Everyone has the potential to be an asshole.Most aren’t, but the ones who are seem to treat it like a calling.Their comments used to rattle around in my head for days, making it hard to face myself in the mirror.I’d walk into a room and feel exposed, wondering if someone recognised me, if they’d confront me, if they’d laugh.
It got to me.More than I liked to admit.
There were nights I nearly quit — when the pressure of studying, the bills, the cold grey weather, and the constant hum of judgement made me want to pack up and fly home.I missed the cookies.I missed the coffee.I missed conversations where I didn’t need Gavin to translate British sarcasm into American English.We were both speaking English, but sometimes it didn’t feel like it.
Mostly, I missed the sun.And the salt in the air.And the version of me who didn’t feel so...scrutinised.
But things got better.Slowly.I made more friends.I adapted.I bought a bigger coat.I learned about British history, its weirdly charming culture, and developed a deep, spiritual appreciation for Jammie Dodgers.
And through it all, there was Gavin — my chaos goblin.The one who told me to get my head out of my ass when I needed it, shoved biscuits into my hand when I forgot to eat, and reminded me that quitting wasn’t the same as resting.
Somewhere along the way, I turned a corner.And for the first time since landing in this cold, damp island, I felt like maybe — just maybe — I wasn’t running anymore.
CHAPTER 2
ROBBIE
The day I’d been dreadingfinally arrived.
I wanted to run.Hide under my bed like the scared child I still was somewhere deep inside.I wanted my dad to comfort me, to make the monsters go away the way he used to.I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.I didn’t want to be a grown-up today.
Standing in front of the mirror, adjusting my tie for the tenth time, I stared into my own eyes and tried to steady my breathing.Dark smudges circled them: Dad’s eyes, Mum’s colouring.A perfect genetic cocktail of exhaustion and grief.
The house was silent.Evan was away visiting his parents, and without his chaotic energy...or his boisterous Taylor Swift impressions in a blond wig and bra — the quiet felt oppressive.If he’d been here, he’d have told me to stop beating myself up, that it was okay to be vulnerable.But he wasn’t, so I rattled around the house alone with my thoughts.
Then I was climbing into my car again, driving to the house I hated.Only this time, instead of police cars, a black Jaguar hearse and a matching limo waited outside.
We drove in silence to the crematorium in the next town over, each of us lost in our own memories.
I felt detached from reality, like I was watching the world through a fogged-up lens.The weak November sun did nothing to chase away the chill clinging to my bones.Even the smell of fallen leaves felt wrong — too alive for a day like this.
Facing Dad’s siblings, his oldest friends, even the guys from the pub...it hit me harder than I expected.They were grieving, too.We weren’t the only ones who’d lost him.
Inside, Dave led the way to the front row.I followed, numb, my eyes fixed on the coffin.My flowers rested on top, just behind the last photo I ever took of Dad.
After that, everything blurred.
