That’s sacred ground.
And sacred ground means I don’t waste energy on protecting the feelings of people who don’t matter. Especially not someone who’s been acting like my unofficial fan club since puberty.
I stare out the window at the blur of traffic, every mile closer to home tightening the knot in my stomach.
“Stop scowling,” Mum says suddenly.
“I’m not scowling.”
“You’re scowling.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ll be nice. That’s final.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t argue. No point. She always wins these battles, and besides, the war’s not here. The war’s later, when Zaza’s friend opens her mouth, and I have to decide whether to ignore her or cut her down.
For now, I lean back, close my eyes, and brace myself. Because apparently, surviving commercial flights wasn’t enough punishment for one day.
Home feelsthe same even though the house was new.
The walls smell faintly of Mum’s cooking. I half-expected some sort of celebration to welcome their only son, who had been gone for eleven years, back home.
But no. Not even a balloon.
Dad dumps my bag by the stairs, already muttering about being hungry, and Mum disappears into the kitchen.
“Wash up and come down. We eat at 7 p.m.” He commands before sinking into the sofa he had since I was two. I can’t believe he brought that ratty thing with him to the new house.
Actually, I can believe it.
Rolling my eyes behind his back, I grab my shit and head upstairs.
I plan to stay with them for a while before I start flat hunting. Their new house is big enough that I should still have my privacy, and even though this is my first time stepping through it, I should know.
I bought it for them.
All six thousand square feet, five bedrooms, and seven bathrooms of it.
And despite that fact, I still had to carry my own bags upstairs. I kept my annoyance to myself, though, because only my parents could get away with treating me so poorly.
?My room is easy to spot.
Mum went through the trouble of setting it up and displaying almost every photo of me ever taken. The evidence of her pride in me makes up for my previous qualms about my luggage.
More or less.
After scrubbing every inch of myself to rid my body of any lingering airport filth, I return downstairs, drop onto the couch with my Dad, stretch out, and let myself sink into the torn-up cushions.
The remote lies right next to my dozing father, and I grab it and then flip the channel, scroll past some match highlights, and smirk when I catch my own face filling the screen for a half-second.
I settle in with my feet up, arms spread.
Yeah.This is better. This is where I belong.
“With the loss of Jabari McKingsley to Novis in Croydon, the Disciples look to sign Striker Salvatore “Tore” Moretti.”
Hmm. ‘Tore’ huh?
