marley to have the dreams they did after Sean telling me they had big mouths, and he was going to haunt them…

What choice do I have but to accept that my dead husband somehow visits me in my dreams? How else do I explain Sean telling me about him and Carla? And Lennon, the only other person who knew, confirming the story?

I’m not religious, nor particularly spiritual. I’m more practical. But thereis nopractical way to explain this.