"There's not much to tell, really," Margaret replied carefully, trying to sound casual.

"Bollocks—"

"Jack met his father," she continued, ignoring her friend's interruption, "and now he's planning to visit him again—"

"Hang on, Meg," Darcy interrupted again. "This is your American we're talking about, yeah?"

"Well," Margaret shifted, uncomfortable. She'd never liked it when Darcy called him that. "He's got a name, Dar."

"When was the last time you used it, then?" They both knew the answer to that. Margaret never talked about him to Darcy or anyone else, except once, at a New Year's Eve party when Jack was seven. She'd had more than her usual single glass of wine, but she always did on New Year's Eve.

"His name is John," Margaret said loudly, acid and steel in her voice. "John Thornton."

The entire room hushed, her Aunt Shaw looking at her with a furious sort of horror. "Margaret Ann—"

"No," Margaret finished her wine. She'd lost count of how many glasses she'd had. Three? Four? Did it even matter? "You're gossiping about him behind my back, you may as well use his bloody name to do it. He deserves that much." She laughed, a harsh uncomfortable sound. "He probably deserves more. Not that he'll get it."

"Dearest," Edith grabbed her elbow. "Come along." She tried to direct her towards the kitchen. "Let's have a coffee."

"I don't want a coffee." Margaret insisted. "I want to be left alone. For once in my life," She turned to Henry, who sat next to Aunt Shaw, his face tight with anger and embarrassment. "Leave us the fuck alone, yeah?"

"We're not talking about me. We're talking about my son spending time with his father in America."

"You're not happy about it."

Margaret sighed, "No."

"Should I say 'told you so,' or is it too soon?"

"I'd rather you didn't, thanks." She shook her head. "I don't know what to do now." It wasn't really a question and she didn't want or expect an answer. They were silent for for a moment.

Then Darcy took a breath, "It's obvious though, innit?"

"What is?"

"Go with Jack to America."

"I—" Margaret almost dropped her mobile, her mouth falling open, "I absolutely will not. Are you mad?"

"It's been sixteen years, love," Darcy retorted. "Do you really hate your American that much?"

"You know I don't want to talk about this."

"Well, it's long past due, Meg, and you would've rung Edith if you wanted someone to bloody lie to you."

"You called me, thanks."

"That's not really the point, is it?"

Margaret opened her mouth to protest but the words stuck in her throat. She didn't realise she was crying until her tears dropped into her lap. "You're wrong," she wiped her cheek with the back of her free hand, still clutching the Polaroid. "I never hated him. Not really."

"Really?" Darcy challenged. "Then why'd you ignore the poor sod for sixteen years?"

"I—I was angry and pregnant and scared and tired of fighting with him all the time. God, I was nineteen, Darcy." She stopped and shook her head. "All I could think about was how I was starting to sound like my mum. I hated myself for it and I hated how bloody hard marriage was. It was so bloody hard."

"But?"

"But some things weren't hard at all. Sometimes he was completely lovely."

"He was a good tumble, was he?"

Margaret shifted, feeling her cheeks flush.

She blinked, surprised she was awake before he was. She turned and smiled a little, oddly pleased with the rare sight of John sleeping. Trying to make him rest, even after being shot, was like trying to hold back the wind. He worked too hard and it always made her feel guilty. She felt a fluttering kick in her belly. He'd taken a bullet for her. He worked tirelessly for her. He did all of it for her. She reached over and laid a hand on his cheek, a warm confusing affection settling over her. Impossible man.

He opened his eyes. She lay there, her hand still on his face, staring back at him. She ran her thumb over his cheek, brushing at the week's worth of whiskers. His eyes were soft with sleep. Something about them—maybe it was the morning light, or maybe it was simply the way he was looking at her—made her lean in and brush a lingering kiss against his lips. The soft kiss quickly morphed into a hungry exchange, desire igniting his eyes from blue to black. Instead of pulling away, as she usually did, she scooted closer, careful not to jostle his left shoulder. His injury made them go slow, reminding her of New Years' Eve, when John had made love to her like they had all the time in the world.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. It was more than just brilliant sex—"

"Oi, I knew it." Darcy interrupted with a satisfied laugh. "Good for you, Meg. American blokes are tops."

