“I have to go to Birmingham on Friday to see my dad and stepmum, and then Saturday I have a…” His focus dips to his hands, resting on his lap. “A thing.”
I swallow thickly and words are passing my lips before I can stop myself. “A date?”
Darius won’t look at me, but he nods.
Well, fuck. I never knew he was seeing someone. I rub at an invisible ache in the centre of my chest, forcing a smile on my face, not sure if I succeed.
“Fun. Sunday, then?”
“Ollie, it’s not – ” I cut him off.
“You don’t owe me any explanations, D.”
He shifts on the sofa, our arms flush, his head tipping to rest on my shoulder. His hair smells like apples and I grit my teeth at how badly I want to bury my face in the soft strands.
“Where are you working tomorrow?” Darius asks. He’s picked up the remote and turned off my show, lining up some serial killer documentary.
“Bar La Vella. I do a few shifts a month.”
“Ooh, fancy,” he replies. “Do you have to wear the bowtie and suspender belts?”
“Yep. You’ve been there?” He must have if he knows the staff uniform.
He chuckles. “Once or twice. My father loves the place.”
“Huh. I’ve been working there for a year now. Wonder if I’ve met him? Does he look like you?”
Darius shakes his head. It’s still resting on my shoulder and the strands tickle my chin.
“Nope. Nothing like me. He’s tall with dark brown hair that matches his eyes.”
I can’t see Darius’s face in this position, but I don’t need to see him to picture him perfectly. I memorised his shockingly blue eyes, plush pink lips and lithe body the day I met him.
“I’m the spitting image of my father,” I admit. “Or I was before I bleached my hair a few weeks back.”
And before he died.
Darius reaches a hand up, playing with a stray curl that’s fallen over my forehead.
“My dad says I look like my mum, but I never met her, so I don’t know for sure. But I guess that’s where I get my blond hair from.”
The confession twists something in my chest because this is the most real conversation I’ve had with someone in…I can’t even recall how long.
“What happened to her?”
Darius nuzzles closer. My hand is resting on my lap, and he touches a fingertip to the skin at my wrist, then glides his finger in circular patterns. He’s a very tactile and affectionate person and I drink it in like water.
“She lives somewhere up north. She was young when she fell pregnant – a fair bit younger than my father. She had all these plans that didn’t include a kid, and my dad knew that. But she fell pregnant – totally unplanned. My father knew right away he wanted to be a dad, so they agreed he’d take full custody of me after I was born. And then she left.”
“And she’s never been in contact?”
He shakes his head, fingertip still dancing over my skin. “No. There were times in my life I wondered why I didn’t have a mum like some of my friends. But now that I’m older, I understand – being a parent isn’t the path everyone wants to take, and that’s okay. She gave me life and my dad raised me. For years, it was just me and him. He married my stepmum a few years ago. She’s not much older than me and though he forces these weekly family dinners on us, she’s not my family. He’s the only parent I’ve ever known. He’s a good father.”
I stay silent, waiting for the ‘but’. It doesn’t come, and I remind myself that not everyone has a complicated relationship with their parents.
“My dad was a good father, too,” I admit. “Until he wasn’t.”
My throat tightens, and my heart pounds hard and fast. Darius must notice, because he takes my hand in his and squeezes.
