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But what about Laurence?
It only takes three days to find myself a place to live. I can’t bring myself to call it home. Home sounds permanent, and I hope to Christ I won’t be living in the shabby flat above the Thornham Street Newsagents for a significant period of time. There’s damp in the ceilings. Cupboard doors missing in the kitchen area. A crack in the bedroom window. The carpet is stained, and I don’t even want to guess with what. But the rent is cheap enough to enable me to still be able to cover my half of the mortgage on the house and provide for the kids, as long as I can find another job soon.
Really soon.
I called Nate this morning, told him I wouldn’t make it back for the last week in Paris. He assumed it’s due to Becca’s fall and I didn’t correct him. I keep pondering how long the news will take to get back to Laurence, keep waiting for the next ping on my phone. He’s texted several times already. Always polite. Friendly. Innocent enough to be read by an unsuspecting wife if I haven’t been the one to get in touch first.
I haven’t replied.
Not once.
I go to every time, start tapping out a response, but something takes over, stopping me. It’s like I can’t reply until I know why I’m doing it. I know I miss him. I know my heart aches and my eyes well when I remember how his head feels on my chest. I know I crave the sound of his voice, the way he speaks a little too fast and drops his Ts. I know I’m deeply terrified of losing him. I know I want him. Dear God, I want him.
But I don’t know if I need him, and I can’t need him.
I can’t need him like I needed Becca, needed someone to keep me safe, to give me everything I never had. Unless I do those things for myself, what have I got to offer him? So, I ignore him. Every time, I delete my words, swipe upwards, and reject him all over again. I tell myself it’s necessary, that it’s part of ‘finding myself’, and that I’m not a cowardly bastard who’s putting something, someone magnificent at risk, and I get on with my day. Then I wonder if I’m finding myself or punishing myself, before ignoring that, too.
Today’s dinner is a microwavable burger from the shop downstairs. I’m about to take the first bite when the buzzer goes to my flat. I bite anyway, ignoring it, assuming it’s another drunk dicking about on their way home from the pub across the road. Only it sounds again. And again.
“Bloody hell,” I curse around a mouthful of food.
“Hey, Dad,” I hear upon picking up the receiver.
Ben. “I’ll be right down.” I jog straight down the stairs to let him in, not caring that I look like shit and haven’t shaved for two days.
Ben stands with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his uniform cargos, greeting me with a nod. I lead him up to the hellhole, swallow my embarrassment as he takes in the place.
“Mum gave me your address,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind me coming round.”
“Shit, Ben. Of course I don’t.” If anything, it’s taking all my strength not to fling my arms around him and cradle him like I used to when he was small. “I’ve missed you.”
“It’s only been a day,” he says.
“Right.” And he is. I last saw him yesterday, when we met back at the house along with Lucy after she returned from her trip to Brighton…and Becca and I told them everything. “It feels longer when I didn’t know if I’d see you again, I guess.”
“You’re my dad.” A small statement. A huge moment.
“Thanks, Ben,” I say, his name cracking on my lips. “How’s your mum? And Lucy?”
“Mum’s doing okay. Sorta quiet. She’s whizzing round on those crutches now though, I swear.” His head tilts from side to side. “Lucy’s… Well…”
“It’s okay, Ben. I’d rather have the truth.” As I talk, I gesture to the beanbags, the only seating arrangement I’ve got so far.
Ben falls into the grey one. “She’s angry. I asked her to come tonight and she wouldn’t.”
That hurts, but I fight to keep my expression neutral. “Go easy on her, okay.”
He looks puzzled. Eyes narrowed, nose pointed. “I just feel like she’s not even trying to understand your side.”
I find a smile for him, grateful for the support I’m certain I don’t deserve. “There are no sides. Her mother is heartbroken. She’s bound to be angry at the man who’s responsible for that. Give her some time.”
“She’s my mum, too,” Ben snaps, “And I hate seeing her sad. But you’re sad as well, and you’re our dad. Plus, the way you both explained things yesterday, well, it doesn’t sound like this is anyone’s fault. Lucy needs to get her head out of her arse. It’s like she didn’t even listen to you. It’s not like you just got bored and run off with a younger model. You’re gay, Dad.”
