“I like her,” Mum says, letting out a laugh. “She’s a quick one.”
“Thank you,” Addison says, giggling. I watch over the rim of my glass as she takes a sip of wine. She’s so relaxed here already, her cheeks flushed from the laughter. She looks lighter somehow, like whatever weight she’s been carrying was left in London. There’s something about seeing her here, in my childhood bedroom, at my mum’s kitchen table, that makes my chest tighten.
“Alright, then,” I say, grinning at Addison. “Are you ready for your first proper roast?”
Addison smiles at me. “More than ready.”
“Right,” Mum says, cutting through our smile-off like she’s reminding us she’s here too. “So we’ve got roast pork, roast potatoes, gravy, Yorkshire puds. Oh, and stuffing. Americans love stuffing, don’t you?”
“We do,” Addison says, smiling. “It’s just about Thanksgiving time in the States too, so stuffing is lovely right now. It reminds me of the holidays.”
Mum spoons gravy over her plate and hands the dish to Addison. “You know, Oliver was the fussiest eater as a boy. Wouldn’t touch a roast vegetable if his life depended on it.”
Addison perks up. “Oh, yeah?”
“Absolutely,” Mum says with a glint in her eye. “Cried once when I made him try a parsnip.”
“Mum,” I groan, hiding my smile.
The conversation flows easily all throughout dinner. Addison makes these little noises every time she tries something new, and it’s hard not to find it completely charming.
Mum’s in her element—she loves entertaining. She’s asking Addison all about her job and what New York City is like. Addison returns the favor and asks what I was like as a child.
“Oh, he was such a shy boy,” Mum says, giggling. “Clung to me like a barnacle at school drop-off, but ran away from me like a disease if we stopped at a football pitch.”
I bury my face in my hands while the two of them giggle over me like schoolgirls. Addison tells her a story about how she was brought up in boardrooms and hotels, and would create a sales pitch complete with PowerPoint presentations for her parents when she wanted something. Mum’s laugh softens as she listens, like she can see the little girl who just wanted someone to notice her and really listen.
After dinner, Addison helps clean up even though Mum protests. I wrap up all the leftovers and stash them in the fridge, because I’m absolutely going to demolish the rest in the middle of the night. When we finish, we sit at the table, drinking what’s left of the wine, swapping stories until our cheeks hurt from laughing.
Mum takes the three empty wine glasses and washes them up before putting the kettle on for her nightly tea.
Addison yawns and stretches, rubbing her eyes. “I’m gonna head to bed,” she says sleepily. She turns to me as she stands. “Goodnight, Ollie.”
There’s something about the way she said my name so softly that lands low and deep in my chest.
“Night, Addie,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible and not like I’m melting inside.
Thetelly’s on, but I’m not even paying attention. It’s just Sky Sports playing football highlights from the last few weeks. I’m laid out on the sofa in my sweats and a hoodie, one arm behind my head, the other holding my phone up as I stare at that photo. Again.
Me and Addison, from that day in London a few weeks ago. She doesn’t even know I have it. The stranger took it using her phone, but when she handed it back to me, I airdropped it to myself. I don’t even know why.
She’s laughing in it, head thrown back, my arm around her waist. I look different, too. Softer, maybe. Like I’m not using all my energy to keep my guard up.
“How long are you going to stare at that photo, love?”
I nearly drop my bloody phone onto my face. Mum’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. God knows how long she’s been standing there.
“I only just opened it,” I lie.
“I’ve been standing here for ten minutes. Try again.” Mum smiles at me like she’s not buying it. She steps into the room and curls up on the other end of the sofa. I sit up to make room for her. “So… Addison.”
“What about her?” I ask, already wary.
“What’s going on there?”
“What do you mean?” I rub the back of my neck. “She’s my friend.”
Mum snorts, the kind of sound that says I just handed her a load of rubbish. “Right. When’s the last time you brought a friend home and let them sleep in your childhood bedroom?”
