Page 2 of The Casella King

I instruct one of the boys who had helped set up the altar on the beach to run to the van they brought all the material in to grab the heavy-duty safety pins they used.

As soon as they return, I rush into the ladies’ room and tell Lila to come out. She does, and she slides the dress back on as the girls and I work to get the safety pins in place to make them invisible. I’m not a dressmaker, but I’ve seen this done before. This job kind of forces you to be a jack-of-all-trades.

“There.” I place my hands on her shoulders as she looks at me through the mirror. “Lucky you chose to have a zipperandbuttons.” I smile at her, and she smiles back, wiping a small tear from her cheek.

“Thank you, Aries. You are a lifesaver,” she says.

Folding my last pair of pants, I place them neatly on top of the rest inside my suitcase. The wedding location was an hour plane ride from London, but I’m lucky, I guess, that I get theopportunity to travel for work. Zipping up the suitcase, I gather the rest of my things and head to the airport.

The process is always the same, some business-y people pretending to be hotshots with their ten-thousand-dollar Rolex watches and latest tech gear, airport security always giving me a hard time about why I have two mobile phones, sanitising my hands until they feel like sandpaper, and finally landing back in my hometown—London.

Sighing, I take out my laptop as soon as I jump in my Uber on the ride back to Putney. I have a few quotes to send out to my potential clients, so I’d rather do that now than when I am back home. God knows what state my father will be in.

I can’t even think of a good memory that I have of him anymore. It’s just all consumed with him yelling, berating, and just being a complete dick to me and my sister. Although, I know Giselle still has a few fond memories of him. She tells me about them from time to time. I think she hopes that I don’t end up completely hating him, but it has no effect on me. She’s older, so she got to see him when he wasn’t drunk all the time. I didn’t. I’m not bitter about it. I just wish I could move out without feeling the crushing guilt override my entire body whenever I think about it.

Giselle just had a newborn with her husband, Arthur, and I would feel so guilty if I left them in the lurch with Dad right now. Closing my laptop, I place it back into its sleeve as we approach the house. It’s small, nothing special, a typical house you could expect in Putney. Grabbing my things out from the boot, I thank the driver and stand in front of the house, taking deep breaths. My palms feel clammy, and I wonder if everyone feels like this when they are about to step into their home.

No.

The answer to that is definitely a no.

Rolling my suitcase over to the front, I push the key into the door, and it clicks. Within seconds I hear my father’s heavy footsteps coming down the stairs.

He opens the door and helps me bring my stuff into the small lounge room covered in burp cloths, nappies, and packets of baby wipes.

“Did you get me beer?” he asks without embarrassment. His hair is stuck to the side of his face, probably hasn’t been washed in a week. He reeks of alcohol and looks like death personified.

“Hey Dad, nice to see you, too.” I wave at him sarcastically as I set my things down on the lounge. “No, I told you I’m not aiding your alcoholism.”

“I’m not an alcoholic!” he yells in frustration, his thick brows coming together in anger. He hasn’t ever hit me, but he has hit my mother a few times, and for that I have always harboured nasty feelings towards him. It shouldn’t matter what was said between two lovers, domestic abuse is never okay.

“And I don’t give a shit.” I walk into the adjoining kitchen and open the fridge, grabbing a juice box. “Tell your problems to someone who cares.” Closing the fridge door, I turn to face him. “Or better yet, go get a damn job to support your own filthy habits.”

He looks at me like I’ve grown three heads.

“How dare you speak to me like that?! I’m your father!” He stomps his foot like a toddler, and it’s almost comical how much I don’t give a fuck. I see Giselle pop her head through the kitchen doorway.

“Can you please keep it down? The baby is sleeping.” She looks exhausted. Poor thing had to have a caesarean and now must take care of a baby by herself because they have no other choice. Arthur must work to pay the bills, so he wasn’t lucky enough to take some time off to be with his wife and child in the precious first few weeks.

“Sorry, G.” I grab my stuff and head to my bedroom, which thankfully is on the bottom level, whereas everyone else’s is upstairs. At least that gives me some solitude in this hellhole. After throwing on some comfortable clothes, I grab my laptop and get in bed, not to sleep, but to work. These days work is an escape for me.

An escape from my father.

An escape from reality.

I think back on yesterday and how happy the couple looked together, watching each other so tenderly and lovingly as if nothing else in the world mattered to them. Sometimes I wish I had that someone for myself, then I remember my parents’ marriage, and that feeling immediately vanishes.

I think about Leo, my ex-fiancé, and anger rumbles deep within my chest.

Coward.

I force the thoughts out of my brain as I focus on the checklist I have made for myself for the next event in a few days’ time.

Clenching my jaw, I watch as my father’s casket is lowered into the dirt. A sea of people dressed in black surrounds his grave, mostly consisting of our family and other members of our world. Half the people are here out of respect and the other half out of obligation. I, on the other hand, can’t think of anything else but the enormous weight now being put on my shoulders.

As the eldest son, it’s my birthright.

Does that mean I want it?

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