Rain drummed against the sill of the cramped twobed flat in a tower block overlooking the Thames. Arthur watched the droplets spin strange filigrees on the glass as Emily washed cups in the kitchen after dinner.
Tea? she asked.
Sure.
He could hear the soft shuffle of her feet through the hallway; he knew the sound of each step by heart. Nine years together almost a third of their lives. Theyd first met in the second year of the journalism course, sharing a dormitory on campus.
Back then everything had been simple: lectures, latenight chats, a first romance that needed no grand declarations. They moved in together far too early, Arthur would later realise. There were no courtships, no proposals one day his belongings simply stopped returning to the dorm.
Emily set a steaming mug of mint tea before him and slipped into the seat opposite.
Your mum called. She asked about the project.
What did you say?
That youre, as always, a perfectionist and that progress is slow.
Arthur smiled. Her mother, Margaret Hughes, had always treated him with a warm regard, never once prying about a wedding or hinting at grandchildren. She was a remarkable woman; even their friends could not resist asking, Why dont you two tie the knot? Today a former classmate had dropped by, and the question resurfaced.
You know, Arthur said suddenly, I was thinking about Alan Rickman today.
Emily smirked.
Again? Your benchmark.
Its not that, he said, Its just a fine illustration of how a couple can share fortyseven years without any clichés, or they could have a lavish ceremony and dissolve it a year later.
Indeed, a cliché guarantees nothing. The statistics are on your side.
Exactly.
Emily sipped her tea, eyes on the rain.
Lena from HR is getting divorced third marriage. She always said this time would be forever, she whispered.
We havent even started, Arthur grinned, and were still together.
Still together, she echoed.
He knew Emily sometimes lingered at childrens clothing windows, smiled at tots in the park. He, too, sometimes imagined a family not now, not in this rented flat, not with his unstable freelance design gigs but perhaps someday.
Im afraid Ill repeat my parents, he blurted. You know how they spent their lives pretending to be a family for neighbours, for relatives, for themselves, while they barely spoke to each other.
Emily laid her hand on his palm.
Youre not your father. And Im not my mother, though shes brilliant. Were just us.
But if we got married he fell silent.
If we married, nothing would change, Arthur. Except my surname would shift on the passport. Otherwise wed still argue over unwashed dishes, laugh at cheesy series, youd fall asleep over your laptop, and Id tuck a blanket over you.
He looked at her at the fine lines that had appeared around her eyes over nine years, the familiar mole on her neck, the hands he knew better than his own.
What about children? he asked quietly.
Emily sighed.
Children I dont know if I want them now. No. Am I scared I wont have time? Sometimes. But if I ever wanted them, it would be with you, and only if you wanted the same. No ultimatums, Arthur.
She rose, gathered the cups.
You know what Rachel told me at work today? Shes jealous because were real no masks, no games. Even without a stamp on a certificate.
They sat listening to the rain.
A week later Emily met her younger sister, Olivia, in a café in Camden. Olivia had married two years ago and was six months pregnant.
How are you? Olivia asked, biting into a slice of cheesecake. Sorry, Im eating like a madwoman. This little one controls me completely.
Same old, same old, Emily replied, work, home, Arthur.
Olivia set down her spoon, studying her sister.
Emily I wont pry, but Im curious. Have you two decided? Its nearly ten years now. I married Simon after a year and a half, and everyone kept saying we were dragging our feet.
Our story is different, Liv. Were not dragging; were just living.
But you want a family? Kids? Olivia placed a hand on her belly. I used to think I wasnt ready, but when I saw those two tiny kicks, a wave of love and happiness surged. Dont be scared. The maternal instinct awakens the moment the baby becomes real.
Im not scared of kids, nor of marriage, Emily said softly. Im scared of doing it because its time or because everyone else is doing it. Arthur and I have our own narrative. It may not look like yours, but its ours, and its genuine.
What if he never feels ready? Olivia asked quietly, eyes glistening. Im just worried for you.
Emily reached across the table, squeezing Olivias hand.
The scariest thing isnt that hes not ready. The scariest would be if he did it just to tick a box. Id feel that. But Im happy with him every day, even when we argue. Isnt that enough?
A tear slipped down Olivias cheek.
Sorry, its just hormones, I guess. I just want the best for you.
I already have the best cheesecake, a sister, and Arthur waiting at home.
A few days later Arthurs father, George Hughes, turned up unannounced. Their contact had been limited to brief holiday phone calls. George surveyed the modest flat, perched on the offered chair.
Hows it going, son? Mum sends her love.
Fine, just working.
And Emily?
At the office. Shell be home by seven.
An awkward pause settled. George twirled the old keys to his classic Mini in his hand.
Listen, Arthur I might be out of line, but Margaret is worried. We saw on social media that Olivias pregnant. Lovely pictures.
A knot tightened in Arthurs chest.
Dad, if youre talking about marriage and kids
Nothing, lad, George waved, though his eyes said otherwise. I just look at you two. Nine years. Thats serious. Very serious. I want to tell you youre doing well, that youre not repeating our mistakes.
Arthur stared, surprised.
My mum and I married because I was already on the brink. Then we spent our lives reminding each other why we missed opportunities I didnt go to university because of you, my career stalled because of you. Silly, of course. Were to blame. But a certificate on a passport doesnt glue whats cracked. It can even keep you from parting ways nicely, until resentment finally erupts.
Georges gaze softened, fatigue seeping through.
Im not saying marriage is bad. Im saying you feel a big responsibility, and thats right. Honesty beats a perfect picture. Do you talk about this with Emily?
Constantly, Arthur exhaled.
Good. Just make sure youre on the same wavelength. The rest will fall into place or not. But the decision must be yours, not because parents are waiting.
They talked business, George declined dinner, citing work. As he left, Arthur asked, Dad, do you regret anything?
George pulled his coat tighter, thought.
Regret marrying your mother? No. Regret how we all ended up thats a daily thing. Treasure what you have, son. A stamp isnt armour.
That evening Arthur recounted his fathers visit to Emily, who listened while hugging a cushion. Then she said, You know, Olivia came by with questions.
And?
And I told her Im happy just as I am.
He pulled her close. Outside the rain began again.
Theres still something missing, she whispered into his chest.
What? he asked, his heart skipping.
For you to stop grumbling at night when you lose at online chess.
Arthur laughed. Emily raised her head, kissed him, and he realized their train was never stationary. It moved slowly, steadily along a route they charted together, day after day, conversation by conversation. The station called Forever might not be a point on any map, but the journey itself.
In nine years theyd weathered his bouts of depression after failed projects, her night shifts, three moves, her mothers illness, and they emerged unbroken.
Emily, he said.
Yes?
Thank you for being you.
She turned, smiling the smile he loved most a little weary, but warm.
I love you too, she replied.
Arthur went to the window, watched the scattered lights of the city. He didnt know what the next year, five years, ten years would bring, or whether theyd ever reach the station others expected them to. He only knew hed wake tomorrow morning beside Emily.
