My unmade double bed is at the far end of the apartment, its battered headboard pressed against one wall. A shelf stands atthe end of the bed, its solid back acting as a divider and giving me privacy from the rest of the space.
My phone rings again, and I sip from the glass in my hand, watching the screen. It darkens, before lighting up again.
Mum.
I haven’t spoken to either of my parents in three years, since I left Devon when I was twenty-one and started a new life in a leafy suburb on the outskirts of London.
Staring at my phone, I wonder why my mother is calling now, but as curious as I am, I can’t bring myself to answer. Whatever she has to say, I don’t want to hear it. I’ve worked fucking hard to build my life here. Alone. Without the comfort of a family or parents who give a damn.
Sure, it’s not a perfect life. But it is a good one. I’m safe. I have a job that I like, some money in the bank, and this cosy space I call home.
I don’tneeda family. Never have. Never will.
Sighing, I throw the phone face down on the sofa, stand, stripping off my socks, trousers and boxers as I make my way into the bathroom that sits to the right of the front door.
I turn on the shower and wait for it to heat before climbing in, groaning when the hot water hits my tired muscles. I close my eyes, dipping my head, chin to chest, and let the scorching hot spray beat against my neck and down my back. Despite the warm temperature of the day, I stay in the shower until I’m overheating and the sweat and sawdust of hard work are washed away. Then I step out, patting myself dry as I move from the bathroom to my bed, where I find a pair of gym shorts on the floor. I sniff them, concluding that they are acceptably clean, and pull them on over a pair of black boxers. My wet hair drips onto my shoulder, and I run a hand through it, ruffling the newly bleached strands.
My phone rings again, where it’s still face down on the sofa.
“For fucksake,” I mutter under my breath, crossing the small room, reaching for it and turning it over.
Mum.
My stomach twists, and this time it’s not hunger. It’s anticipation. Fear. Dread. Swiping to answer, I bring the phone to my ear but say nothing.
“Oliver?” Mum’s voice cracks. I thought I’d forgotten what she sounds like but, the familiar lilt of her voice pinches at my heart, causing far too many memories to come barrelling forward. I’m breathless before she’s even spoken.
“Oliver, are you there?” she asks again.
I swallow thickly, pushing the single word out like a boulder up a hill.
“Yeah.”
She chokes on a sob, her words muffled when she speaks again.
“He’s gone, Ollie. Your dad. He...uh...he had a stroke.”
Her words hit like a sledgehammer to the heart, and I bite my lip to stop myself from making a sound.
Don’t react.
Stay calm.
Breathe.
“Oliver? Did you hear me? Say something.”
Squeezing my eyes closed, my heart pounding against my ribcage, I swallow and finally manage a broken, “Okay.”
She sucks in a breath. It’s not what she wants me to say. Hell, I’m pretty sure it’s not the reaction you should have to learning that your father – the man you once looked up to – has died. But it’s all I have.
On the other end of the line, Mum sniffles, her voice hardening when she speaks again. It’s a solid wall of disappointment I remember with vivid clarity.
Why are you lying, Oliver?
Why would you say that?
Why are you always causing trouble, son?
