Bridge

SM Tovey

Description

The Bridge meets Alex (short for Alexandra) on a bridge in Verona as she says her final farewell to Michele. Alex's world has been devastated by the death of Michele, who was actually more of a sister to her than her best and oldest friend. It follows Alex as she tries to navigate a world she no longer recognises or fits into, while desperately trying to 'be there' for Adam, Michele's teenage son. It's on that same bridge where Alex meets Max, and through this chance encounter, a hopeful journey begins. A journey which forces them to face the damage left from their previous relationships, while ignoring the clock counting down on their time together, dictating their ending, just as they're beginning. Alex and Max are realistic, their lives and responsibilities exist in different worlds, a thousand miles apart, so they decide to forget there's a Friday (the day Alex is due to fly home) and live in the moment. But is it that simple?The Bridge tells a story of friendship, love, loss, the weight of responsibility, finding love when you least expect it, self-doubt and insecurity, the fear of loving again and finding strength even when life feels hopeless; set against the background of contemporary music, and the intoxicating personality of Verona. It will take the reader on a journey from which they will not want to be interrupted. Warning: It may also leave the reader pining for the one that got away

Sujets

• Contemporary romance

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 13 avril 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781800469266
• Langue: English

Extrait

Copyright © 2021 SM Tovey

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.


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ISBN 978 1800469 266

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

Thank you to family and friends, past and present, for sharing part of your life with me, creating memories that still mean something to me, no matter how long or brief our time together.


Contents
PART ONE
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10

PART TWO
11
12
13
14
15
16
17

Behind The Music
About The Author
Acknowledgements


PART ONE


Prologue
Dear Michele,

People keep telling me to write you a letter, it’s in all the advice literature, although who writes letters these days, surely they should update it to ‘write an email’?
Anyway, here goes…

If I close my eyes I can go back to the moment I met you, during our first week at secondary school. I actually heard you before seeing you – I’ll never forget that sound – and I looked round for the source and found you lying in the middle of the school field, headphones on, blissfully singing along at the top of your voice to ‘The Whole of the Moon’ by The Waterboys. You loved that song. I can still smell the freshly cut grass, hear the chatter and laughter as friendships were forged around me, recall how awkward I felt, standing there alone. Not you though, I watched as you gave it your everything, singing the way people did when they thought they were alone, oblivious to the groups of kids around you.
I find myself staying in that memory for hours, at the beginning. It’s comforting, thinking we’ve got twenty-one years ahead of us. It seemed like a lifetime, yet it passed so quickly.

I’ve often pondered the path never taken, the alternate life I could be living if I’d made a different choice. If my parents hadn’t forced me to sit that stupid exam – which I thoroughly resented at the time. I just wanted to go to the high school up the road like everyone else – I would never have met you, and my life would have been incredibly lonely. I see that now.

You epitomised fun, brightened my world on a daily basis with your outbursts of emotion. It came so easily to you. It was freeing to be around. You offered me refuge at your house when mine was toxic during my parent’s divorce, allowed me to express emotions I wasn’t allowed to at home, to scream and cry, admit my relief. You were always there for me, even during those heartbreaking eighteen months after your dad was diagnosed, as we watched that once strong, vivacious man, who’d never missed a day of work in his life, slowly fade away in front of us until he was unrecognisable. Although for me, it was more heartbreaking watching how it gradually etched away at you, especially when you moved in with me and Mum towards the end. I never told you, but I heard you, you know, sobbing into your pillow each night, knowing what was coming but powerless to stop it – I ’ ll never forget that sound either. It was during those years that our friendship evolved; we fused through the pain and became sisters, family, women. We were inseparable, always there for each other. I guess that’s what makes this even harder.

If we weren’t together, we were on the phone, mystifying our parents with how we could possibly have anything left to talk about and why it couldn’t wait. We were teenagers, nothing could wait. We had such a sense of urgency back then, didn’t we, in a rush to get on and live our lives? Yet now I find myself wishing I could rewind time.
Remember when we watched Superman with Adam, that scene where he flies around the world spinning it backwards, turning back time? You can’t imagine how many times I’ve wished I could do that, go back to that Thursday evening. Maybe if I’d stayed, if I was there, I could have saved you.

