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You don't want to know what happened, don't want to hear about his proposal, but it’s not long until she's telling you everything, because she trusts you more than anyone else. You finally relax when she says she said no, even as you hear yourself ask why, even as you hear yourself say something about how if she'd said yes she wouldn't have to hide anymore. Maybe then you wouldn't have to hide anymore either, maybe you could have let go and sat back and watched her get married, watched her move in with him, watched her slowly leave you. After all these years it’s looking as though you should be glad to be left alone, if all the love you've got left can only go on her, with her dark lipstick and her accent and her goddamn blue eyes that had held you captive since the start.
She tells you that she couldn't, that he didn't deserve that, that he deserved someone that could truly love him, and you want to shake her and tell her that she deserves those things too, that you would give her those things, if she would take them from you. Instead you tell her that this could have been her one chance, that shouldn't she think about this a little longer, even as you reach out and wipe the tears from her cheeks, even as Boris jumps up into her lap and she hides her tears in his fur.
“It's too late,” she says, smiling sadly, like she knew it all along, and you wonder how anyone could ever condemn her just for wanting love and safety and not having to hide who she is. You want to gather her up into your arms, to tell her that you'll protect her, even as you wonder if you can, if that's who you're destined to be to her. Protector is something that you find yourself thinking you could be, for her anyway.
You disappear into the kitchen to make tea for you both, to give yourself time and a little space to digest, but she follows you and you find that there's not enough space for you to even breathe, her eyes still sparkling with tears and you feeling predatory for thinking that you want to kiss them away. She thanks you, as always, for being there for her, and you feel as though you're lying, lying through gritted teeth and a terrible facade that she should see right through, and there, ensconced in your kitchen with the night and the blackout curtains and the dim lighting that lets you see the kettle and her face upturned in the gloom and little else, your brain turns back to worrying about what she would do if she knew.
You tell her not to worry, that you'll always be there for her, that you'll forever be on hand to make cups of tea when things get tough, and she nods like she knows that that is true, and you’re struck all over again with the fact that she trusts you. Your Teresa trusts you with what's left of her heart, even if she doesn't know how much of her heart you want. So here in your tiny kitchen you take her hands and wish that you could make it better, even if that would mean that she leaves you and marries the wing commander, even if that means you're left with the small pieces of your heart laying broken without a manual to fix them.
She makes the tea, in the end, and Boris stays hovering around the two of you, unable to choose who he needs to comfort more. Both of you sit down, and somehow the lighting doesn't make it feel as cosy as it did before, it just feels gloomy and small and the dark spaces feel impenetrable, and Teresa's stopped crying but her facial expression is just impassive instead. It’s something you never like to see, it feels too much like defeat to see her go from animated to listless, and you wish again and again that you could change it for her. You just wish you could make it easier. Your gaze falls on the blackout curtains and you think about how late it is, how she’ll have to get up and face everyone and go back to teaching bright and early in the morning, and you watch her finish her tea and then tell her to sleep on it, that she’ll feel better in the morning.
She agrees, and puts her tea cup on the side, then she turns to you, frowning. “You do know that I can't just stop this, that I can't stop feeling like this.” Her voice is quiet and you don't think as you take her hands again.
“Oh of course I do. Of course.” Your voice almost cracks as you say it and you're scared that you’ve revealed too much, that she’ll know you have experience with this yourself.
“Because if it was up to me I wouldn't have to worry about any of this. I'd marry the nice man and settle down and have some nice children, but I can't.” Her eyes fill with tears again and you want to wipe them away all over again. “I just can't, Alison.” Her voice cracks on your name and her eyes search your face and you fervently hope you never have to hear her say it like that again.
“I know, Teresa, I know.” You instinctively move to sit beside on the sofa and gather her up into your arms, and she falls so easily, resting her head on your shoulder, her tears seeping through your blouse as her shoulders tremble. She cries quietly, tiredly, like she's already been crying for too long, like she's just so tired she can barely produce the sobs that shake through her frame. “You tried, that was all you could do.”
“I really hoped it would work this time, that I could go through with it.” Her voice is muffled by your shoulder, and her arms are around you, her body turned towards you, and you feel terrible as you notice her perfume, as you discreetly lay a comforting kiss somewhere along her hairline.
“You can't force yourself into love, Teresa.”
“No, but maybe I could force myself into something bearable.” Her crying has slowed and her voice is just tired now, tired and small and unlike what you're used to, and it’s not a good change. None of the things you've witnessed tonight have been good changes, and you hope this isn't a state that remains, that she'll soon bounce back. “When the war’s over I won't have a reason to stay here, I won't be able to get away with not having a husband or someone to take care of me.”
