Imogen picked the pub we're meeting at, and I almost told her no. While she could argue that the Red Lion is just like every other small pub in England perched on a corner, this one is close to where her parents used to live. First place we ever got served in Upper School and a key piece of our history together. Lots of memories between these walls.

When I step in the door, barley and the faint stench of sweat mingle in the air. Not generally a smell anyone would want to suck deep into their lungs, but it's an assault on my senses—takes me right back to another time. One that feels ages ago, as though all of it happened to someone else.

She's already seated in the back corner with two pints. One is in front of her, and she's drawing pictures in the condensation, and the other is across from her, waiting. I grab the back of my neck, and I take a deep breath. Whatever she's got to say for herself, I can't imagine I won't feel something by the time I leave. Just wish I had a clue what that something was likely to be. At the moment, I'm nervous energy mixed with anger, curiosity, and frustration. Not the best combination for listening.

At the table, I slide into the seat across from her, but I don't touch the beer. There's something about sharing a drink with her, as though we're mates, that doesn't sit right with me. Not sure what we are anymore, but I don't reckon we're at the level of chatting over a pint as though she didn't run out on me and our daughter over a year ago.

"Where's Chloe?" she asks, and when she glances at me, there are dark spots under her eyes that her concealer didn't quite hide.

"Somewhere else." I sit back in my chair and cross my arms.

"With that woman you're seeing? The one you're supposedly nannying for?" She says the word nannying as though it's a joke.

"I don't have to answer to you about how I've chosen to live my life the last year. You left, and I moved on. Seems pretty simple to me."

Tears pool in her brown eyes. "I never cheated on you. I know I let you believe that, but I'd never have done it."

I lean my elbows on the table, and I run my palms down my face, trying to collect my thoughts.

Across from me, her breath hitches on a sob, and I have to fight my instinct to stand up and tug her out of her chair and into my arms. I've never been able to watch any woman cry without offering some sort of comfort, and a cynical part of me wonders if Immy is counting on that. Instead of taking the obvious route, my chair scrapes across the wood floor as I leave to get napkins from the bar.

When I return, Immy is wiping under her eyes, and she takes the stack of napkins with a watery smile. Her beer is gone, which isn't a good sign. She's always been a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Brawling or bawling were common once she was two pints in.

I scooch my chair close to the table again, and I plant my elbows on it while she collects herself. At one time, seeing her so upset would have gutted me.

"I made a lot of mistakes," she whispers.

I steeple my hands over my nose and I just stare at her. Even though I came here to get the truth, part of me doesn't even want to know, doesn't believe that anything she can tell me will change this burning anger inside me. The curiosity and frustration have vanished, and I feel like I've been transported back to those first few weeks. No longer bewildered by her absence and beyond hoping for her to reappear, I let the anger fuel me.

"What happened?" I can barely get the words out.

She swallows, and her fingers pick at a napkin in front of her. "When I found out I was pregnant, I didn't want to tell you. My parents said I had to, but I already knew how you'd feel. You loved kids. I wanted to go visit them and pretend like this didn't have to happen."

My heart drops as my hands hit the table with a thud. "Immy." I can't be interpreting this correctly.

"But I told you, and you were so excited. You and me—together, forever. Except it wasn't going to be just you and me, was it?" She tears a strip off the napkin. "You didn't even ask if I wanted the baby. Assumed that I did."

"You could have told me." Hot and cold are streaking across my chest, and I can't believe how surprised I am that she never wanted Chloe because I'd wondered. Even wondered out loud to Paige, but I've never wanted it to be true.

She shakes her head, and more tears streak down her cheeks. "You'd have never forgiven me." Her voice is thick. "At the time, that seemed worse than anything. But then I had her, and I was just..." She makes eye contact with me, and her chin trembles. "I was drowning. At the antenatal group, one of the other mum's said if I stopped breastfeeding, she could give me something that would make me feel better. She said it was natural but not good for the baby."

The first month, Imogen breastfed Chloe, but by the second month, she'd told me it was too hard, and she was done. I hadn't questioned it. Her body, her choice. Never pushed because I was working long hours on the building site, and we were both sleep deprived. Chloe cried so much and so often back then.

Jesus. I rub my forehead and when I look at Imogen again, she's still crying. A never ending river of tears, and I'm surprised that it's not making me all twisted up inside.

"You took pills from some mum at baby group?"

"I just wanted to feel better, and every time I mentioned how tired I was to you, you shrugged it off. Or how lonely I was. Or any of the other things I said to you that you never listened to."

I sit back in the chair, and I cross my arms, trying to remember whether I did those things. Maybe it doesn't matter if I did or not. That's how she felt. Alone and isolated. Not sure I can recall feeling anything other than really fucking tired. Even after she left and I tried to piece together why she'd have fled, Chloe's first two months were a blur.

"What'd she give you?"

"I didn't ask at first. I didn't care."

"Immy."

"Adderall. She gave me Adderall. And it did help at first, but I knew the minute it wore off, and I never wanted it to wear off."

The way she says it coupled with the expression on her face tells me all I need to know about how much she started to need it. I've seen blokes on job sites with those kinds of habits, and I don't like working with them. Unpredictable, most of them. Few can handle an addiction without the cracks showing.

