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CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
Brother
GRIM
“Take a seat, Ford,” I say, pointing to the sofa the following day.
Ford eyes the pristine white sectional and then looks down at his dirty jeans and mud encrusted boots. “Should I take my shoes off first?”
“Whatever makes you feel comfortable, kid,” Beast says as he pours us both a cup of percolated coffee and adds them to a tray with a glass of orange juice for Ford. There’s also a pile of freshly baked croissants Beast brought this morning especially for the occasion.
Ford unties his boots then places them neatly on the tiled floor beside the kitchen island. He hesitates for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek in a way that makes my heart squeeze.
He’s my brother.
And the more I look at him, the more I see the likeness. His eyes might be a different colour to mine, but the shape is the same. We share the same high cheekbones and regal nose too. Then there’s that strength he holds inside of him, that rigid determination to survive. We both have that. It’s ingrained into his very being because of the life he’s lived and the trauma he’s suffered, and because of that there’s caution too. It’s as though at any point, at any given time, he believes that someone’s going to turn on him and he’ll have to fight or run. Isn’t it funny how, when you notice the same traits in someone else, it brings up your own personal trauma?
We’re very alike in many ways.
“Sit down, we ain’t gonna bite,” Beast says, jerking his chin towards the sofa as he passes by with the tray of drinks and croissants, and places it on the coffee table.
“Sure, whatever you say,” Ford mumbles under his breath as he takes a seat.
He’s guarded, and I don’t blame him.
“Here,” Beast says, handing him the glass of orange juice and nudging the plate of croissants towards him.
Ford takes a sip of the orange juice. “I’ve already had breakfast.”
“Well, if you’ve got room for one of these croissants there’s plenty to go around. Best croissants in the whole of London. They melt like butter on your tongue.”
“Thanks,” Ford replies tightly, frowning as he looks between the two of us. “So you wanna tell me why I’m here, coz it ain’t every day you get invited back to the Queen of Tales crib and get offered breakfast?”
“Straight to the point. I like it,” Beast says, smiling. He picks up his coffee and takes a sip, eying me. I guess it’s now or never. Fuck, why am I so damn nervous to tell him that I know he’s my brother?
Probably because you murdered his mother, an intrusive voice reminds me.
Ford places the orange juice on the table. I can’t help but notice that his hands are shaking, though he hides his nerves by tucking his hands beneath his legs. Meeting Ford’s gaze I swallow down the nausea and just come out with it.
“I know who you are, Ford.”
“What do you mean?” he replies, looking like a deer caught in headlights, a shadow of guilt tracking across his features.
“I know you’re my brother.”
“I—” he begins, and then it’s just sheer panic as he drops his head, hiding from me, from the truth. As his chin hits his chest, and his dirty blonde hair covers his face in a shroud, he mumbles, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I ask gently, wanting to reach for his hand, but knowing that for him, physical touch is going to be difficult, maybe even impossible.
“For not telling you. For being…me,” he says, swiping roughly at his face, still refusing to look up.
I look over at Beast, feeling a little helpless in this situation. When I met Christy for the first time it was different, she smashed the barrier of physical touch between us when she threw herself into my arms. But for Ford physical touch is going to be hard given the cruelty he’s had to endure in his short life. He’s like a beaten down dog just waiting for someone else to hurt him, ready to snap, snarl and bite. So as much as I want to hug him. I won’t. At least not yet.
“First of all, I’m not angry that you didn’t say anything,” I say, shifting closer to him so that I can reach out and press my fingers lightly against his arm, if only to get him to look up. He stiffens, but he still refuses to look at me. “Secondly, there’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing, you hear me?”
He nods, still staring at his lap.
“Chin up, mate. You ain’t got to fear us. You’re a good kid,” Beast says, and I can hear the crack in his voice which he covers up with a cough.
