“It’s been a tough week, sweetheart,” she says, dispelling the same breath in a loud puff of air. “Please try to understand. I’ll be alright after I get some sleep.”
“Alright” is what I’d call a Dynamite Word when it comes to Mum. She’s not completely wrong. There’s a good chance an extended rest will sand off the worst of her edges. But it won’t last. The moment she wakes up, the fuse will be lit. She’ll be alright until she very suddenly isn’t, and when that big stick of dynamite explodes, anyone standing within fifty feet will be engulfed in the flames.
I give my head a small shake, irritation renewed, and get up from the bed.
“I’ll be heading out for a run in a bit.” Ploughing on and ignoring the rest of it is my best bet for getting out of here with my mental tethers unfrayed. “But if you need me, you can call.” The silent “please don’t need me” doesn’t have to be said for it to be clearly heard.
Mum makes a displeased sound and scowls up at me.
“For goodness’ sake, Leo. You’re twenty-four years old. Why do you feel the need to spend every free moment either working out or sitting inside reading your nonsense fantasy books? You should be out.” She flings an arm to the side, a gesture meant to encompass all of the “out” she means, I suppose. Her plucked brows come together in an even deeper scowl. “You’ll only be this young and responsibility free once in your lifetime. You should be going out with friends to pubs and the cinema and music festivals. Find yourself a few girlfriends. Or boyfriends. Whatever.”
Mum half sits up to deliver the next bit. “You need to get yourself a life, sweetheart. I know people say life is just something that happens to you. But that’s not true.Existencejust happens to you.Lifeis something you need to go out there and find.”
Mum gets like this sometimes. In her more lucid moments. Those moments are few and far between, but they do happen.
She’s made it very plain on many occasions she thinks I’m not behaving the way a person my age should. She thinks I’m some workaholic, friendless, introverted weirdo who is wasting his youth and potential.
In truth, she doesn’t really know me.
I’ve found purpose in my job as a FISA agent. It means a lot to me to help protect my country and stop violent things from happening to innocent people.
Idohave friends. It’s just not a big deal to me that I do. It might sound narcissistic, but I’m mostly okay with my own company a lot of the time. I don’t need loads of people around to stop me from feeling lonely.
It’s difficult to refrain from calling her out on the “responsibility free” line, but I manage it. Anything I’d say would be below the belt and just cause more drama than I want to deal with right now.
“Mum.” I fix her with the most unimpressed stare I can dredge up on such short notice. “Please don’t try and have a deep conversation about life with me before nine o’clock in the morning. No one wants that.No one.”
“I just think it wouldn’t kill you to put yourself out there more,” Mum defends guilelessly. “You don’t want to be alone all your life, do you?”
I resist the sudden need to pick up a pillow and whack her over the head with it.
“I’ll see you later, okay?” I tell her, hearing the exasperation in my own voice. “Please try to eat something before I get back. Maybe even something with fruit or vegetables in it, huh?”
I’m sure Mum has more to say, but I don’t want to hear it.
I leave the room and head downstairs, feeling guilty about having left Damon on his own for so long. I didn’t even have the tea and biscuits ready like I said I would.
I find Damon sitting at the kitchen island with a cup of steaming tea on the counter in front of him. He looks just as serious and commanding in person as he sounds on the phone.
Damon is a behemoth of a man, broad shouldered and muscle-bound. He has a lovely pair of whiskey-coloured eyes and a bronze skin tone he owes to his mother. His large black curls and Grecian features he owes to his father. All of which means he’s the kind of gorgeous you’re afraid to touch in case it’s a mirage.
I stride into the kitchen, gearing myself up to offer a sincere apology to my friend.
“Don’t worry about it,” Damon says before I can formulate the words and speak them out loud.
Smiling at him gratefully, I head straight to the cupboard where we keep the biscuits. I get out a pack of dark-chocolate digestives and bring them over to him.
Damon opens the packet of biscuits as I sit up beside him at the kitchen island. He offers me a biscuit first, and I snatch one from the torn packet. I eat it in two bites and snag another one before he can put the packet down on the counter.
“You look rough, mate,” Damon tells me in his usual blunt fashion. He takes a biscuit and eats it in three bites.
I slide a glance over at him, taking in his FISA-issued workout gear, consisting of black jogging bottoms and a comfortable-looking black hoodie. He was probably still in bed when Yasmin called him to go pick up Mum, and he threw on something easy.
“You look like a boxer who missed his shot at the big time and became a personal trainer filled with regret over a life ill spent.” I shake my head slowly, giving him a sarcastic moue. “So sad.”
Damon picks up his Batman-themed mug and takes a long drink from it before responding. “I would have been a crap boxer,” he says mildly. “You’ve seen me try to skip rope.”
“It was embarrassing for me to witness,” I agree. “We said we’d never speak of it again.”