"I went back to work early so I could pay for the pills."

"Blimey, Immy." I'm tempted to ask her again why she didn't tell me, but whether or not she did, this is where we've landed. Can't go back.

"The day before I left," she says, "I ran out, and I couldn't get in touch with the mum who got them for me. You were working late, and I was in a state. Just..." She puts a hand on her chest and mimics hyperventilating. "Couldn't get a handle on anything. And Chloe was crying, and I—and I—" She shakes her head.

"You what?"

Her chin trembles. "I shook her." Her voice is barely audible. "But my phone rang as I was doing it, and the noise like," she touches her temple, "pulled me back into my body, and I was horrified. Beside meself."

My whole body feels like I've taken a dip in an ice bath. She shook Chloe. Everyone knows you don't shake a baby. You walk away or call for help or a thousand other things, but you don't lay a hand on your baby.

"You never said a word when I got home."

"I couldn't tell you I'd done that."

"No, you just left instead."

"I never thought I'd be gone that long. A bit of space. Chance to get my head on straight. Away from Chloe, I wouldn't need the pills. That's what I thought."

"Didn't turn out that way?"

"No, it didn't."

We stare at each other across the expanse of the table, and I'm not sure what to say or where to go from here.

"Do you think you can ever forgive me?" Imogen asks, and her brown eyes are full of pleading. Something about them reminds me of Chloe, even though I've always thought Chloe has my eyes.

"Don't know," I answer in a gruff voice. "That's not an easy question."

We sit in silence for a beat, but recognizing Chloe in Imogen has softened me a touch. I reckon it shouldn't, but we can't help how we feel.

"You want a relationship with Chloe?" I ask.

"I want a lot of things," Imogen says, and she reaches for my hand, but I slide it out from underneath hers.

Tears pool in her eyes again, and she bites her lip.

"We can figure out some sort of arrangement for Chloe..." I take a deep breath because I'm not sure how we'll react to this next part. "But I reckon you shouldn't be alone with her. With your parents or with me. At least until we're sure." I don't want to say the last part out loud, but it hangs in the air between us. The thing is, I'm not sure if I'm referring to her drug dependency or her shaking Chloe. My priority is to keep Chloe safe, and I can't be worrying about Imogen's feelings while I'm doing that.

"That's alright," she says with a nod. "I'm happy to see her with you."

"Or your parents," I add pointedly. Whatever is best for Chloe is what I'll do, but I don't know what that is yet. I don't want anyone counting on a particular outcome.

After an uncomfortable silence, Imogen tells me she's got her own flat not far from her parents, and she's back working at the salon she left over a year ago. We work out the logistics of her seeing Chloe at her parents house for the next little while, and then I push back my chair, ready to leave.

"Ash," Immy says, rising with me, her hand falling on my forearm.

I stare at her hand on my arm until she removes it, and then I tip my chin in encouragement.

"Never mind," she says. "Another time."

Since I don't want to get into whatever she thinks can be tackled later, I nod and head for the door. As soon as I'm in my car, I hit Paige's number on the dash screen. While I could wait until I'm home, I just need to hear her voice.

"How'd it go?" Paige asks when she picks up, and she sounds breathless.

I start the car and release a deep breath of my own. "It was a lot. Are you free now to chat?"

"If you want to talk now," Paige says, and I can hear the rustle of a blanket in the background—likely on the settee, "the kids just went down for a nap."

"Not sure where to start."

"Start with the thing you're having the hardest time processing, and we'll go from there."

Everything that's been bubbling inside me since I left the house this morning, settles. If there's anyone in the world who can help me make sense of all this, it's Paige.

By the time I turn into the laneway, I've told her everything—every word on my part and Imogen's, and Paige has listened in mostly silence with a few questions for clarification. The weight across my chest doesn't feel quite so heavy.

Before I can open the front door, Paige opens it, and the coolness that's been running through my veins since I entered the pub, warms.

I love her.

The realization hits me with an unexpected force. I've been dancing around naming whatever has been between us for months for fear of getting my hopes set on something that can never be. But after seeing Imogen and coming home to Paige, the reality is stark, and I can't believe I've been so daft. Whether or not I named it, I felt it.

"Are you okay?" Paige asks, and her smile slips. "You've gone pale."

I kick the door shut behind me, and I thread my fingers through her hair, and I press her up against the wall of the front entranceway. Then I kiss her, pouring everything I cannot and will not say from my lips to hers. Telling her I love her is selfish when she's leaving, and there's nothing she can do about it. Her visa is tied to her job, and they either need her longer or they don't.

Love is a pressure neither of us will handle particularly well. If I tell her, she'll realize that leaving will rip my heart out twice—once for her, and a second time for her son. Because I've never been so sure of anything as I am that I'll love them both forever—these months with her have taught me so much about what I want and who I can be.

As though she senses my need, we're shedding clothes, and it's not long before she's in my arms, and I've got her braced against the wall.

"How long have we got?" I murmur against her neck.

"Long enough," she says. "Don't stop."

And so I don't. I take her, there against the wall in the front entrance way, pouring everything I cannot say into each movement, each press of our bodies, and I hope, even if I can't say it, that she understands anyway.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

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