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The lump in my throat grows into the size of a rock. It's strange how you have an image of your parents as you're growing up that's so different to the one they project when you're an adult. As much as we've grown apart since Mum died, I can feel this connection between us. It's peaceful, makes me feel content.
“Maybe I should bake Alex a cake,” I muse.
“You're wanting a divorce then?”
We both start laughing. It feels so good, letting the giggles out as I hear my father's husky chuckles, both of us unable to stop. We stay that way for a few minutes, until I hear Max's cries from my bedroom at the top of the stairs. Though I'm not sure how, it feels as though I've reconnected with my father for the first time.
Later, when we are on the train home, I'm still thinking about his words. About how hard the first year or two are for any new family. That trying to work out how to be a good dad, in a world where everything is aimed at mothers, can be confusing and difficult. I realise that even if he was consumed by his career while we were growing up, it didn't mean he didn't love us. He was still a proud, if distant father.
Maybe Alex is still learning to be a dad, too. He had no role model to speak of—his own father ran off after he was born, and he only ever saw him on Christmas and birthdays. Amy's dad was little more than a flash in the pan, too. So he grew up with a strong mother and no father, and has never known anything different. Maybe he feels as though he isn't needed in our family.
I want to talk to him, to hear his voice, to let him know that he is needed. That I can't do this without him. But when I crawl into bed that night, exhausted from our weekend trip, he still hasn't messaged or called.
15
The first night we met, Alex and I ended up in an all-night café off the Thames Embankment. The interior was filled with an eclectic mix of party-goers stretching out their Friday night celebrations, and workers readying themselves for an early start. Street cleaners mingled with bankers in a way that wouldn’t happen anywhere else.
We sat outside at a rusty metal table, our bitter coffees placed on the chipped surface. Every time we picked them up, it wobbled precariously.
Alex leaned back on his seat, long legs splayed out in front of him. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips.
“You want one?” he asked, cupping his hand to shade his match from the slight breeze.
“I don’t smoke. It’s a disgusting habit.” I smiled, letting him know I was flirting more than anything. Trying to wind him up.
He stared at me, throwing the burnt-out match into the ashtray. Already, I’d noticed Alex had this intense way of making me feel as if nothing else mattered. That I was the only interesting thing in the room—or in this case, the street.
“You’re one of those, then,” he said.
“One of what?”
“A crusader.” He inhaled deeply, then let the smoke drift out of his lips. Even I had to admit he looked sexy.
His words made me grin. I was anything but; smoking rarely bothered me at all. “I don’t kiss boys who smoke,” I said.
The corner of his lip twitched up. He leaned forward, still staring intently. “That’s good. I don’t want you kissing them.”
“You’re a boy who smokes,” I pointed out.
This time a full-on smirk broke out on his face. “I’m the exception that proves the rule, sweetheart.”
The way he said it made my heart hammer against my chest. There was something about Alex Cartwright that made me feel breathless. I wasn’t used to boys like him, ones who oozed sexuality out of every pore. Until then my boyfriends had been more friend than boy. Low key, almost feminine.
Alex didn’t have a feminine bone in his body.
“What makes you think I want to kiss you, anyway?”
“You’re the one who brought up kissing, not me.” Another cocky response. “Not to mention the fact you keep looking at my mouth and licking your lips. I can tell you want to eat me for breakfast.”
The image his words conjured up made me choke on my coffee. I spluttered the hot liquid out. Alex started to laugh.
“Kissing. I was still talking about kissing.”
He may have been, but I couldn’t get the thought of more out of my mind. Everything he did seemed sexual, from the way he caressed the microphone on stage, to his slow, sensual motions as he smoked his cigarette. It affected me too much.
“Now you’re the one obsessed by kissing,” I pointed out.
Another heated gaze. “Maybe we’re both a bit obsessed.” He stubbed out his cigarette in the glass ashtray, the butt floating in the ashy water collecting there. “I know I am.”
