Do I feel like having my dick kicked in by my sister? Can’t say I do.
It’s Sunday evening and I’m dropping into Mum and Dad’s flat for dinner. Anna will be there. Despite the Gemma complications, I can’t wait to give my baby sister a hug. We’ve only spoken briefly over the phone these last couple of weeks—I’ve been so exhausted from work.
If I’m not horizontal on the sofa, I’m pushing myself in the gym until my muscles scream, then giving in and jacking off to the thought ofher, before distracting myself with whisky and mindless shitty Netflix recommendations. Rinse. Repeat.
The endless cycle of trying to burn her out of my system isn’t working.
The more I try to exhaust myself, the more she creeps into the corners of my thoughts.
Mum opens the door, beaming at me. “My favorite son!”
“I’m your only son,” I reply.
Her hand whips out and she grabs my forearm, dragging me inside before reaching up on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around my neck. I duck down, encasing her in a tight hug.
I take a deep breath in. “Hey, Ma.”
It’s not until I catch the scent of rose and talcum powder that a wave of emotion swirls around me and pulls me under. I forgot the way she smells. It’s home. It’s been two whole years since I’ve seen her, and guilt crashes over me. I’ve been avoiding London—avoiding memories of Casey and our miserable marriage. It was easier to bury myself in work, to build on the New York business with Grayson rather than return to the life I used to have here. But being here now, holding my mother, I realize how much I’ve missed. How much I’ve let Casey’s ghost keep me from the people who matter—the people I should be focusing on. It’s only now that I realize how much I take the people I love for granted.
Imissher.
She pulls back, gripping my biceps as she drags an assessing gaze over me. “My boy’s back.”
“I’m forty-two, Mum,” I say, a smile tipping the corner of my lips.
“You’ll always be my baby boy,” she says, her eyes glassy.
I plant a quick kiss to the top of her head before following her through to the main living room.
The flat smells like it always did—old books and wood and leather from well-loved furniture.
Dad relaxes in his usual maroon recliner in the corner of the room, remote in hand, a half-finished crossword laid out on the small table beside him. He’s wearing his worn blue overalls with a white shirt underneath, a comb peeking out of the breast pocket. His leather trainers are laced up as tight as they can be.
No matter how far I go, no matter how much of the world I see, I’m grateful that home never changes.
“Old man,” I say, making my way toward him.
“Son.” He groans as he peels himself off the chair, meeting me halfway for a hug.
“You’re shrinking,” I say.
“Watch yourself, boy,” he says, clapping my shoulder with a light laugh.
The door to the flat flies open, hitting the wall with a loudbang.
“Shit, sorry!” Anna calls as she balances a plate of food. She steps inside, kicking the door closed behind her. When she sees me, she screams. Fully screams, and I wince.
“Jesus Christ, Anna,” I say, bringing a hand to cover an ear. “You’re going to burst my eardrums.”
“Oh, piss off,” she says, rushing into the kitchen to deposit the plate. She launches into the living area, flinging herself at me. I wrap my arms around her.
“Hi,” she says, her voice broken.
“Hey, weasel,” I say, pinching her nose. I frown when I notice she’s come alone. “No Mason?”
She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and shakes her head no.
Mum appears behind Anna, shaking her head as if to warn me not to press it.
