But living it?
That was different.
Warren’s voice pulled him back to the present. “Alright, History. What’s the order?”
Jude blinked, refocused. “Uh—cod and chips. Mushy peas if you’re brave. Definitely curry sauce if you’re northern.”
Warren wrinkled his nose. “Not sure I can do mushy peas. Bittoogreen.”
“They’re a delicacy. Pea purée for people with no Michelin stars and very strong opinions on vinegar.”
Warren chuckled and stood to order, leaving Jude briefly alone with the window and the rumble of the storm. The smell of salt and fryer oil filled the air, comfortingly sharp, soaked into every surface of the little shop. For once, it made Jude feel as though he was somewhere else. Someplace ordinary.
Warren returned with a numbered plastic stand in one hand and two cans of Dandelion and Burdock in the other.
“Points for authenticity,” Jude said, taking one.
“I also came prepared.” Warren grinned and pulled two bottles of Peroni from the deep pockets of his shorts. “Didn’t think Pinot would pair well with battered fish.”
“You’d be surprised with the ones they serve in here. Same acidity.”
Warren laughed and slid into the booth, eyeing the beers as if waiting to see what Jude would do first. So Jude tried to twist off the cap. And failed. Spectacularly.
Warren snorted. “Alright, hand it here.”
Jude passed it over, and with a move so casual it had to be practiced, Warren hooked the cap on his molars and popped it clean off.
“Don’t ask how I learned that.” He handed it back. Then did the same with his own.
“Teenage rite of passage in South London?”
“Something like that.”
Warren tilted the neck of his bottle towards him. “Cheers.”
Jude clinked his with it. “So what brought you to Worthbridge, Mr Bailey? Other than the world-famous fish and chips, of course?”
Warren swallowed a mouthful of his drink and thumped his chest with a cough, as if the carbonation had hit wrong. Then, “Inherited a house.”
Jude widened his eyes. “Nice. Lucky. Property round here’s going up fast.”
“Yeah. Lucky.” Warren shrugged. “Or, you know… as lucky as it gets when someone dies and leaves you their place.”
Jude winced. “Ah. Shit. Sorry. Were you close? I mean, I guess you must’ve been if they left you a house. That’s… a big gesture.” He trailed off, realising how clumsy he sounded. “Shit. Sorry,” he muttered again, cringing inward. “That was a crap thing to say.” And maybe it was the embarrassment, or that it was easier to offer honesty when he was already off-balance, but the next part slipped out before he could stop it. “I don’t have much frame of reference when it comes to… family stuff.”
Warren took another sip of his drink, as if giving himself time to think, or giving Jude time to brace. He didn’t look away, though. Those eyes stayed on him. And God, they weredeep. Not just in colour, but in how they held Jude there. As if Warren could see straight through the carefully stitched layers Jude wore. Not to strip them away, but tosee them.And he didn’t back away.
Jude’s chest tightened.
“Nah,” Warren said, setting the bottle down. “We weren’t close. My uncle was a bit of a recluse. Didn’t see him much. Then, out of nowhere, he leaves half the house to me. Youngest of three. The other half went to my cousin. She’s the youngest in hers. We figure we were the last names he remembered. Last ones out, easier to recall.”
He gave a small shrug. There was no bitterness. No wounds disguised as humour. Just quiet acceptance. As if grief didn’t have to be dramatic to be real. That he didn’t need a tragic backstory to feel the ache of something unspoken.
And somehow,thathit harder than anything else.
Jude blinked once. Then again. The lump in his throat catching him off-guard.
He turned back to his drink, tightening his grip around the glass.
