Page 75 of Undefined Terms

I type: My Dave or cat Dave?

Three dots. Then: Cat Dave has better management skills.

Then, before I’ve put the phone down: You left this morning without saying goodbye properly.

I type: I said goodbye.

Three dots. Then: With your mouth, Ronan. We had a system. The system involved you under the duvet and paying attention.

Twenty-seven years old, on a site, and Celyn can put me on the back foot with three sentences.

Phone in the pocket, pick up the sandwich, the bread’s gone soft, the portacabin’s warm. Dean is on his phone. Gaz is on about Stockport again.

The question from last night is still in me. Somewhere below the sandwich, below the tea. It’s there, sat in the gut. Just, there.

I eat the sandwich. Bin the crust. Go back to the pour.

I swing the vibrator into the mix too hard. The concrete splashes up the formwork, grey on the plywood, and Gaz flinches back. ‘Steady, boss.’ I don’t answer. Just grip the shaft and lower the angle and the body’s too loud today, the body’s angry at something the head hasn’t named yet, and the vibrator hums and the bubbles rise and I push it deeper than I need to because pushing things is what I’ve got.

Five o’clock, the walk home, through the door with my key into the hallway that smells like toast because Celyn was here at lunch.

Celyn’s gone. Shift at the restaurant. The flat’s mine again except it isn’t. The shape of the flat has changed. Something underneath changed while I wasn’t looking. Can’t put it back.

I fill the kettle, one cup.

Celyn’s mug upside down on the board. Waiting.

I know exactly what happens when Dad finds out. I’ve known since before Christmas, since Ewan sat across the table and the volume went down and stayed down and nobody looked at anyone.

I know.

The kettle clicks. I pour. The steam.

I don’t know what I’m going to do about it.

Celyn’s got a notebook, leather, small, expensive. It sits on the nightstand next to a pen with no cap. Sometimes Celyn writes in it at three in the morning. I’ve woken up to the scratch of the pen, the small light from the phone. I’ve never asked what gets written; it’s not my business. The notebook’s in a language the flat doesn’t speak.

But the thing I can’t shake is this: Celyn knows what to do. The mam saying Wel, that’s going to take some getting used to and meaning it. My family hasn’t got that. My family’s got the volume turned down.

The person who knows how to say neither to their mam like it’s a flavour choice and gets an answer. If I bring that home, Dad’s at the table and I say I’m with Celyn and he asks what’s wrong with this one, then in the voice that makes it clear there’s something wrong with all of them.

I don’t know if I’m brave enough for Dad to find out. I don’t know if I’m brave enough for him not to find out and have to sit at Christmas pretending the person I’m with doesn’t exist. That’s a different kind of weight.

The crack in the ceiling.

In the morning I’ll answer Mum. Or I won’t.

The problem is I love them and the problem is my father and the problem is there’s no version of Christmas where both of those facts fit at the same table.

I put my arm over the side of the bed. Reach for the floor, the boots. The hi-vis, the concrete and the steel don’t ask about any of it. They just need the work done.

Key in the lock.

The kettle’s cold. Two mugs on the board, Celyn’s and the one with the chip, both clean, both upside down.

I check the cooker time. Eight oh four. Restaurant night. Celyn’s home by half-eleven, not before, not at eight.

‘Celyn?’