“I'll take care of you.” You say before you can think about it, and you soldier on without considering your words. “This is your home too now, this is where you belong, with me, and with Boris.” She smiles, though weakly, at that, and she pulls away slightly to look at you through bleary eyes. “Now, you must be tired, so I think bed is in order, for both of us.” Your voice is stern and she smiles.
“Yes ma'am.” Her smile softens and she squeezes your hand. “Thank you for being here.”
“I'll do whatever I can to help you, you know that.” Your tone matches hers and you hope that she doesn't know that you're here for her for what feels like purely selfish reasons, that you feel as though you're cheapening both of you with your uncontrollable thoughts and your love for her, your love that you can't excuse as platonic, especially not as she smiles at you again, her eyes tired and her smile small, but somewhat more like the smiles you were used to.
“I know.” She disappears upstairs and you lean back in your chair, try not to stare at where she had been sat, and then you rise and steadily go around the lower level of the house, checking the blackout curtains and dousing the lights, then you and Boris make your way upstairs. You lay in bed and try to put her out of your mind, try to pretend like there isn't some terrible part of you that is nothing short of elated that she was not to be married, that you would not be seeing the wing commander again. Another, smaller part of you wishes that you had never met this woman, that Teresa had never blown into your life and lost your dog and found your heart for you, when you didn't even know you had any of it left. Imagine if you were still moping, just you and Boris mourning a man that you barely remember, that you only think of when a memory is directly triggered. Imagine if you hadn't taken all of those warm feelings that came from memories of him and applied them to seeing Teresa's smile or her walking through your door in the evening, tired from a long day of berating children. Imagine if you could still just be happy being his widow, left behind and unremembered and utterly uninteresting. If this is what it takes to be interesting, you think, then you would rather have been left alone.
Months later the war’s still ravaging the world, the bombs are still raining down on the country, and you're still in love with Teresa Fenchurch. Those three things almost feel equal to each other in importance some mornings, but then on others she comes down for breakfast in her dressing gown and she smiles at you, sleepy in the weak morning sun, and suddenly you wouldn't swap these feelings for anything, not even for her to be happy with the wing commander. And maybe that's part of the problem, that you wouldn't swap these feelings even for her to be happy. You hope that that's not what it would take.
Saturday mornings are your favourite, or the kind of Saturdays where neither of you have anywhere to be, anyway. Mostly they include the two of you finally emerging when Boris is desperate for a walk, and then spending a few hours rambling through parts of the woods that no one else visited, places where it feels like you're the only two people in the entire world. Those long walks are the only times you don't have a thousand and one other things to be thinking about, things that you're supposed to be doing, accounts you’re supposed to be looking over. You push that all away to watch Teresa take a deep breath of cold mid-morning air, and she turns to you with a smile, like she always does, Boris trotting obdiently along at her heels. You offer her your arm and she accepts, and the two of you stroll along, occasionally bumping sides, in silence, enjoying the quiet. You are suddenly intensely glad that the wing commander did not get to ruin this as you had feared he would.
“Alison,” Teresa starts, and you can tell by the tone of her voice that it’s going to be something serious, something you don't necessarily want to be talking about right now. “I've been thinking again that I should probably look for somewhere else to live. I've imposed on you for long enough.” She's barely finished by the time you've started shaking your head.
“You know I have no problem, am in fact glad of your company. There's no reason for you to move anywhere.”
“I just feel as though I've been taking advantage of your hospitality for too long.”
“It's not hospitality anymore, it’s that you're a very good friend of mine.” You stop, pulling her to a stop too so that you can face her. “I really do not see a problem with you continuing to live with me. It’s our home now, you know that.”
“I know that, I do, it’s just…” she trails off and you're struck with a horrible thought, that maybe it's you, maybe she can't bear to continue living with you.
“If it’s because you don't want to live with me anymore, that's fine, but if it’s just out of a misguided sense that you're a burden then you really musn’t think like that.”
“No, no of course it’s not because I don't want to live with you, I enjoy living with you very much.” She paused, chewing on the inside of her lip for a brief moment, not looking at you. “I'd miss Boris if I moved somewhere else,” she says eventually, smiling.
“I'm sure you would.” You frown at her for a moment. “If there's something wrong you know you can tell me?”
