I’m crumpling up my empty crisp packet when the train finally pulls into the station with a squeak of its brakes on the track. Throwing the rest of my rubbish into the metal bin on the platform, I step through the automatic doors, heading into the unreserved coach to see if I can steal a seat.
Grabbing one by the window, I rest my temple on the cool surface, closing my eyes as the smog filled streets of London begin to peter out, replaced with flat green fields and pastures of golden wheat, to ward off the oncoming nausea the jolt and jitter of the train is stirring up inside my stomach.
I’m grateful when the overhead Tannoy calls the name of my station, the automatic doors opening to allow in a gust of cold wind that I desperately suck into my lungs, trying to dispel the tequila induced sweat beading on my brow.
Minding the gap, I step off the train, and tread to the car park where I’m hoping my eldest brother, Noah, will be waiting to pick me up.
But it isn’t his blue car which sits trundling in a car spot.
No, instead it’s my father’s old dark green jeep. I loved the thing as a boy. The smell of the old leather seats, mingled with my father’s aftershave and a hint of leather polish coating the steering wheel, still lingers in my memory even now.
“Where’s Noah?” I ask without preamble, fighting against the wind to open the old car door without the entire thing being ripped from its hinges.
“Mollie isn’t feeling too well,” my dad answers with a sympathetic smile at the thought of his first grandchild. “So, he and Faith took her back round home.”
I nod, sliding into the passenger seat and reaching behind me for the seatbelt. “Thanks for picking me up.”
Dad pats my knee before he clicks the handbrake off. “That’s what dads are for, Son.”
We chat about the recent football scores while Dad takes us for a spin down the back country lanes; not a single other person crossing our paths except for a large cow who watches us coast by with sleepy eyes.
“Any update on the job front?”
I can’t stop the smile from tugging at the corner of my lips. “Yeah, actually.”
Dad glances my way before he returns his focus to the road.
“I’ve got another personal trainer gig at a gym not too far away from my apartment. I start tomorrow morning.”
“Great job, Hudson.” I get another pat on the knee. “I’m very proud and I know your mother will be too. We’ll have to uncork something nice for acheersbefore dinner.”
Feeling guilty, I slouch down in my seat. We’ve already uncorked three different fancy bottles in the past couple ofmonths since I’ve blown through three PT jobs and not been able to stick at any of them. “No, they’re too fancy—”
Dad bats me away as he turns into our driveway, the gravel crunching under the heavy-duty tires. “Don’t be silly, we’re celebrating.”
I can’t argue with that.
The house is quieter without the chattering presence of my thirteen-month-old niece, Mollie, but no less busy.
Toeing my trainers off and kicking them into the pile of shoes in the corner, I follow the flagstone floor into the kitchen, the scent of warm, homecooked food making my stomach rumble even if I only ate an hour or so ago.
My brothers, Blake and Grey are already seated at the table, while Mum stands at the stove, a frilly apron tied around her waist, stirring something. Delilah, Grey’s girlfriend, rounds the granite island when she spots me, a glass of wine in hand.
“Hudson! Hey!” She engulfs me in a hug, squeezing tight.
“Hey.” I pat her back. “Happy Sunday.”
A cold bottle of beer is pressed into my hand by my dad, but the sheer sight of it is enough to turn my stomach, reminding me of the night before. He must see me grimace, for he laughs and then turns to Mum.
“Just a water for Hudson boy, I think. Late night last night, Son?”
It’s all I can do but nod, knocking knuckles with my brothers in greeting and then pressing a kiss to my mum’s powdery cheek.
“I thought something was up when I rang you last night and you didn’t answer,” says Blake with a grin. “Which part of London did you end up in?”
“Soho.”
A chorus of “oohs” kisses my ears as I pop the tab to boil the kettle and grab a whisk to help Mum make the gravy.
