Bhodi nods, dragging one of Tam’s old Rebel Kings MC shirts over his head, covering a fit body I haven’t noticed this morning. “That’s not going to happen again. We talked about it.”
“So why are there a billion Christmas cards upstairs?”
“Because he can do them in his sleep.”
Bhodi’s gaze turns shifty.
I cock that brow again. “And?”
“Andthey’re for the church, Sab. You know that’s important to him.”
Course I do. And not because my brother is religious. None of us are. Christmas is for eating eleven types of cheese and falling asleep in front ofL'Enfant au grelot. For doing that shittogether.It’s not for Tam to become a one-man card factory forthe big church in the city. The one with the fire-scorched spire and half-eroded gargoyles that stare at you in the night.
Stone floors.
Grey tea.
Canned soup that tastes like heaven when you haven’t eaten hot food in weeks, despite your brother chasing you all over Hereford to help you.
A shiver passes through me, and not the good kind I relived all night with a diamond-hard dick.
No.
This shudder is shame sitting in my bones. It’s wired nerves and checking my pupils before I face the world. It’s shallow sleep forever and ever and blood on my pillow in the morning.
It’s my brother falling to his knees in a muddy church yard and begging me not to die.
“Papa?”
Esme tugs my old jeans, trying to climb my leg. She’s pretty good at it, but I’m a sucker for sweeping her into my arms and reminding myself how lucky I am to love her.
I scoop her up and take the object she’s batting me with. A Christmas card, of course it fucking is. One of Tam’s. Except it’s not his perfect sweeps and curls crafted into festive symbols and shapes. It’s wobbly lines drawn in crayon. It’sPapawritten in perfect pink.
It’s my daughter and my brother telling me to shut the fuck up and let shit happen.
Or something.
Whatever it is, I’m choked as I tuck the card into my pocket and Bhodi keeps his wise counsel to himself.
An hour later, we leave and I take Esme on our usual Saturday routine of feeding the ducks and spending two hours in the supermarket buying food I’ll lose enthusiasm for cooking by Sunday afternoon.
Later, she falls asleep in front ofFinal Score. It’s the hour of the danger nap, and I know I should wake her. But the truth is I don’t mind when she’s lively at night and keeps me up. It’s better than staring at the ceiling and contemplating why I bought a giant chicken to roast when there’s only me to eat it.
Share it with Tam.
With Bhodi.
They wouldn’t complain; they’d fucking love it. But another hard truth is that I have to learn to be alone and like it. My brother can’t be my crutch.
Neither can hot firemen on hookup apps.
I know that. It’s why I make myself wait until Esme’s in her own bed later that night before I so much as glance at my phone, kidding myself I’m checking the weather even as my shaky thumbs skate on by, navigating on autopilot to the icon I’ve buried with the self-help apps.
The landscape should be familiar to me by now, but my screen filling with tits and cock still catches me off guard.
I make myself look.
Make myselffeel.