She sighs, and you take her hand, trying to comfort her, trying to pretend like you’re not internally panicking at the idea that she might move away. “I know that, honestly.” She starts walking again, and you go with her without pulling against her, her hand still warm within yours. “It’s not something wrong, as such. It’s not really anything. I just feel as though I'm in the way.” Something about what she says doesn't quite ring true, and however much you press her that day she doesn't tell you. She changes the subject as much as she can, and by the time the two of you get back you've almost forgotten about it, but the thought lingers when you get into bed that night. The worry that maybe she doesn't want to live you, that maybe she knows something is wrong, that you're wrong, that you love her how you shouldn't. You don't sleep well that night.
Weeks, months later and she's still there with you, still hasn't looked into moving out or mentioned it again, and the worry is almost gone, or that particular worry anyway. You're still not sleeping properly, but that doesn't surprise you; how can you sleep when you spend half of your time analysing every interaction the two of you have. You know she's perceptive, that you're not particularly subtle, that Teresa must know something is wrong, even if she doesn't know what.
Regardless of this the bombs keep dropping, you spend almost every night in the air raid shelter, and each time you get out you look over and Teresa is smiling at you, waiting, and you take her hand. You wish you could say that the fear makes you braver, that it makes you want to take a leap, but instead you just grip harder onto her arm as she leads the way home, as the two of you are relieved time and time again to see the lack of damage, as you let go of her so she can get ready for work. You put the kettle on, and try not to think about her so close and yet so far away, as you try not to let your brain travel to thinking about what you would do if you lost her.
She comes downstairs, ready for school, makeup reapplied, and accepts the cup of tea you offer her gratefully (made just how she likes it), smiling as she blows on it a little. You can't upset this balance, you think, as she checks that she has all of her marking, as she stores her lunch that you made away. When she looks up, ready to leave, she looks like she knows what you're thinking, that she knows everything, all of the things that you could never bring yourself to tell her. She smiles again as she pulls you close, hugging you tighter than she usually does, almost as though she doesn't want to lose you, and then she’s downing her tea and shooting out of the door, biking away even as she doesn't want to, even as she wants to stay and find out exactly what your eyes are trying to tell her.
When she gets back from school you look up immediately, you try to tell yourself that you weren’t waiting for her, try not to think about how you haven't concentrated all day and you've let at least three cups of tea go cold. She doesn’t look at you as she hangs her coat up and takes her lunch things into the kitchen, but she comes back with a cup of tea from the pot that was still hot on the counter, and when she does look at you you don’t know what to say. She steps closer, perches on the edge of your desk, ignoring that she’s close to knocking over one of the piles of papers. You stare at the pencil in your hands, and when you look at her she’s smiling, and one of her hands reaches out to take it from you, then she takes your hand.
“Teresa -” you start, but you don’t know what you were going to say. You get distracted by her, smiling down at you, the way you always do when she looks at you like that. You realise that she has been looking at you like that this whole time, that her soft smiles and soft words have been for you, that she’s been kind to everyone but this is not kind, this is something else. It feels natural to cover her hand with yours, to tighten your grip, and she sways towards you, but it’s like she’s waiting. Waiting for you to be the first, to continue with this natural progression towards something that you wouldn’t be able to turn back from, that you wouldn’t want to.
“I can’t lose you,” is all you stay instead, and she smiles, softly, the way she does when she’s making it clear that that smile is just for you.
“You won’t. There isn’t anything that could happen that would result in that.” You believe her, believe that you know what she’s trying to say, what she would say if you would lead the way, if you would make it clear that she hasn’t misread you. You still want to panic, still find it near impossible to rise from your chair, your hands still holding hers, but you do it, and she slips from her perch on your desk to stand in front of you. She puts her tea down carefully, and as she looks away you catch yourself looking at the graceful curve of her neck, her cheekbones, her smile, and as she turns back to you you slide your arms around her waist, her hands coming up to frame your face, fingers gentle on your neck. You look for a long, long, drawn out moment, commit her face this close to memory, and you kiss her and try to tell that voice in your head that you haven't ruined everything. She kisses back and you're so relieved, even though you feel like you shouldn't have been, that she'd told you all she could without putting it out there in a way she couldn't take back if you suddenly decided you couldn't. She smiles against your lips, and when she pulls back her lipstick is smudged and your hands are gripping tightly onto her shirt.
“I've wanted to do that for a long time,” you manage, barely audible, and her smile lights up the room like it always does. You love that smile, you think.
“I know.” Is all she says, and she kisses you lightly and quickly and softly as though to confirm what just happened, and you feel like you've just made a transaction where you came out with a much better deal, although her bright smile says that she's as pleased with this as you are, as you reach up to wipe some of the lipstick smudge away and she grabs your hand instead, holding on, still giving you that smile that lights up the room.