I explained Sir Will’s condition, and as I did I felt big sloppy tears starting to roll down my face again. Mark reached out and brushed a tear away from my cheek, and my skin tingled. Then, to my surprise, he reached out and pulled me to his chest, as Sir Will had done in my university digs all those months before, and murmured, ‘Come on, let it out, have a good cry.’ As he held my face against his chest, my tears staining his designer shirt, he gently stroked my hair. I looked up at his face and he smiled kindly down at me. ‘There Vicki, feeling a bit better now?’ Impulsively I strained my neck up and kissed him on the lips. If I’d taken time to think about it I’d never have done it. Mark looked shocked, and stuttered, ‘Vicki, your majesty, I’m not sure…’ I knew I was risking making a fool of myself, but I was committed by then, I had to know for sure whether it was going anywhere. I struggled into an upright position, my chest pressing against Mark. His arm was still loosely. I wanted to just deny it all, pretend I never heard anything and admonish this diagnosis from reality. I wanted to wake up and this would all be one terrible dream and I would be home in bed with my head rattling from another hangover. But my mother was right there, her arms around my shoulders. She was there to tell me it was going to be all right, that this would be dealt with and beat. She had never before done this, comforted me like this and tried to sooth my pain away. Least not since I was a small, scared child. But that was what I was once again, a scared little boy. Her presence, her compassion now brought its own bout of tears from me. And I thought about that and about her being there and the fact stifled my tears almost as much as my own determination. To know my mother would be here for me was a strange truth to face. There had been years where our relationship had been lacking, maybe even the word is estranged. But this… this incident had come and she had not hesitated.
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