“Oh, that’s … awkward.”
“Yeah, something like that.” I glance quickly through the glass panel at Benji, who is still sitting in the same position, staring into his mug like he’s lost in thought. “Are you okay? I know Mum’s working late and I didn’t make dinner yet.”
“Dion, I’m fine,” Dad says with extra emphasis. “I can handle making myself some toast. May even boil an egg or two.”
I bite my lip as I imagine Dad dealing with boiling water and the gas hob.
“It’s good for me,” he continues. “I rely on you too much.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I know he relies on me. But how do I tell him that it’s not a bad thing. That I want him to, without making him feel more and more out of touch with his independence.
“Mum will be back around nine, right? So you’ll be okay until then?”
“Of course,” he says, and I can almost hear the smile in his voice. The slow smiles he likes to give me even though I sometimes sense they are an effort for him.
“But you can call Mrs Taylor, if you have to,” I remind him. Shirley Taylor has been our next-door neighbour all my life and has helped me many a time when I needed an extra pair of hands.
“Yes, but then I have to be sociable,” he teases.
“Ugh, I hate being sociable,” I agree.
“Like father, like son,” he says, and I wonder if he knows just how much that makes my heart swell.
“And you can call me, if you need to.”
“And stop you being sociable with that client of yours? Wouldn’t dream of it. Are they really pissed off?”
I look through the internal window again and see Benji rubbing at his stomach again. I wonder if he needs any meds or any particular foods for his illness or bag. He didn’t say anything when I mentioned the food in the staff fridge but maybe he’s embarrassed.
“Actually, he’s pretty nice,” I admit.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, he’s someone I used to go to school with.”
“You hated everyone you went to school with.”
“Well, yeah, but this guy I didn’t hate quite as much as the others.”
Dad’s laugh reverberates softly down the phone line. “Enjoy reminiscing then,” he says. “I’ll see you later, son. And don’t worry about me.”
“I won’t,” I lie, and then I hang up.
A text from my mum has come through in our group chat while I was on the phone.
Locked in a tattoo studio? That doesn’t sound as fun as a pub lock-in but a slightly wilder Friday night than Eastenders and a take-away. Let us know if we can help.
I’m fine. Love you.
I text back and am about to pocket my phone when I see my dad typing. Curiosity gets the better of me and I wait for him to send the message he’s working on with his one good hand.
He’s stuck there with an old friend from school. One he didn’t hate as much as others.
Interesting …
Mum is quick to comment.
I roll my eyes but bite back a smile at the same time.
