“No more than usual,” I say solemnly, and he fights a smile, not quite succeeding. This makes me stare more because he’s usually a beautiful boy, but he’s incandescent when he smiles, his eyes lighting up and his face warm. Unfortunately, it fades very quickly, and he stands. “Will you be alright in here?”
“You haven’t asked me about my situation,” I say quietly.
I don’t need to elaborate, and his face softens. “Maybe because I don’t want you to ask me the same thing.” He hesitates. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “I really don’t. Honestly, I’d like to crawl into bed and just forget this day ever happened.”
“Then why don’t you?” he asks, shrugging casually. “Don’t worry about entertaining me. A brief knowledge of your personality has ensured I don’t expect that from you.”
“You’re such a bitch,” I say admiringly, and he laughs.
It sounds awkward, like a seal clapping, but it makes me smile even though my heart is breaking. “Thank you,” I say softly.
He immediately and predictably waves me off. “No need. What are friends for?”
“And are we friends?”
His phone pings, and my question goes unanswered as he takes his phone from his pocket. He looks down at the text and then curses. “Shit, I’ve got to go out.” He looks up. “I’m so sorry. I probably won’t be back tonight.”
It must be someone he’s dating. “Why are you apologising? You’re doing me a massive favour as it is.”
“Well, I’d hoped to stay around.” I’m absurdly touched, and it must show on my face because he immediately looks uneasy. “I thought I needed to be here and show you how to use the shower—a skill that has obviously eluded you today.”
I laugh, and I could kiss him for that alone. His mouth softens into a smile. “Stay,” he says quietly. “Order food if you want it. The takeaway menus are in a drawer in the kitchen. I have accounts with all of them, so put the bill on those.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Yes, you could,” he says firmly. “Please don’t argue. It’s very tedious, and your voice hurts my brain.” He steps back. “Have a shower and sleep. It’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Will it?”
He stares at me for a second and shrugs. “Probably not, but at least you’ll have eaten and slept.”
“Thank you.”
He waves a hand. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t go anywhere.”
I watch him go. The front door slams, and silence descends, so absolute that it’s startling. At home, there’d be loads of familiar noises—cars on the street, our neighbour Mr Phillips practising scales on his cello, and our other neighbour Betty’s television playing loudly. I’m so homesick that I bend over, holding myself round my middle as if I’m going to fly apart.
The feeling passes, and I decide I’m too tired to shower. I’ll do it in the morning. After undressing, I pull the duvet back and climb into bed. It’s like lying on a cloud. The sheets are soft against my naked skin, and the duvet is fluffy.
I lean over and retrieve my mum’s jewellery box from my bag. Pulling off its T-shirt swaddling, I cradle it in my hand, the red leather cracked and worn. I open the lid, and the little dancer in her tutu immediately starts to turn, the sound of the familiar sweet tune tinkling in the hushed room. I touch her blue skirt delicately with the tip of my finger. The box is full of my mum’s jewellery. I hadn’t lied to the man—it’s all cheap crap combined with little things we’d made or found for her. It meant nothingto the men ready to throw onto a pile of rubbish, but to me, it’s more precious than priceless pearls.
I carefully set the box on the bedside table, listening to the sweet song and watching the twirling ballerina. My blinks get longer and longer, and then the world fades away.
two
The river flows past the bench where I’m sitting, its familiar scent rich in the air. The breeze is cool on my face, and I tilt my face towards it, but it doesn’t calm me, and my foot starts its agitated tapping again.
Footsteps sound, and my eyes fly open. My brother is walking towards me. Everything in me tightens. I try a few deep breaths, but nothing will calm me today.
I look at him, analysing the blond hair that’s a shade darker than mine, the green eyes we got from our mum, and his long, angular body. His hair is lank today, his face creased in lines that, now that I think about it, have been there for a while. I don’t think I’ve looked at him like this before. He’s usually just my brother—the funny, kind man who cared for me when our mum died. He’d only been eighteen and didn’t have to take charge of a young kid, but he’d never faltered in his determination, and I can’t forget that. He was my hero, and it hurts me now in some terrible way to look at him with anger and disappointment.
“Wes,” he says as he nears me. “You came.”
“So it appears,” I say coldly.
His steps falter slightly, his face going paler. I don’t think he’s ever heard that tone from me. Before yesterday, I idolised him. He was everything to me. I immediately want to pull the sharp words back. I can’t bear to hurt him. Then I remember Mum’s furniture, the things she so carefully budgeted for and loved, thrown on a rubbish pile. And when I close my eyes for a moment, I see Cath’s white, strained face.
