A Healing Love
Copyright© 2025 by Marc Nobbs
Chapter 39: Love’s Light
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 39: Love’s Light - Paul Robertson's journey continues as his past and present collide at a star-studded movie premiere, where a connection that once terrified him reignites with passion that threatens to consume them both. Fighting to forge a new future for himself and stop drifting, Paul must finally become the man he’s always been afraid to be. A beautiful, bittersweet exploration of grief, social responsibility, the healing power of love, and learning that sometimes loving someone means letting them go.
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction
Three days.
That was my first thought when I woke on Sunday morning, lying on my back with Carly draped over me, still clad in the negligee that she’d never taken off the night before.
She was flying to Los Angeles on Wednesday afternoon after putting the finishing touches to the album. Despite what she’d said at the concert, it wasn’t quite finished yet, but two more days in the studio and it would be. Or, at least, Carly’s part would be. Harry and Ellie were also going to the Oscars ceremony—they were technically the ones nominated as songwriters—but would complete the final mix when they returned and then send it off to Nashville for the bigwigs at the record label to hear.
In the meantime, Carly would return to Nashville and commence rehearsals with a new band for the promotional tour that Glenn had organised.
Ben and Amiee were currently negotiating on my behalf to partially fund the tour. I still had a big chunk of the one hundred thousand dollars I’d set aside to fund the album remaining, and it made financial sense to use that money to help promote it. Plus, I meant I’d receive a share of the ticket revenue from the shows.
But three days.
And we’d spend most of the first of those on the train.
Three days.
It wasn’t enough.
I hugged my Alabama Sweetheart closer to me, causing her to stir.
She let out a groan. Then she said, “Don’t move. I don’t want to get up just yet. I just want to lie here with you like this for as long as I can.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“What time is it?”
I reached out to the bedside table and picked up my phone, which I’d retrieved from the floor where it had fallen last night just before we settled down to sleep.
“Seven thirty.”
She moaned. “Why do you always wake so early? There wasn’t even an alarm.”
“A lifetime’s habit.”
“What time do we have to check out?”
“Eleven. But if you want breakfast, they stop serving it at half-ten.”
“So ... We could lie here for another two hours?”
“Probably.”
“Let’s do that then. Just lie here and hold me tight like you never want to let me go.”
I sighed and hugged her tighter. “That’s easy. I don’t ever want to let you go.”
“Me either.”
We were quiet for a few minutes, just enjoying holding each other.
“Paul?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too, Carly.”
It was a noticeably quiet train ride home. On the way up to Manchester, there’d been plenty of chatter among us (well, mostly between the girls) at various points along the journey, but heading south was the complete opposite. I had my tablet with me and was reading a novel. Carly was also reading—a crime thriller she’d picked up at the train station before we departed. Mark had his earphones in, and I think he was listening to football commentary on the radio, while Imogen was working on an essay that was due for her elective module.
After breakfast at the hotel, we’d met Mark’s parents at the train station to say goodbye and then set off before eleven. By two, we had disembarked at London Euston. The train to Westmouth left from King’s Cross, and you can take the Tube from Euston to King’s Cross, but it’s no quicker than walking since the stations were so close together. In fact, it can even be quicker to walk if you arrive at the tube platform at the wrong time and have to wait for a train. So, we opted to walk.
And because Mark’s stomach rumbled loudly enough for the whole of London to hear as soon as we got off the train, we stopped on the way to grab a bite to eat.
We finally made it back to the house in Westmouth just after four.
“I’m just gonna take this upstairs, then go and meet the lads in the pub to watch the footy,” Mark said as we entered. “You up for that?”
I shrugged. “Maybe next week.”
He glanced at Carly.
“Yeah. Next week.” He looked at Imogen. “Coming?”
“Will Nessa be there with Mickey?”
Mark nodded.
“Then yes. Give me five minutes.”
They both went upstairs with their bags. I left my bag by the door, told Carly to do the same, then took her hand and led her into the living room.
“Looks like we have the place to ourselves for a couple of hours.”
“Yes,” she said with a smirk. In her most exaggerated ‘Southern Belle’ accent, she added, “Whatever shall we do?”
I grinned. Then said in a mock formal tone, “I really have no idea. Any suggestions?”
This was part of our banter. Quite often, when we found ourselves alone in the house, we’d pretend that we didn’t know what to do, fully aware that we’d take advantage of the privacy to go up to my room and get intimate.
But not this time.
She dropped the exaggerated accent and, in her usual, soft Southern drawl, said quietly, “Actually, Paul, can we just sit on the couch and cuddle. Maybe put a movie on. I don’t mind what kind. I just want to sit and cuddle with you.”
I looked into her eyes and saw the sadness that I felt, knowing these cuddle sessions would soon be over, reflecting back at me.
“Sounds perfect,” I said.
“Are you still planning to go to that economics lecture in the morning?” Carly asked as we sat on the sofa. I’d made us a hot drink before we settled down, and she was holding it with both hands, even as she leaned as close to me as possible.
“I was actually thinking of skipping it. I know that I don’t really know anyone in the class, but I’m sure someone will let me copy their notes if I ask. Or I can get them directly from Lexi. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. I just want to spend every second I can with you before you ... You know...”
