I loved him. He loved my best friend.
Anne Harper stood by the window, her hands trembling around an envelope the postman had just delivered. The familiar handwriting inside turned her world upside down.
“Anne, come quickly. Georgina is unwell. Very ill. Emily.”
Forty years of friendship. Forty years splitting joys, sorrows, secrets down the middle. Only one truth she’d never shared with her dearest friend, a truth that had burned in her chest for thirty-two years.
The bus from town lasted two and a half hours, the journey passing fields and small villages. Anne settled by the window, memories flooding back. Emily was twenty-eight then, she twenty-five. Both worked at the textile mill, sharing a dormitory wall. Evenings were spent with tea and whispered dreams of what the future might hold.
Then Thomas entered the scene.
Tall, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. New supervisor at the factory, the girls went to great lengths to look their best—freshened blouses, polished shoes. Yet his gaze lingered only on Emily.
“Anne,” Emily would whisper at night, “I think I’m in love. Truly in love. Never like this before.”
Anne lay silent in the dark, her own heart breaking. For the same man.
Thomas courted Emily old-fashioned, like a romantic novel. Flowers, moonlit walks, shared strolls through the park. Anne attended their dates as the third wheel, smiling as her soul crumbled. Because he was good, honest, kind—the kind of man she’d always dreamed of.
“Anne,” Emily would coo after their trysts, clinging to her neck, “he told me he loves me! Can you believe it?”
“I do,” Anne replied, eyes lowered.
The wedding was modest but joyous. Anne stood as maid of honor, toasting to the pair, dancing with guests, her heart splintered in two. When the newlyweds left for their honeymoon, she wept into the pillows for days.
A year later, the couple had Georgina. Anne became the godmother, visiting daily, lugging baby bottles and toys, forcing herself not to linger on Thomas’ features, not to seek his eyes.
“You couldn’t have asked for a better sister,” Emily would say, tucking Georgina into bed.
“If only you knew,” Anne would think.
At three, Georgina’s family moved to London for better opportunities. Emily urged Anne to join.
“I’ve my mother here to care for,” she lied. The truth was simpler: she couldn’t bear to see their happiness every day.
Partings were tearful. Georgina clung to Anne like ivy, Thomas shaking her hand with a quiet, knowing look.
“Thank you, Anne. You’re… special to us,” he’d murmured.
She swore she saw regret in his eyes that day.
The years after were a blur of work, caring for her aging mother, and rejecting suitors who faded next to Thomas’ shadow. Letters became calls, and eventually silence.
When Emily called twenty years later, it was to share the news of a divorce. Thomas had withdrawn into his work, the marriage hollow. Georgina was now married, with two children of her own.
“Where is he?” Anne asked one evening, unable to disguise her curiosity.
“Living in a flat on the outskirts, only visits Georgina occasionally,” Emily replied. A pause. “I think we were better off as strangers.”
The air was crisp when Anne arrived at the old cottage. The village had changed—new shops, tarmac roads—but Emily’s house still stood, tidy as ever.
“Anne!” Emily embraced her tightly, eyes glistening. “Georgina’s been sick, very sick. She’s asked for you.”
Lung cancer. Stage four. The words hit Anne like a tidal wave. Georgina, the child she’d once taught to tie her shoes, now facing death alone.
Thomas returned to the village too, living in the main house now. Seeing him again after three decades felt like meeting a ghost. Older, grayer, but that same intensity in his gaze.
He greeted her with a nod. “It’s been too long, Anne.”
She managed a smile, the old ache returning.
“Did you ever think about me?” she asked quietly that night, sipping tea in the kitchen.
He hesitated. “I thought about you every time the mill burned down, every time Georgina asked about her favorite godmother. But I was married, and you were part of Emily’s world.”
“And now?”
He reached for her hand. “Now I wish I’d fought for what I wanted.”
The truth spilled out—her lifelong love, his silent longing, the years wasted. Emily, waiting nearby, listened in silence.
“I always knew,” she said at last. “Love moves in strange ways, doesn’t it? Let’s not waste any more time.”
They live in neighboring cottages now, both nearing eighty. Thomas and Anne, neither married, neither needing titles. Georgina’s burial was a quiet affair, the three of them gathered, hands clasped.
Emily joked, “The three musketeers, reborn.”
Sometimes, they sit on the porch with tea, watching the seasons change. Anne no longer asks if her love was wasted. Thomas used to say it came too late. Now he just smiles, stroking her hand.
“Better late than never,” he says, and the truth hangs between them like the scent of lavender in summer air.
