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“Yeah. Me too.” Dylan shuffled up against the wall beside me, and I leaned my head on his shoulder. “He was my godson, and the reason I reconnected with your mum,” he whispered, his voice husky with emotion. “I loved him too.”
We both stared at the small pot in silence. The misshapen, badly painted, red-and-white piece of clay was a link to a happier time, a happy day with Billy.
Dylan chuckled, surprising me. “I loved him in spite of the fact he was a Manchester City fan.”
His fond laughter was disarming, and in spite of my tears, I laughed too.
“I never understood football. He used to find it so frustrating.” I smiled as I recalled his tiny hands fisted on his hips, dressed in his Man City strip, as he patiently tried to explain the offside rule to me.
No, Emmy, he cannot score a goal because he’s too quick and in front of the defenders.
Oh, Billy.
I glanced up at Dylan, and he gave me a sad smile. “He loved his football.”
“Yes, he did. I’m glad we buried him in his strip,” I whispered. “He looked good in blue.” A memory of him from my dream came back to me. Billy in blue.
Emmy, Emmy, Emmy.
His little arms around my neck.
It was bittersweet.
“And he was proud of this.” I held up the pot. “He worshipped you. I think my mother wanted it for herself.”
Dylan shook his head, processing his own memories. “Well, I’m very glad he gave it to me. And he would have looked just as good in the Arsenal strip.”
I smiled. “I’m not so sure.”
Dylan gave me a sheepish grin.
“Claire—Dr. Mills—said I should go where the grief takes me.”
“And where is it taking you?”
“One step forward and two steps back.” I squeezed the words through the lumpen grief in my throat as more tears threatened.
“Oh, I think you have that the wrong way around, Emily. You’re doing amazingly well. Two steps forward, one step back. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” He leaned his head against mine, and we sat for a little while in a comfortable, sad silence.
“There you are!” Lulu exclaimed as she gaped at the two of us sitting against the wall in Dylan’s bedroom. “What are you doing?”
I held up the pot.
“Oh,” she said, her face falling as she suddenly understood. “I see.”
Dylan stood up and held a hand out to me. I took it and he pulled me upright. We all regarded the small pot in my hand.
“I’ll be downstairs,” Lulu said and wisely took her leave.
“Better now?” His voice was hushed.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be better,” I whispered.
“You will, Emily. Of course you will. How’s your move going?”
Will I? Will I get better, Doctor Dyl?
“Emily?”
