I cannot love you
Blythe had loved George with a fierceness that made her forgive him for almost everything.
They wed when Blythe was barely a girl herselfjust after she turned nineteen. She had been chasing George since she was sixteen, even trying to look older than she was. At first he barely noticed her; she was too small for his tastes. When she grew up and blossomed into a striking beauty, George thought, why turn away what now floated straight into his arms?
He was twentyfour; Blythe, eighteen. Their relationship began, odd and uneven.
George would disappear for days, ignoring the telephone and the messages, as if he were merely wandering the countryside. Then he would return as if nothing had happened, and Blythe would wait for him, tears in her eyes, while he assured her that his love was only for her. He was a free spirit, it seemed, never quite tired of his wandering.
Blythe clung to the hope that one day he would change, that he would love her as fiercely as she loved him.
She had a childhood friend, Thomas. They had grown up together in the same backyard of the old terraced houses, later attending the same primary school. Thomas was secretly in love with Blythe, but he knew she saw him only as a friend. It pained him to watch her undervalue herself, for she deserved the very best.
Thomas understood that, had Blythe returned his feelings, he would have done anything for her. Yet he also knew that would never happen. She was utterly devoted to George, as if he had bewitched her, and Thomas kept his distance, lingering silently nearby.
Whenever George vanished again or provoked a needless argument, Blythe would run to Thomas in tears.
Why does he treat me so? she would sob.
Perhaps you should stop loving him, Thomas would reply, his own heart breaking.
I cant, you dont understand.
Thomas understood all too well. He, too, would give up on Blythe in a heartbeat if he could, but he could not. So he said nothing, merely feeling the weight of her sorrow.
George grew more reckless, drinking heavily and openly flirting with other women. In a desperate, foolish act of love Blythe became pregnant, naïvely believing a child would set everything rightthat George would mature, become sensible, cherish her, and love his baby.
She fell pregnant at nineteen and told George, but saw no joy in his eyes.
We should probably get married, she whispered, embarrassed by her round belly.
Probably, George muttered, his brow furrowed.
Why he finally agreed to bind himself in marriage was unclear; perhaps he thought something might work out, or perhaps he simply failed to see how easy it was to walk away.
Blythe was the happiest bride. For Thomas, that day felt like a funeral. He watched Blythe, bright with hope, and wished he could steal her away, lock her inside his home and keep her until she realised he was far better than George.
He did not. He feigned wishes of happiness for the couple while drowning his own sorrows in drink.
A son was born, and they named him Harry. At first George tried to be a proper husband and father. He stopped disappearing, cut back on his evenings out, helped with the baby, and rarely quarreled with Blythe.
But soon the old habit resurfaced. When Harry turned one, George vanished again for three days, leaving Blythe frantic. She called the morgue, the hospital, every neighbour who might have seen George. Thomas was there again, watching over Harry while Blythe scoured every shady lane in search of her husband. She even filed a police report before George finally staggered back, drunk and hungover.
How dare you speak to me like that? Blythe wailed, demanding answers.
I owe you nothing, George snapped, sweeping past the kitchen where Harry began to whimper. He could not even hear his son over the throbbing of his hangover.
From that moment George stopped pretending. He left and returned at will, and each time Blythe took him back, clinging to the hope that he would finally change.
When Harry was three, George left for good. At first Blythe thought he had merely gone out again, but when she collected Harry from the nursery after work she discovered that Georges belongings had vanished from the house.
As she tried to make sense of it, a message arrived: Ill file for divorce myself; dont wait for me.
Blythe was devastated, her voice raw with anguish. Thomas rushed to her side the moment he heard the news, spending an entire day with her and caring for Harry, making sure she did not act rashly.
When she steadied herself, Thomas made a proposal.
So, Ill be your husband now, and Harrys father.
Blythe looked at her old friend and shook her head.
Im sorry, but I dont love you that way. I love you as a friend and Im forever grateful for your help, but as a man I cannot see you that way.
Thomas replied, I know, but my love for you isnt only friendly. I wont let you suffer any longer.
He could not find the words to argue. Blythe, shattered, simply nodded, allowing him to stay.
Thomas never pressed his point. He stayed by Blythes side, caring for Harry as if the boy were his own, for he truly loved him. Blythe watched Thomas and realised there was no better option; no one else would love her son as Thomas did, nor tend to her with such devotion. She surrenderednot because she fell in love, but out of sheer desperation.
Thomas floated on cloud nine when Blythe agreed to marry him. The day Harry first called him dad, Thomas even wept.
Life settled into a blissful routine; their family became the envy of the village. At times Thomas thought Blythe loved him as a husband, not merely a friend, yet fear would creep inwhat if George returned? What if Blythe abandoned everything for the old, wayward spouse?
Thus he lived between two fires, rejoicing in happiness, yet waking at night from nightmares.
One such nightmare became reality on Harrys sixth birthday. Blythe and Thomas threw him a splendid party. First, Harry and his friends bounded about a trampoline centre; later, at home, cake and presents awaited.
As Harry blew out the candles, a knock sounded at the door.
Someone else here to wish him happy birthday? Blythe smiled.
Ill answer, Thomas said.
He opened the door without peering through the peephole and felt a cold dread coil in his chest. Standing there was George, clutching a strange plush rabbit.
Seeing Thomas, George scoffed.
Still hanging about, eh? Wheres my son? Ive come to wish him a happy birthday.
Thomas? Blythe cried, stepping out of the kitchen, her face turning pale. Harry froze, then looked between the two men.
Dad, whos this? he asked Thomas.
Georges expression darkened. He had not expected this.
Dad, then
Thomas, take Harry away, Blythe said, her voice dry.
Please
The look in Georges eyes was as if some old spell had been cast anew. Thomas had always feared this moment. He knew one thing for sure: he would never surrender Harry. He was the childs true father now, not this bewildered stranger.
Thomas played with Harry in the living room, surrounded by gifts. Yet his mind lingered on the door, waiting for Blythe to signal that he should leave, fearing what might happen if he stayed.
Blythe entered, trembling, her smile forced.
How are you all doing? she asked.
Were playing! Harry shouted. Did Uncle go?
He left. Weve already blown out the candles but havent touched the cake yet!
Yes! the birthday boy yelled, dashing to the kitchen. Thomas grabbed Blythes elbow, looking at her.
Whats wrong? Blythe asked, forcing a grin. Lets go before Harry smashes the whole cakeotherwise well end up at the dentist.
Its
She then embraced Thomas, kissing him tenderly.
He wont come back. He isnt needed for Harry; he has a real father now.
And you?
Me? All I need is you.
Thomas smiled, then led Blythe into the kitchen.
Perhaps the wild, reckless love of her youth never truly passed, perhaps a fragment lingered in Blythes heart. But youthful folly had given way to wisdom, and Thomass steady love had finally thawed the cold places within her. Blythe knew she was now happier than ever, and the fevered passion of her past remained only a memorynothing good ever grew from that storm.