Was that truly the last time, that sunny Thursday evening in July? If only I’d known that as we walked down your hall to your front door, as we quickly thought of things we’d forgotten to tell each other, like we always did even though we’d been chatting for hours, as we giggled and waved goodbye. I play it over and over in my mind in slow motion, me closing your gate, you standing in the doorway, I look up, we both smile, still giggling from our conversation, ‘Drive safe,’ you say – you always said it – I wave as I say that one tiny word, ‘Bye.’ I climb into my car, turning and waving as you close the front door. It was something we’d done a thousand times, how could we have ever predicted it would be our final goodbye? I replay our conversation, desperately clinging onto every word spoken, wondering what I should have told you, what I would have told you if I’d known it was the last time I would ever speak to you. You knew what was coming with your dad, had a chance to say what you needed to, a chance to say goodbye, to hold him, to let him know he was loved. I hope you knew, Michele, I hope you knew how much you were loved, are still loved, how that day in July has changed our lives forever. I miss you so much. This pain you’ve left is overwhelming. Is this how you felt back then? This deep, gut-wrenching, physical pain that leaves you in a constant state of nausea. I’ve never experienced anything like this. I thought I knew hurt, but that was timid compared to this. This feels like I’m being stabbed repeatedly, the sharp blade being twisted inside me, dipped in salt to burn, to take my breath away. There’s a hollowness too, a void that runs from my constricted throat to the pit of my stomach. Is this how you felt when your dad died?

I spend my days closing my eyes and picturing you, to feel close to you, to pretend you’re still here. My brain thinks you’re away on holiday and due back any day now. It can’t compute the truth. My world will never be the same without you in it, it’s a very different place without you, a sad and lonely place. A place I don’t recognise.

I’m going to stop now as I am once again in pieces. I’ve never cried so much in my life. The world’s become a blur. I can see you wagging your finger at me, reprimanding me for being sad – you still have the power to make me smile through my tears. Oh, I miss you. We all miss you. I’ll take care of Adam for you, that’s something I never needed to say to you out loud, I know you know I’ll always be there for him. I’ll make sure he lives a full life, that he finds happiness, that this doesn’t define him, just like losing a parent so young didn’t define you.

Even though we can’t see you or hold you, you’ll be with us every day. You’ll never be far.

Goodbye, Michele. Thank you for filling my life with laughter, for always being there for me, for being the sister I never had, and always had. You made my world better every day.
I’ll never forget you, I promise.
Alex x


1
SUNDAY
‘You’re not going to jump, are you?’
The English voice jolted me from my thoughts. Was he asking me?
I glanced to my right to see who the voice belonged to. He was standing a few metres away, casually leaning against the bridge and watching me, concern on his face.
‘No,’ I answered, distracted, as I rested my arms on the ledge of this beautiful Roman stone bridge, almost a thousand miles away from home. ‘Life’s too much of a gift,’ I muttered, looking down, my head so full and pounding it felt like it’d explode at any moment.
I’d been a mixture of sadness and anger all day. Well, since it happened if I’m being honest. I wasn’t sure at any given moment which one was going to win out. In this moment, it was sadness.
I took a deep breath and looked around at the mismatched buildings, yellows, pinks and creams sliced up by the river I was standing over. Nothing here was new. Verona was an old city, filled with history; some of it Michele’s. I pictured her in the photograph, standing in this very spot, laughing and carefree, unaware of what fate had in store for her only three years later. I placed my palm against the stone, closing my eyes and imagining myself covering her handprint, desperate to feel close to her again. But the warmth of my hand against the coldness of the stone only brought back the memory of the last time I had touched her hand, the final time I would ever touch her hand or indeed ever see Michele again; cold, stiff and lifeless. My pulse quickened as the familiar soaring pain struck inside and tears rushed to the backs of my eyes, threatening to burst the dam I now spent my days rebuilding. It was exhausting. I closed my eyes tighter, trying to erase that memory of her that haunted my dreams every night, and resurfaced every day, creeping up on me when I least expected it, making me retreat to the nearest place I could find to be alone.

I jolted back to the present as he appeared beside me, his arm delicately pressed up against mine, his touch warm. He mimick