"I wouldn't know," Margaret said dryly. "It's not like I run around randomly shagging other men for a control sample."

"You've never had anyone else, have you?"

"Well, I—"

"Oh my God, no wonder you're stuck on that American."

"I'm not stuck, I'm just—" She tucked the phone under her chin, and stood, pulling open her closet. "I've spent so long trying to forget him I'm afraid I might have."

"What d'you mean?"

"I'm not sure what I mean." She pulled down an old shoe box from the back corner and set it on the bed, "I can't remember precisely why I left anymore. At first, I thought it was Eddy's wedding. He didn't want me to go, you know?"

"Vaguely."

"It was so bloody stupid. He was being a stubborn asshole about it and—"

"And you were an equally stubborn bitch."

"Um, rude."

"But true, if I know you, love."

Margaret shoved aside a stab of guilt and began sorting through the pictures. "It's been so long and everything feels all blurred together now, like I never knew why I left in the first place. And I just never went back."

"My God, Meg. That's awful. Like, really bloody awful of you."

"I know." She shook her head, fighting the sting of tears. "I know it was awful and—God, I have no idea why I did it and that bloody terrifies me."

"So," Darcy said slowly, like she always did when she was about to say something Margaret wouldn't like, "if you can't remember why you left, what's keeping you from going back?"

Margaret held up a photograph of Saint Jude's Cathedral, birds wheeling across the steel grey Milton sky, "Habit?"

"Cowardice, more like."

"Not helpful, Dar."

"Truth rarely is, love."

"It doesn't really matter, I guess." She shivered, resignation sitting heavy on her shoulders. "I made my decision a long time ago."

"Did you though?" Darcy asked. "I'd say the only real decision you ever made just for yourself was shagging your American in the first place."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean Edith and Aunt Shaw. Henry too, since we're pointing fingers."

"They don't have anything to do with this."

"Don't they?" Darcy asked. "I'd wager a tenner Eddy lost her bleedin' mind when you told her about it."

"That man?" Edith shrieked and Margaret grimaced, moving the phone away from her ear. "Margaret Ann Hale, are you out of your bloody mind? "

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" She grumbled. "He has a name, Eds."

"What were you thinking? Were you even thinking?" Edith took a breath, "Good God, are you really pregnant?"

"I would never lie about something like this."

"But what about dear Henry? He'll be so disappointed. Oh, and mamma too. Oh Migs, how could you?"

"Eds, I—" but she couldn't explain it, a terrible clawing shame scraping her insides. "I'm scared."

"I'd should say you are. We have to get you away from him. Has he hurt you?"

"No," Margaret's voice hardened. "He would never."

"She was concerned," Margaret dropped her voice. "But no, she wasn't happy."

"You're not happy either."

"No, I—I'm happy." She switched her mobile to the other ear. "Of course, I'm happy."

"You're a rotten liar, Margaret Thornton, and you always have been. When I met you, you were bloody miserable."

"I was almost seven months pregnant," she said defensively. "Everyone is miserable when they're seven months pregnant."

"It was more than that. You'd left your husband, without warning, and then refused to talk to him. God, if I did that, I'd need therapy for years."

"Well I," Margaret faltered. "He—He didn't want to talk to me."

"He did, Meg." For once, Darcy sounded exhausted. "Your American was a frantic mess, and you let your family convince you otherwise because you didn't want to swallow your bloody pride and admit you made a terrible mistake."

