AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I’mbeside myself laughing as Helen rehashes the shenanigans of her youth, leaving Warren to roll his eyes with each and every story. Ones that obviously aren’t the first time he’s heard.
I was hardly given a house tour, given that the second I walked inside, my nostrils guided me straight into the kitchen. Needless to say, two cups of tea and five minced tarts later, I’m hardly able to choke out what I’m about to say next. “If we were in college together, I would’ve called you raising hell, Helen.”
“Oh, my gosh!” She folds forward, clutching her stomach with one hand. “You’re too funny, Delaney,” she remarks before her laughter subsides, and she smiles at me with delight. “Gosh…” She folds her hands as one and tucks them underneath her chin. “You’re just like how Warren described you!”
Her revelation causes a silence to fall over the dining table, and now I’m not sure if that thudding I can hear is my heart orWarren’s. Yet, the red of his cheeks as he hides behind a napkin tells me perhaps it’s a bit of both.
Warren has been so quiet that at times, I forgot he was even here. Though his continual gaze and subtle smiles every now and again made his presence hard to forget.
“All good things, I can only hope…” I mimic his exact motion, watching to see any falter in his movements—any truth behind what exactly he’s said about me.
He pulls the napkin back down, and before he can even muster up a response, Helen beats him to it. “Of course.” Her smile is soft and sincere as she gently places a hand on my shoulder. “All wonderful things.”
I believe her words to be true, but I want nothing more right now than a whole transcription of this telephone call with him and his mom. I need to know word for word what he said and how he described me…and I need it on loop for the rest of my life.
“Shoot, look at the time,” Helen’s voice inflates as she peers up at the grandfather clock that rests along the wall. “It’s almost tea, and Delaney hasn’t even been shown to her room yet.” She stands up, shuffling to collect the plates from the table before disappearing into the kitchen.
I look over at Warren for assurance, confused by what she means, as I hear her frantically move about. “Tea?” I whisper. “Didn’t we just have tea?”
Warren smirks, his breath short as he leans forward ever so softly. “She means supper,” he clarifies before pulling back.
The word is yet another I’ll add to my list of words in England that mean something completely different back home.
“Warren!” Helen’s voice makes him rise to his feet. “Mind showing Delaney the guest room? You’ll make sure she’s comfortable, won't you?” She shoots him a mixed signal stare—yeah, that’s raising hell, Helen, alright.
“Yes, Mum.” He plants a kiss onto her cheek before he flashes me a faint tilt of his head, gesturing for me to follow.
I smile at her before tucking in my chair and walking in Warren’s shadow.
The creak of each step as we make our way up the staircase reminds me of our family beach house out in South Carolina—a place we’d vacation to at the end of each summer.
The home was right along the coast—yet it clearly took thousands upon thousands of dollars and a whole team of interior designers to grant the place a rustic feel. Whereas, as I glance at the photos that hang on the wall up the stairs, I’m reminded that fancy decorations aren't what makes a house a home—it’s the little things that matter.
I can’t remember a single candid photo we had hung up in my house as a kid. Mom and Dad were always insistent on taking posed family portraits as if we were in some sort of elite club. I always hated the way the photos turned out. So stiff, stressed, forced—many words that described my life back home. A facade. It was all an act.
Yet, without needing to know anything about Warren’s childhood firsthand, I can see that he was a happy kid. The way he beams from ear to ear, with a pair of dorky glasses and ears too big for his head in the photo in front of my eyes, proves that at one point in time, Warren wasn’t this all work, no play, kind of guy. There’s a fun side to him…it just needs to be forced out.
“The guest room is just at the end of the hallway.” Warren waves for me to continue upstairs. I hadn’t realized I’d been frozen in time, intricately assessing each photo on the wall. I could spend hours here—a part of me making a mental note to revisit this section of the house later.
“I’ll go get your bags.” Warren inches his way past me and falls out of sight.
I continue to walk ahead, my hand connecting with the cold metal of the door handle into the guest room before I’m halted in place, distracted yet again. This time, it’s not by a photo. It’s a slither into another room in the house, one I can already tell is special in and of itself. Yet, it’s the sign that says “future football star” on the door that tells me everything I’m confident I’d already known.
I gulp slightly, seeing this as the perfect opportunity to take a peek in. I creep my way forward, careful not to make a sound until I reach the bedroom door, gently pushing inwards as I’m met with exactly what I’d anticipated.
Warren’s childhood bedroom.
It’s like I’m transported into the past—and at any second, Warren is going to run in here as a twelve-year-old boy and shout at me for being in his room.
The walls are blue, a darker shade of blue than you’d likely opt to paint a room, but it doesn’t matter. You can hardly see the paint since memorabilia covers each wall from head to toe. Jerseys, medals, photos. Every square inch of drywall is scoured with something.
You’d think most teenage boys would have some sort of sultry photo on their wall of a Playboy or sports-illustrated model, but not Warren. No, Warren’s got photos of David Beckham…a soccer player I only know ‘cause I’m a massive Spice Girls fan.
My hand covers the massive smile I hadn’t realized had washed over my lips, my eyes now drawn towards an old dresser along the wall, where I’m met with another picture. This time, it’s Warren, maybe sixteen, seventeen at most, standing in that stereotypical soccer pose, wearing a maroon jersey with one foot on the ball and his arms behind his back. His hair is floppy and falling in his face, and I can’t help but smile at the sense of boyish mischief in his eyes.
“Delaney?” I hear Warren shout—the distance of his voice tells me that, thankfully, he’s still downstairs.
Move.
