Page 43

“Nailed it!” Tarquin bounded into his brother’s path, arms full of fragrant soaps, a puffin rubber duck, and his skateboard. “Gran will LOVE these bath smellies.” He smiled, rousing the famous Balfour family dimples.

Beads of perspiration tickled between Nick’s shoulder blades. Christ, when did it get so hot in here? Swallowing thickly, he wedged a finger inside the stiff collar of his shirt, giving it a tug away from his neck. “Evie, this is Tarquin.”

“Hi.” She nodded in greeting as the youngest Balfour released a friendly “Hey!” and launched into his favorite cheesy chat-up line, but Nick’s attention spun elsewhere, analyzing every warning, every possible sign. It’s not, is it?

Frantic pulse? Check. Non-stop sweats? Check. Shallow breaths? Check.

His throat cinched tight, impeding another swallow. Oh god! A whoosh of fear shot through him as his thoughts swirled down a twisty spiral, chased by the dragon of dread.

Not now. Not here!

Digging into the knot of his tie, he yanked it loose as his desperation for control consumed every passing second, every jagged breath. He had to stop the worst from happening. He just had to!

Something stabbed his ribs, disrupting the dominos of dark thoughts tumbling through his mind. He blinked, finding Tarquin’s elbows flying as he bobbed his plastic puffin up and down through the air.

“Tarq,” Nick gasped. “What’s with the rubber duck?” He asked it, not out of interest, but self-preservation. Keeping up appearances, pretending all was well was paramount so no one, not his brothers nor Evie, not the customers browsing jams and jumpers—no one—would detect this epic unraveling.

“Puffy ducky’s mine,” said Tarquin as they approached the sales desk. “Isn’t he brilliant?”

Nick didn’t answer or take the piss. The internal storm of impending doom was sweeping him out to sea again.

I KNOW this means something. As he blotted sweat from his upper lip, tingling pins and needles flooded his fingers. Heart attack, stroke, suffocating death!

Each second stretched into a torturous minute, every word spoken a drawn-out, buzzy soliloquy. A foggy flash of Rupert’s wallet. The scuff of a shopping bag sliding across the counter. Evie and her friend laughing with Tarquin. Business as usual for everyone but Nick.

Leaning forward, he slapped a steadying hand on top of a glossy magazine flipped open on the counter. What if this ends up in The Mail? He sniffed and glanced sidelong at his brothers, joking and carrying on, completely oblivious to the uncontrollable panic surging inside him. Everyone will find out. It’ll kill my career.

“You sure that cow jug isn’t for you, Rupes?” Tarquin taunted. “I swear, the thought of becoming a farmer gives you a raging boner.”

“Shut up!” Rupert dove into a salty verbal exchange, trading not-so-brotherly putdowns.

Make it stop. Knees watery, Nick closed his eyes. This is it. I’m dying. In bleedin’ Orkney.

A soft hand touched his.

He looked up wearily, his vision blurred.

“Nick? You all right?” Evie’s whispered question echoed, joining the ringing torment filling his ears.

I have to get outta here. As he pulled away, the magazine lifted with his sweaty hand. “I-I’m good.” He choked, barely pushing the words out as he peeled away the page and dropped the magazine on the counter.

Mid-sibling spat, Tarquin did a double take. “Blimey!” He scanned the colorful spread. “Not THAT rubbish.”

“What’s rubbish?” asked Rupert.

Me. Nick sniffed, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. Dad’s right. His woozy gaze straggled over the article. Full color photos sat below white capitalized letters shouting something about AT HOME and EXCLUSIVE. Chasing breaths, a picture of his mother blurred, then focused, then blurred again. I’m a no-talent waste of space.

“The Cheer magazine article,” spat Tarquin. “Remember, Rupes? Mum fake baking cookies, us in bloody polo gear—”

“It’s out?” Nudging his glasses, Rupert snuck a peek at the pages. “Ohh, man!” He cringed. “It’ll be hard to live this down.”

Tell me about it. A circus of bright lights and distorted chatter swirled and churned as Nick grasped the edge of the sales desk.

* * *

When he pried his eyes open, a cracked slab of cement stared back.

“Where…?” Nick’s pulse pounded in his ears. Something tightened around his arm.