“Oh, wow,” Izzy says once we’ve said our goodbyes and hung up. And then, to my horror, her eyes fill with tears.
I’m beside her before I’ve realised what I’m doing, ducked down, my hand on her shoulder.
“I’m fine!” she says, patting her eyes with her sleeve. “Sorry. God, this is embarrassing.”
I fetch her the box of tissues from the coffee table, and she dabs at her face, trying not to smudge her make-up. I crouch beside her and curse myself. I hadn’t thought about how throwing Izzy into my family would make her feel. She has no family—not a single person who she knows without question would tell her that they miss her in the same breath they criticise her fish stew.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It was thoughtless of me to answer the phone to my family.”
“I don’t know why I’m so upset.” She blows her nose. “Seeing people in super-happy families used to always get me, but I’ve not been like this for ages. It just creeps up on you sometimes, I guess. And . . . I don’t know. I’d got a bit complacent. Didn’t brace myself.” She smiles ruefully. “I haven’t been looking after myself well enough, maybe? That always has an impact on how I can handle things like this.”
I try to come up with the right thing to say, but all I can think is, I want to look after you. So that you don’t have to do it all, for once.
“Anyway,” she says, wiping her eyes decisively. “Today is your day, not mine, isn’t it? So I’d better put the self-care on the backburner.”
This lunch has been a disaster. I pause for a moment, wondering if I should just send her home to have a long bath and watch a film. But . . . I think my plan for the afternoon will make her smile. I think I can fix this. So I just straighten up and say, “Take a few moments. Then I’ll meet you downstairs.”
* * *
? ? ? ? ?
Izzy stands with her hands on her hips and surveys the product of my days off.
“If you thought I wouldn’t be able to hack this,” she says, eyes sparkling, “then you seriously underestimated me.”
I had planned to have the adventure playground finished by Christmas, but once Izzy and I settled on Thursday as Lucas Day, I knew I had to get it done sooner. I called in all the favours I had, irritating Pedro more than ever before with my chatice e perfeccionismo （fussiness and perfectionism）。 While it’s far from finished, it is certainly serviceable. With Poor Mandy kindly covering the front desk for a couple of hours, we have nothing to do but scale ropes and tackle monkey bars.
I know Izzy. She has the open heart of a child—she loves an adventure. An afternoon of zip wires and climbing trees will surely make her happy. And if she has to jump into my arms during any element of this afternoon, then that will be fine, too.
“You are my test case,” I tell her. “We’re doing the full route.” I point at the sketched map I drew up late last night, which shows the order in which each element of the playground should be tackled.
Her grin is infectious. “Bring it on,” she says.
She brightens with every step she takes up the ladder and along the hanging bridge. I don’t get the chance to pull her close, or help her over one of my towers built of pallets, or even squeeze into the treehouse with her, because the moment she steps into it, she’s already launching off on the zip wire. But that’s OK. Maybe it’s better. We know there’s chemistry between us. Today is about showing her that we can be happy together. We can squabble instead of fight. Sit side by side in a comfortable silence instead of a frosty one.
And it’s also about showing her I’m not a dickhead. Though this seems to be harder to prove than I had expected.
“Ha! Done! Take that, Lucas da Silva,” she says, throwing down her helmet as she hops off the rope net and onto the grass. “You thought I’d chicken out, right?”
“No,” I say mildly.
She shoots me a knowing look. “Confess. You wanted me hanging off the middle of that zip wire like Boris over the Thames.”
This allusion passes me by, but I get the idea.
“This wasn’t intended to embarrass you,” I begin, but the last two words are drowned out by the arrival of the Hedgers children, with their father running several metres behind them, his thin grey hair flying.
“Mrs. Izzy!” shouts the eldest Hedgers. “I want a go!”
“Oh, shit,” I mutter. “This area is not yet open!”
“Sorry, sorry, I did see the sign . . .” Mr. Hedgers says, scooping up the youngest of the children and grabbing Ruby by the hand on his way to the eldest one. “No, Winston, not on the . . . Oh, God. Don’t worry, I promise we won’t sue you,” he says to me and Izzy as Winston tackles the tower of pallets.