Margaret's stomach clenched painfully, and she clutched her mobile, "H-how could you know that?" She'd always clung to the thought that shagging John was her biggest mistake, but—

"Eddy told me he rang. So many times, your dear Aunt Shaw had the phone line disconnected. I'd wager fifty quid he rang Henry too. Even James mentioned it."

He'd called her. She'd convinced herself he hadn't bothered, letting herself believe he was being a stubborn asshole, because it was easy. Because it meant she'd done the right thing by leaving him. But if he'd called, then she'd been wrong. Oh God. Margaret's stomach heaved, and she tripped towards the bin, losing her small supper of tea and toast. Of course he'd called her. John Thornton was as stubborn as a bulldog. He wouldn't give up without a fight, but she'd been too angry and too scared to face him. Not then, and definitely not now.

"Oi, you alright, Megs?"

Margaret heaved again. "Oh God, Darcy."

"I know, love."

"God, I can't." She closed her eyes, "I can't do it. I can't face him. It's been too long. I just can't."

"Then why are you still waiting for him, love?"

"I—I'm not."

"If you weren't, you'd have married Henry Lennox or some other bloke ages ago."

"Don't be ridiculous. I never wanted to marry anyone, thank you."

"Except John."

"He—I made a huge mistake." Margaret shoved her hair away from her face, and shoved the Polaroid under her pillow, like it'd bit her. "A mistake I won't repeat. This isn't a romance novel, Dar. It's a bloody tragedy and that's all."

"If he was such a big bloody mistake you would've moved on, wouldn't you? But you can't."

"I have moved on. God, I moved across an ocean, didn't I?"

"So why do you keep his pictures, then?"

"Why am I here, and why are you drunker than the poor sod on the corner who thinks he's the PM?" Darcy demanded, hands on her hips. "This better be a bloody emergency, Meg. I was about to have sex."

"He found them." Margaret shook her head and finished her glass of vodka. "Jack found them all. His pictures."

"Whose pictures? What are you on about?" Darcy's question faded as she saw the Polaroids spread out in front of Margaret on the floor. She sat down with a flop, tossed her purse aside, and picked one up. "Bloody hell, this is him isn't it?"

"John." Margaret nodded, her head swimming, tears or alcohol blurring her vision. "Did I ever tell you his name?"

God, how many do you actually have?"

"Nineteen." Darcy stared at her, mouth open. "I told Jack he could keep them. All except one." That one was in her pillowcase. She didn't know why she'd put it there.

"Oi," Darcy picked up another. "He's proper lush."

"He is," Margaret knew she should've said something else, but all she could do is bury her face in Darcy's shoulder and sob. "And he hates me."

"He hates me, Darcy," Margaret said, her voice hoarse and shaking. "God, even I hate me."

"You should a little, you know," Darcy said gently. "But, Meg, a man don't stay married to a woman he hates. Unless she's fabulously rich, of course, which you definitely aren't. Go to Milton."

"I can't. I have work, and obligations, and—I don't want to."

"Bollocks. You have no bloody idea what you want."

"Darcy—"

"You've let other people tell you what's best for sixteen years, Meg. You've got to decide what you actually want, or you'll just keep running away." Margaret didn't answer, picking at a thread on her bedspread. Darcy sighed, but there was a fondness in it. "I can't make you do it, you know. And I wouldn't even if I could."

"You're the worst."

"I'm really not."

Margaret sighed. "Is that it, then?"

"This is on you now, love. He's your husband and this is your life, yeah?" Margaret didn't answer. "Well, I've got to run. Kisses." Darcy made a kissing sound, which Margaret half-heartedly returned. Then the line went silent.

She sat for a long time before she leaned over and snapped off the bedside lamp. But she didn't sleep.

The next morning, she slipped out of the flat far too early, and escaped to her office. All the work she ought to have done the night before still demanded her attention. She told herself she wasn't avoiding Jack but she couldn't look at him with that bloody red hat on any more. Just the thought of being dragged back through the past again made her head pound and her stomach churn. So she ran away, like she always did, but this time it didn't make anything better or easier.

