“Sorry, Aunt May. I promise to visit another time.” My voice is unsteady. “Excuse me.”
And without further hesitation, I flee the table for the study. I grab my suitcase and unload the gifts I brought for my family. Alone, tears burn hot down my face.
To my mother, Carys is nothing but a living reminder of my past mistakes rather than something good, a highlight of my life so far. If they have no time for anything or anyone I care about, imagine what they would make of Ben too. It would be a lot worse.
Blinking through tears, I struggle to close my suitcase. I shove on my jacket and shoes. With the full-size suitcase and my guitar, I head out. I don’t care if I have to walk to the station. I don’t care if they think I’m overreacting. For once, I wish my parents were on my side—Carys’s side.
Outside, rain falls. I’m not far down the lane when a car pulls up beside me, headlights casting a misty glow along the forested route. Trees are strange shadows in the dark. The tires crunch over gravel.
“Come on,” says Michael, window rolled down. “I’ll give you a lift to the station.”
Because it’s Michael, I agree. He knows better than to try to change my mind, to turn the car around to return to the Christmas nightmare back at the house. He also knows better than to apologize for them.
We’re quiet on the dark ride to the station. It’s not far by car. Rain drums on the roof.
When we arrive, Michael pulls up to the curb. He shuts off the car and looks at me. “I’m sorry,” he says simply. “That was unfair.”
A sound of acknowledgment escapes me.
“Since you skipped out on the gifts portion of the evening, I thought to give this to you now.” He pulls out an envelope from his coat pocket. “For your trip. For Carys.”
He knows how to cut off my protest before it begins. My mouth opens. Shuts. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
Michael squeezes my shoulder. “I know Mum and Dad aren’t easy, but you can always call me, all right? I hope you know that.”
A lump forms in my throat, caught rough when I try to clear it. “Cheers.”
“And I hope you get to spend some time together with Ben. He sounds like he’s someone worth spending time with.”
I gulp. “He’s brilliant. And so are you. Thanks. For this. For the lift.”
“You better go. Train departs in five minutes if you’re taking the Overground back to London.”
It’s a good point, because who knows what the trains and Underground are doing tonight. If it gets too late, I’m not getting anywhere. And God knows what the connections are like to Emily’s at this hour.
Something to figure out on the train into London.
Chapter Twenty-Five
By the time I pull myself into some fucking semblance of composure, on edge from the blow-out at dinner, my hard-fought calm dissolves when I go to buy a train ticket. At Victoria Station, I’m in full-blown panic attack mode. Standing on the concourse, I slam the heel of my hand against a defenseless ticket machine, because there’re no direct trains to Wales at this hour. Or tomorrow. The best I can get are three changes and being stuck out in some Bristol station overnight, if I can get that far.
Impossible.
I’ll miss Christmas and that can’t be. A promise is a promise, and I promised Em and Carys I’d be there. I should’ve checked the schedule days ago. I shouldn’t have gone to Richmond at all, like I did last year, and headed out earlier. Obviously no good comes of trying to please everyone. Sacrificing sleep to travel late to Wales seemed like a fine compromise at the time. Now, I hate myself for fucking everything up.
Caught between shouting or vomiting, I shake.
Oh my God, Charlie, why didn’t you think this through? Shit. Fuck. Fuck again.
As I gulp back air that’s nearly a sob, a passing couple look at me oddly, walking hand in hand.
Reeling away from the machine, I pace aimlessly around the concourse, past shuttered shops and a newsagent’s that’s open, with packaged snacks and tabloids and glossy magazines brimming with Christmas glamour and decor that Mum would be all over.
Some headline catches my eye despite my despair.ROCKER MAXIMUS ST. PIERRE CHRISTMAS SPECIAL HEARTACHE: SPLITSVILLE WITH SIENNA RUMORED. It’s a big charity fundraiser on Channel 4, I think, for underprivileged kids or endangered species or another worthy cause, something I remember hearing about before, but fuck knows about the heartache part. I’m glad to know someone else is having a shit Christmas, that fame and fortune is no insulation from hurt.
Get it together. Don’t make a scene. The last thing I need is the police in my business.
The problem should have been blindingly obvious, but I was too caught up in my urgency to flee my parents’ house. Now, all of the rage and panic won’t make the rail service run to Swansea tonight.
