Darius pushes me onto my back and snuggles closer, resting his head on my chest. I lie awake for hours, listening to his sweet breaths and making silent promise after silent promise to myself and to him that I won’t destroy this, because he is the best thing to ever happen to me. And maybe just this once, I can have something good.
Chapter 12
Darius
“What time do you want to head over to your mum’s?” I ask Oliver over breakfast. He’s been quiet ever since we woke up, lying side by side, face to face, his hand wrapped tightly around mine in the space between us.
When he first told me his plans, he made it clear he wanted to see his mother before the funeral. They haven’t spoken properly in three years and he doesn’t want the first time to be in a crowded church.
My heart aches at the uncertainty that’s lingered in his eyes all morning, and I know he’s still wondering if he wants to do this or not.
Oliver takes a tiny bite of his buttered toast before putting it back on his plate.
“The funeral is at twelve. So, I guess as soon as we’re done here?” It’s just gone ten, and the sun is shining, the day warm, despite the summer slowly coming to an end.
“Okay. Finish up while I make another cup of tea.” I nod towards his toast and half-eaten bowl of fruit. He looks at it and then at me, before he sighs and spears a slice of apple with his fork.
When we’re done, we return to Oliver’s room, where we both change into our suits and head out to my car.
“Ready?” I ask as I start the ignition. Oliver nods, but his hands are fisted on his lap and his teeth are chewing on his already bruised bottom lip. Before I pull out of the parking space, I reach over, unclench his hands and place one on my leg. He breathes in deeply, blowing the air out in a resignedwhoosh. “I’m here. Don’t forget that. I’m your getaway driver. You want to leave? We leave. No questions asked.”
He won’t take the out. He’s come too far to turn away now, but I need him to know that the option is there and that I’m here, no matter what happens.
“Thank you.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see him turn to face me. His hand on my lap moves as he draws patterns over my trouser covered leg. It’s the complete and utterly wrong time for it, but the feel of that solitary finger sends sparks straight to my core. It’s not the first time either. Last night, as I lay facing Oliver in bed, I had this overwhelming desire to kiss him, and when I brushed my lips to the side of his, I felt it then, too.
“And not just for today,” he continues. “For all of it. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, D.”
It’s the first time that the word ‘friend’ hasn’t sat right when describing what we are to each other, but at the same time, I don’t know yet what the right word is. Maybe there isn’t one for this feeling swirling around in my chest, or maybe there is and neither of us is ready for it.
I don’t reply with words, but briefly caress the back of his hand with mine before steering us the rest of the way to his mother’s house.
There is only one car in the driveway when we pull up outside the weathered semi-detached house with moss growing on the tiles of its roof. A flowerbed overflows onto the edge of the gravel drive and a patch of freshly mowed lawn leads from the road up to the front of the house with its dark blue door.
Oliver doesn’t make a move when I kill the engine. He watches the house through the windscreen, his hand still firmly on my lap.
“It hasn’t changed.” He points up to the top floor, where there’s a tile missing beneath a large window. “I knocked that down with a football when I was fifteen.”
“If you had better aim, you would have taken out the glass,” I say, dipping my head to get a better look at the top of the house.
“Wasn’t the first football to land somewhere it shouldn’t,” he says, and I turn to watch as he points to his eyebrow where a scar slices through the hair.
“That’s how you got it?”
“Yep. Playing a game of seven-a-side in the park down the road. A week later – I did that.” Oliver points to the house again, a soft wistful laugh passing his lips, as though he’s here with me but also back in that memory. “I don’t know why I expected to pull up here and everything would look different. Three years feels like a lifetime ago, but in reality, it’s not that long.” He rests his head back against the seat, still not moving to open his door.
I’m content to sit with him here as long as he needs, but that isn’t an option when there’s movement at the window that looks out onto the drive, a face at the glass, seconds before the front door opens and a woman in a black pantsuit steps out.
“Mum.” The word is a whisper, released on a rush of air. Oliver’s hand on my leg tightens, and when he looks at me, it’s with those same sad puppy dog eyes he had the night we met. “What do I say to her?”
“The way I see it, you can either say what’s on your mind or what’s on your heart.” I don’t know what happened between Oliver and his parents that forced him to flee the only place he’d ever called home, but I know whatever it is, it hurt him deeply. “But if it were me, I’d go with honesty. Regardless of what that looks like.”
He nods, squares his shoulders and climbs out of the car. His mother is still at the door and as we get closer, I notice her eyes are an identical shade to his, and equally as sad.
“Oliver.” Her tone is formal, reminding me of a school teacher, and I briefly wonder if that’s what she does for a living. “I’m glad you decided to make it. You didn’t mention you’d be bringing a friend.”
“Hi, Mum. Yeah, uh, this is Darius. He’s…”
“The getaway driver,” I joke, throwing some levity into the otherwise awkward encounter. She doesn’t react, her face stoic, but Oliver lets out a quiet chuckle and it was worth it for that reaction alone. “Darius Thorne-Sutton,” I continue, reaching out to shake her hand, “lovely to meet you, Mrs Cross. I’m sorry for your loss.”