She stared at her computer screen, leaning her elbows on the desk. She couldn't focus. She hadn't slept more than a few hours, her conversation with Darcy replaying in her mind. The picture under her pillow haunted her, even when she'd shoved it back into her desk drawer.

"Professor, could you come to my office please?"

She jumped and glanced up. The department chair, a small slender man with a patchy beard and round spectacles, kept walking. He called two of the other teachers and the four of them crammed into his tiny office. Margaret slumped against the back wall rubbing her eyes. She needed another coffee.

"Dr Bennet, we do this every two years, and every time it's the same answer," Marty Cook glanced at Margaret. "I don't see why we're even discussing this. I can't go to the conference this year, so send Professor Binns. There," he brushed his hands against his trousers. "All done."

"Professor Binns?" Dr Bennet peered at the other teacher. "Since you've not been asked to provide a paper, we can only cover half your expenses. Budget cuts."

"I'm happy to be asked," Gloria Binns nodded to Dr Bennet, "but we've been a bit strapped. I can't afford it."

"That leaves you, Professor Thornton."

"What?" Margaret blinked and rubbed her eyes again. "Leaves me where?"

"You were originally invited to present a paper this year, and the travel costs to Boston will be provided."

"You giving me a free plane ticket to Boston?" She asked, trying to wrap her mind around the words. She'd been invited to the Morten Mathematical Conference several times. Of course, she'd always turned it down, giving the same excuses; Jack was too young for her to be away so long; she had other speaking obligations; flying upset her stomach terribly. All because she was afraid she might run into him. Which was silly of course. But for the first time, she wondered what would happen if she actually said yes. "The Boston in America, Boston?"

"Someone's had one too many last night," Marty Cook snorted. "What other Boston is there?"

Margaret opened her mouth, and instead of supplying her usual dry set-down Marty Cook deserved, she began laughing. Her colleagues stared at her as she leaned against the wall, laughing until tears ran down her face. She couldn't say no, not when a ticket back to America was practically being flung in her lap. "I'll go." She heard herself say, Darcy's words still niggling her. Had leaving him been her decision or simply cowardice? If she didn't go back she'd always wonder. She wiped her eyes, still laughing. Or was she crying? She didn't know.

"Are you alright, Professor?"

"Not really."

Forget coffee. If she was going to America, she needed a shot of vodka.

Jack slammed through the door and deposited their mail on the kitchen table. He tossed his phone and wallet on the counter, snatching up an apple. "Big one's for you, Mam," he said before he thundered up the stairs to his room.

"Jack, wait—" But he was gone.

His nervous energy had filled the house to bursting for the last week and a half. They'd tiptoed around each other, never really discussing his trip back to America again, and she hadn't mentioned the conference. She didn't want to disappoint him if she changed her mind and she didn't want him to hope for anything else if she went. She picked up the conference packet, slit the top open, and pulled out her plane ticket. London to Boston.

"My cousin's getting married." Margaret glared at his back, clinging to her anger. "I have to go."

"I said no."

"You asshole," They were shouting again. God, she was so tired of it all. "You can't say—"

"Like hell I can't. You bitch and moan about how you want me to talk more, to tell you every goddamn thing I'm thinking—"

"John, stop it."

"But you don't give a fuck about what I say, do you? " He threw his hat across the room. "Fuck that. I'm done talking to you."

"I'm going to Greece," she clutched the ticket in her hand, anger burying her own guilt at his words. High-handed stubborn man. "And you can't stop me."

"Over my dead body."

But she'd gone anyway, and never said goodbye.

Margaret followed her son upstairs, the envelope pressed to her chest. She knocked softly and nudged his bedroom door open. "Jack-love?" Two suitcases and his rucksack sat neatly off to one side. The rest of the space was tidier than it had been in weeks. Her shoulders slumped when she saw the hard defiance in his eyes. He crossed his arms and raised his chin. He expected a fight and he intended to win. Before either of them could say anything, three sharp knocks echoed up the stairs. "Wait for me, yeah? I want to talk to you."

