A Home Like Ours Fiona Lowe (good novels to read .txt) 📖

‘I guess they got used to talking to me during the early weeks when you weren’t in as much. Anyway, it wasn’t just my phone that went crazy. I did too for a minute. I had a desperate need for peace and quiet where no one wanted anything from me. I wanted to run away.’

A stricken look crossed his face and she hastily added, ‘It was a momentary thing. I promise you, I’m not going anywhere. I love you and the kids to bits and I’m staying no matter what Parkinson’s throws at us. But that feeling scared me so I went for a run. It cleared my head and now I feel like me again.’ She sucked in a deep breath. ‘I need to start running again.’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay? I thought you hated me running.’

‘I didn’t hate you running.’

She raised her brows at his resigned tone and locked onto his gaze.

He lifted his hands in defeat. ‘Yeah, okay. Fair call. I did hate the running. But one thing this bastard disease has given me is time to think. I think I hated what the running represented rather than the running. It got tangled up with me being sick and not understanding what the hell was going on with my body. It felt like you were running away from me even though you were pushing me to get help. I still hate the idea that you need to run because of me.’

‘No, not because of you.’ She slid her hand over his trembling one, pressing down to still the movement. ‘I need to run because of me.’

He grimaced. ‘Come on, T. Be honest. Team Hooper’s got two junior players and a co-captain who spends more time on the bench than is fair. You’re carrying this team and I hate that you have to.’

‘But Parkinson’s isn’t the only stress in our lives. Even if you didn’t have it, I’d still want to run. I fell in love with the buzz it gives me.’ He gave her a long look, but there was a sparkle in his eyes she hadn’t seen in a while. ‘What?’

‘Just checking for obsessive behaviours.’

‘I’m not obsessive.’ But the moment the words left her mouth she remembered her previous preoccupation with training. With Zac. ‘Okay, I was, but this time I’m not training for a marathon. I don’t have the time and it wouldn’t be fair on you or the kids. I’m thinking more of a quick five kay a couple of times a week and maybe longer on a Sunday morning. I’ll always be back for the breakfast rush.’

‘Probably wise. Otherwise, Flynn and I might turn the kitchen into a river of milk and juice.’

‘You’re just trying to get out of breakfast entirely.’

‘I’m only thinking of you.’

‘You’re still on toast duty, mate. Butter knives are pretty blunt.’

‘Good to know you love me.’

He laughed then—a booming and joyous sound she didn’t hear often enough and it released a pressure value. She relaxed into it, taking it as a sign things were improving. Once they’d teased each other all the time, but like so many things in the months before the diagnosis, they’d lost it. Now it was coming back, even if it was black humour. But the fact Jon was making jokes against himself had to be a sign he was coming out of his dark funk.

God, she hoped so for his sake as well as hers. If they could laugh together about Parkinson’s instead of only crying, surely that would strengthen them as a couple.

His laughter died away. ‘I get you need to run and that first thing in the morning works best, but I’m not too keen about you running on your own in the dark. What about that personal trainer guy?’

‘Zac?’

‘Yeah. Can you go back and run with him?’

His suggestion, born out of love for her, spun guilt so fast inside her that nausea hit the back of her throat. He had no clue she’d once run with Zac at midnight. Or kissed him. That she’d risked everything. And she hoped he never would.

‘Already sorted,’ she said quickly.

‘Good.’ He picked cutlery from the drawer and left her to carry the plates to the table. ‘Let’s sort out these work texts.’

‘Do you want to deal with Vivian Leppart?’

He gave a non-Parkinson’s-related shudder. ‘Hell, no. She’s all yours.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

They ran through the other texts and Jon dictated some notes into his phone. ‘I’ll add this to the agenda so the staff have got clear guidelines about which of us is handling what.’

Tara dallied her fork over her coleslaw. ‘About the summer casuals. What if we offer Amal a job?’

‘Has he applied?’ Jon sounded surprised.

‘No, but I think we should ask him if he’d like to work for us.’

‘Where’s this coming from?’

‘He helped you.’

‘And I thanked him and you gave him a music voucher. Isn’t that enough?’

Tara shifted in her chair, still uncomfortable about the length of time it had taken her to thank the Atallahs.

‘It’s something Helen Demetriou said. When the community garden got damaged, the police interviewed Amal even though he was at home at the time. Helen says he gets called into the police station every time there’s a break-in. It’s the reason Fiza moved out of town.’ She pushed her plate away. ‘I got the feeling Helen blames us.’

Jon’s eyes flashed. ‘I never said Amal broke into the store!’

‘I know, but we’ve both said publicly we think it’s African kids.’

‘Yeah, because that’s what Denny North keeps telling us.’

‘And no one’s been caught. My gut says it’s not Amal. Does yours?’

He was silent for a long minute. ‘Yeah. I find it hard to imagine the kid who talked footy statistics to me for ten minutes to keep me from freaking out would rip me off.’

‘I didn’t know he’d done that. Does he play footy?’

‘Not with the Brolgas, maybe at school? Perhaps he’s just a fan? Either way, the kid’s a walking encyclopedia for the Doggies. Under different circumstances, I might have held that against