“Leave,” she said, her voice a flat monotone, devoid of emotion.
“Yeah. That.”
She rested her head on my shoulder and sighed. “Actually, I think you should go. I don’t have very much left to do in the studio. There’s about a dozen lines or so that Harry wants me to re-record, but then I’m done. If you go to your lecture and then come and meet me for lunch, it’ll help me focus and get them done as quickly as possible. Then we can spend the afternoon together and all day Tuesday, too.”
I didn’t like the idea of being apart from her, even for just a morning, but what she’d said made sense. I’d much rather that the time we spent together was focused on simply being together rather than on her working.
“Okay. Let’s do that.”
Quietly, she said, “Thank you.”
She sipped her drink. I held mine in one hand and brought it up to my mouth to do the same. We remained quiet for several minutes, just enjoying each other’s presence.
Eventually, she said, “Paul?”
I tried to turn my head to look at her, but couldn’t because she still had her head resting on my shoulder.
“Yes?”
“There’s a photographer who’s been coming into the studio regularly to take shots for my Instagram. Glenn arranged it.”
I nodded. “I guessed that. All of those photos look professionally shot.”
“Yeah, well, Glenn wants me to do a proper photo shoot with them before ... You know ... Wednesday.”
“Oh, right. Okay.”
“He wants photos of me all around town. You know, at all the local landmarks. Like we did in London. He thinks it will be good for promotion. So, like, at the beach or the High Street. That sort of thing.”
“I get it.”
“And ... Well, I’d really like you to come with me. Have photos taken of us together. Even if those ones are just for us. I think it would be really nice, you know?”
“Yeah, I like that idea.”
“Is Monday afternoon okay with you? I think I’d rather do it Monday so we can do what we want on Tuesday.”
“Yeah. That’s fine.”
“And Glenn wants me to do a session in the photographer’s studio too—you know, proper portrait shots. We might even get one for the album cover. It would seem right to have the photo for the album taken here, where it was recorded. So, can I get some studio shots with you, too?”
I finally shifted so I could look at her. She moved her head, so we were looking into each other’s eyes. I could see her love for me in her eyes—even if it was still tinged with sadness.
“Carly. Sweetheart. My Alabama Sweetheart.” She smiled as I used the name of the album to describe her. “As long as I’m with you, I don’t care what we do. As long as whatever we do makes you happy.”
She blinked. Then smiled and nodded.
We settled back down again.
“The photographer’s really good, actually. We’ve already done one studio session.”
“Really? When?”
“A couple of weeks ago. It was fun.”
“How come I haven’t seen those photos?”
“Oh, you will. Trust me, Paul. You’ll see them. And you’re going to love them.”
We sat in comfortable silence for about half an hour, simply watching the movie, mindless as it was. It was a ‘traditional’ action movie, in the sense that there was an action hero doing action hero things.
And he was male.
As we watched, I couldn’t help but contrast it with Chloë’s Oscar-nominated performance in ‘Never Send a Man.’ Sam had been spot on when he called it ‘genre-subverting.’
That got me thinking about the party after the premiere. This led me to reflect on Carly singing ‘You Made Me.’ Which in turn got me thinking about the new songs I’d heard her performing at her live shows over the past few weeks.
Then I realised it was more than a ‘few weeks.’ It was nearly two whole months since I’d met her again at that party. And her first ‘Boots ‘n’ Bourbon’ performance was just about a week after that.
‘You Made Me’ was a deeply personal song that told the listeners about my relationship with her, from when we met to when I left. Most of the songs on that first album were similarly intimate and personal. It was even called ‘Three Weeks In Nashville,’ which was the length of time we spent together. Her second album, “Heartbreak Road,” followed suit. Almost every song was deeply personal, and its message was ‘real,’ if you know what I mean.
Then there were the new songs. I hadn’t heard all twelve of them on part one of ‘Alabama Sweetheart,’ but those I had heard were just as personal and just as ‘real.’
‘Vulnerable’ wasn’t just about what making love feels like for a girl—it was about how it felt for Carly when she made love to me.
And ‘The Man You Are Today’ was about how the trials I had endured over the past few years—the loss of my parents and of Clarissa primarily—had shaped me into the man that Carly loved, and how she might not have loved me had I not gone through all that.
So, did that mean that ‘Love’s Light,’ the song she’d sung last night, was also ‘real’? Was Carly truly suggesting that there was another woman in my life whose love was waiting for her to leave in order to reveal itself—to ‘walk through the door’?
I needed to know. Not only if the sentiment of the song was genuine, but also, if it was, who was this woman that Carly believed was waiting for her to leave?
I needed to ask her.
I had to ask her.
But I couldn’t.
Not now.
Not yet.
But soon.
When, though? When would be a good time to bring it up? How do you bring up something like that? What are you meant to say?
“Hey, Sweetheart, you know that song you wrote that sounded like you were ‘giving’ me to some other woman? Was that real? And if it was, do you mind telling me who she is?”
No, I couldn’t do that.
And when? Not while we were sitting here on the sofa—it would spoil the mood. The mood was quite pleasant.
When then? Before we go to bed? When we’re lying in bed after making love?
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