He shrugged.

When she opened the door, she stiffened at the sight of her Aunt Shaw. "Aunt? What are you doing here?" Her aunt gave her a nod as she pushed passed her into the entryway. Margaret blinked and closed the door. She glanced up at Jack who lingered at the top of the stairs, then followed her aunt into the kitchen.

"I want an explanation, Margaret Ann." Victoria Shaw said without preamble.

"Sorry?"

"Why are you allowing this?"

"Allowing what?" Margaret asked, setting the conference envelope facedown, reaching for the kettle. Anything her aunt had to say would be better over a cup of tea. She pulled out a package of chocolate biscuits and began to meticulously arrange them on a platter. "I've no idea what you mean."

"You cannot seriously be contemplating letting your son anywhere near that man."

"How the bloody hell do you know about that?" She demanded, but her aunt stitched her lips together in a silent refusal. Margaret sighed and brought the tray of biscuits to the table. Her aunt always seemed to know everybody's business and it was bloody exhausting. Right now, how she knew was beside the point. "It's simple really. Jack wants to spend time with his father. It's rather long overdue, wouldn't you agree?"

"If he needs a change of scenery, send him back to that Scottish boarding school. He might learn some decent manners there, if he'd actually complete a year."

"He hated that school," Margaret said stiffly. "He was miserable and so was I."

"Well, if you'd listened to me before he was born, we wouldn't even be discussing this, would we?"

Margaret leaned her hands on the counter and shut her eyes, swallowing back her anger.

"What have you done, Margaret Ann?"

"I had sex with a man," Margaret knew she was being unreasonable, but she didn't care anymore. "It was quite lovely, and I have every intention of doing it again."

"I hope you intend to correct your indiscretion, rather than dig yourself in deeper."

"Correct my what?" Margaret grip tightened on the phone in her hand, "What exactly are you suggesting I do?"

"If you need money for an abortion," Her aunt let her offer hang in the air. Margaret's arm shook as she tried form a response, but the angry words stuck in her throat. "It's not my place to interfere, of course. I'm sure I would prefer to nip this in the bud, If I were you."

"No," It snapped out, hard and angry. How could her aunt even think she'd—

"Well," Her aunt sniffed. "Whatever you decide, Margaret Ann, do not marry that man."

Margaret ended the call without a word and threw her mobile against the wall so hard she heard the screen crack.

Aunt Shaw nibbled a biscuit, "I told you not to marry that man."

Margaret slumped, almost too tired to argue. What else could she say?

"That man is my dad," Jack stepped around the corner, looking thunderous. "He's got a name, yeah? You might use it, like."

"Jack, say hello to your aunt."

He said nothing.

Aunt Shaw sniffed. "Perhaps the military would be better than boarding school."

"What the bloody hell is your problem, like?"

"He's going to Milton," Margaret said, speaking over her son. She rubbed her forehead, a tension headache building behind her eyes. "There's nothing else to talk about."

"I've warned you before, Margaret Ann." Aunt Shaw shook her head, wiping crumbs from her fingers, "If that man gets a hold of the boy, you won't get him back."

Margaret's throat went dry.

Jack was crying again. He'd done little else since he was born. Margaret hadn't slept for more than two hours at a time. She wanted—needed— John. For nothing more than for him to hold her and tell her everything would be alright. He would come if she asked him, she was certain of that.

"I want to talk to him." She glanced over the room. Where was her mobile? She hadn't seen it in weeks. But she had John's number. He'd given her his business card ages ago. Where was it?

"My dear, he's had ample opportunity to talk to you and he hasn't," Her aunt patted her shoulder. "What if that man comes and tries to take your baby away?"

