Page 41 of Third Time’s a Charm

While my brother’s illness dominated my childhood, Jasper’s mother’s illness and death were a feature of my early teen years.

Jasper doesn’t respond for several minutes.

“Thank you. Mum was really fond of you, actually,” he whispers. There’s a quality to his voice that causes me to wonder if he’s tearing up.

“Really?” Knowing that warms my heart.

“Yeah. It was kind of your mum to come and help out in the last weeks. I hope she knows how much I appreciated that. I’m not sure I was very gracious at the time.” There’s a long silence, but I give him room to continue. “I did send her a letter. Later. But I’m not sure it was enough.”

“Well, you were a teenage boy. And your mum was dying. I don’t think she had any expectations.”

“I guess not. But it can’t have been easy for her. With what happened to your brother.”

It wasn’t, I know. She was gone for a couple of months. On her other visits to Jasper’s mum, she was only ever gone a few weeks, and I’d be packed off to my grandmother. But that time I was shipped off to boarding school for two terms while she was gone. Because Lord knows Dad didn’t have the skills, or the desire, to take care of a teenage girl. Even when she came home, I continued to board, which was odd because the school was three train stops from our house.

I can’t quite hold in a bitter laugh.

“At least it got her away from home.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

I hear him shift and glance over. He’s turned on his side to face me, head propped up on his hand.

“It sounds like it matters a lot.”

He doesn’t need to hear all my family drama, but I’m the one who opened this can of worms, so I have to give him something.

“Things were … different … after my brother died. I think Mum was happy not to … well, anyway. She didn’t begrudge being there for your mum.”

“I seem to recall, when your brother was sick, there was talk of you donating bone marrow. What happened there?”

“Things don’t always go according to plan.” I clamp my lips between my teeth. I don’t want to say any more. Don’t want to tell him that ever since my brother died, I haven’t been able to shake the sense that if she’d had a choice, she wouldn’t have chosen me to be the surviving child. Because the last thing I want is Jasper Spencer-Jones feeling sorry for me.

There’s another long silence. I’m glad he doesn’t press for a clearer answer. I’m glad it’s too dark to see his expression. To possibly see what he’s thinking. Even more glad that he can’t see my expression, because I’ve never had a poker face. He’d know immediately that I feel sorry for myself. He might be reserved and not say much himself, but he’s a listener. An observer.

And he’s the one with reason to feel hard done by. It was Jasper who lost his mum. A mum that, even at twelve, I could see adored him, and was adored in return.

“Life can be cruel when there are people you love.” He sighs.

I don’t know what to say, and even if I did, there’s a lump in my throat the words would have trouble getting past.

“We should get some sleep. Hopefully, we’ll have a long drive tomorrow,” he adds when it’s clear I’m not going to respond.

With a sigh, he turns onto his other side, back to me again, leaving me to overthink the subtext of his comment until the clock shows four and the sound of the semitrailers rumbling past finally lulls me into sleep, exhausted.

“Thanks, Buddy,” Jasper says before pocketing his phone as I come out of the bathroom after my shower the next morning.

He must have got up very early because when I woke up, groggy and grumpy, he wasn’t in the room.

Ten minutes later, dressed in running shorts, a T-shirt and a great deal of sweat, he arrived just as the kettle came to the boil.

He’s dressed now—thank God—in his usual jeans and shirt, hair wet from the shower he took while I woke myself up with a very unsatisfying cup of tea laced with long-life milk.

Neither of us references our dark-of-night conversation. There’s nothing to be gained from scratching at old wounds for either of us, I guess.

“Well?” I ask, hoping against hope that we’ll be on our way today. Another night in this hotel room with Jasper and his deliciousness might be the undoing of me. “Are we getting out of here, or am I doomed to another night of listening to your snoring?”