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“Not nearly as much as I like you,” he replies softly, reaching up for a box situated in the corner of the room. “This is Fred Flinstone.”
I take the box from him, staring at the toy inside. “Is this special to you?”
“Hubert bought it for me when I was a kid. First toy I ever owned,” he explains, leaning against the far wall, his eyes guarded as he watches me. “Started my obsession with the damn things.”
“Your mum never bought you any toys?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “We were poor. Any money she did have went to the essentials after my father took most of her earnings to pay for his drug addiction. We were lucky if there was enough left over to buy food, let alone keep our home heated and the rent paid.”
“I’m sorry, Drix. That must’ve been hard for you,” I reply, placing it on the table as I approach him.
“I tend not to think about that time all that much. Better that way.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, resting my hand against his arm, my thumb gently rubbing his skin right over the tattoo of a bird flying free from a cage. It seems significant given our conversation.
“Not particularly,” he responds quietly, his hand reaching up to cover mine as he glances up at me, the faintest wisp of pain stuttering across his features before he shuts it down. “Hubert spent a lot of money on therapy for me. Can’t say it helped all that much.”
“I’m not a therapist, but I am a good listener. Sometimes talking about the hard things can make them easier to bear.”
“So everyone tells me. Thing is, whenever I’ve tried to talk about that time, I just get…” His voice trails off as he heaves out a sigh.
“You just get what, Drix?” I press, cupping his face and urging him to look at me.
“Angry.”
“That’s understandable.”
“I don’t like feeling that way, Lia. I’d rather forget those years of my life. Especially the night that arsehole…” He shudders, his mouth slamming shut as he presses his head back against the wall and closes his eyes on the memory.
My thumb trails across his cheek as I gaze at him. “Daisy told me what your father did. I’m so sorry, Drix,” I whisper, my voice cracking with emotion. His pain cuts me deep, reminding me that if I hadn't left Martin when I did, Toby could be without a mother, my life ended with a violent act just like Drix’s mum’s had been.
“It was a long time ago,” he replies as I press my body against his, hugging him close.
He leans into me, his arms wrapping around my back, and we stand like that, just holding each other, seeking comfort in each other’s arms. Eventually, we pull apart and I take his hand in mine.
“Come with me,” I say, leading him to the kitchen. He follows me, quiet, thoughtful, then gives me a questioning look as he settles on one of the stools at the kitchen island.
“I find that baking is a good distraction. Want to help me make a chocolate cake?” I ask him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before gathering a mixing bowl, a wooden spoon and two cake pans from the cupboard, as well all the ingredients needed to make the cake from the pantry and fridge.
“Not sure I’ll be of much use,” he replies, watching me as I stir together flour, cocoa powder, baking soda and powder, plus a pinch of salt into the glass bowl. “You’ve already experienced my poor culinary skills.”
“Hey, it was a good effort. You just need a little practice.”
“I’d rather watch an expert at work,” he counters, leaning his hand on his chin. “So what made you want to do this for a living?”
“My mum. She taught me how to bake. It was something we enjoyed doing together, and I rather like making something from scratch and watching people enjoy the fruits of my labour,” I explain with a soft laugh as I mix the ingredients together with a wooden spoon, cracking three eggs, some butter, milk and sugar into the mixture.
“What was she like?” he asks me.
“Kind, warm-hearted,” I smile at the memory of her. “She had a wicked sense of humour too. Was in love with Tom Jones. I’m pretty sure she threw her knickers at him at a few of his concerts. I think you would’ve liked her.”
“She sounds like a wonderful woman,” he comments with a chuckle, watching me as I grease the cake pans and add half of the mixture into each one.
“She was. I miss her terribly. Every time I bake, I’m reminded of her. So it makes her loss a little easier to bear.”
“I don’t have a single memory of my mum happy,” Drix blurts out.
“Not one?”