Margaret's throat went dry. Take Jack away? She knew John was angry. Of course he was angry. She'd left him without word or warning, and now— But he wouldn't take Jack from her would he? She turned to Henry, who stood stiffly by the door, "Could he?"

Henry pressed his lips together, "It's not impossible."

John wouldn't do that would he? She shook her head, but it was swimming with fatigue and loneliness and guilt and— Jack let out a pitiful wail, and she clutched him to her chest, kissing his black fluffy hair. "It's alright, little-love," she whispered, her own tears dropping on his face. "You're alright. We'll be alright."

She was lying and she knew it. But it was all she had.

"Get out," Jack growled, his face dark as a thundercloud as he stepped between them. "Now."

"Margaret Ann, control your son," Aunt Shaw stood, not meeting Jack's eyes. "Such rude behaviour."

"You're the one being rude, like—"

"I want you to leave, Aunt Shaw," Margaret interrupted. "Please." She heard her aunt stand and move in a rustle of expensive clothes. Margaret straightened and stepped around Jack, shooting him a hard look. "You sit."

She followed her aunt out of the flat onto the stoop. The woman paused, giving Margaret a pointed haughty look, one that said she'd been weighed, measured, and found wanting. Again.

"Margaret Ann—"

"No," she interrupted again. "No more, please."

Her aunt drew herself up, "Until that boy apologises for his disrespectful outburst, you can expect no further financial assistance from me for his upkeep."

"You think I care about that? Do what you like with your money," Margaret set her jaw, flushing. "We never asked for it, and you've never been happy to give it."

Her aunt turned pale, then reddened. But Margaret shut the door before she could say anything more. She found Jack sitting at the table, his arms folded, glaring at the wall. She studied him for a moment, her flair of anger melting into fatigue. God, she was so tired of it all. "You shouldn't have said those things," she said at last. "Aunt Shaw has taken good care of us." He kept staring, silent. "Jack—"

"You shouldn't let her talk like that." He pushed himself away from the table. "What the ruddy fuck does she know, yeah?"

"That's enough." She shook her head, "Aunt Shaw means well."

"Bollocks. She's a bully, Mam. She always has been and I'm done letting walk all over us."

"That's not true."

"How many times has she told you my dad would take me away?" She opened her mouth, then closed it, almost biting her lip. His face hardened and he shoved his chair, which toppled over. "My God, Mam, who bloody says that? It's sick, that is. Why do you let her?"

"Aunt Shaw is cautious," she replied. "She loves you—"

"No, she doesn't. She can't even look at me. She doesn't even say my name anymore, or didn't you notice, like?"

Margaret wanted to deny it, but her words stuck in her throat. She'd noticed but chosen to ignore it or excuse it, hoping it wasn't true. "Jack," she looked at her son, seeing the hurt in his eyes, "I'm sorry."

"It's fine, like." He sighed, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. "I don't give two fucks what she thinks, yeah? You shouldn't either. Her money isn't worth it, Mam."

"Please stop swearing." She hugged her arms to her chest. "I never wanted her money."

"Then you should tell her."

"I did."

A smile tugged at his mouth, "Good."

"You need a haircut."

Jack snorted, "He said the same thing."

She tried to smile. "When do you leave?"

"Day after tomorrow."

"Two days?" She blinked, her stomach fluttering. "Can't you wait a little longer?"

"I'm going, Mam. I have to."

She nodded, but her stomach refused to stop its painful twisting. "How long will you be there?"

"I dunno."

"You're certain your father—"

"I talked to him last night." Jack was watching her with an odd look. "Said he'd pick me up at the airport." She bit her tongue, holding back the tumble of questions trying to force themselves out of her mouth. She wondered if his voice was the same as she remembered. She wasn't certain she did remember. "Mam?"

"Yeah, alright." She picked up Jack's mobile from the counter and held it out, "Promise you'll ring when you've landed, yeah?"

"I will," Jack still watched her. He took the phone, and shoved it into his back pocket, "Promise."