Page 87 of A Wedding in a Week

“I know that.”

Noah snapping at Marc takes me back to when he first arrived in Cornwall, in pain and expecting the worst from everyone around him. His swearing is another reminder.

“I’d have to be as dumb as fuck to be scared, wouldn’t I?”

An apology follows just as quickly, which is proof that Noah really isn’t stupid, not when he knows that Marc’s on his side, not against him.

“Sorry.”

His grip still doesn’t let up on his seat belt, and at times like this, I wonder how Dad would have handled a teen already set in concrete instead of an eight-year-old still young enough to shape into the best of Cornwall.

He would have kept chipping away by being honest.

I do the same, even though admitting this still isn’t easy. “I don’t think it’s stupid to be scared.”

“I’m not scared though.” The crack in Noah’s voice tells another story.

I match it with a story of my own. “I was more than scared the first time I came past this cliff after the accident. Your brother was driving, and I almost passed out.” We’re travelling slowly enough that I risk another glimpse to the left. Noah’s hand has loosened around his seat belt. It encourages me to keep going. “Marc didn’t drive anywhere close to the edge, but I still closed my eyes. Then I couldn’t open them again. I hyperventilated. Saw spots behind my eyelids, and my heart?”

That gets Noah’s whole attention. “What happened to your heart?”

“It didn’t stop, but I’m not sure what felt worse, seesawing on that cliff for real or reliving it like that with someone watching. Especially someone I wanted to look up to me, not see me as weak or a failure for being shit scared.”

Marc makes a small sound. I shrug before he can add a denial. “Not saying it was rational. Just saying that I can’t avoid the cliff forever. Not if I want to live where I love. And people who love me want to help, not judge me, so I keep facing it, little by little. I mean, I still can’t look right over the edge, but I can drive past it now without feeling like I’m falling, so that’s progress.”

We reach a turnoff, the road ahead clear once I take it, which is good since we’re almost late for his appointment, but I don’t accelerate. Not yet. Not when I glimpse Marc nodding as if he knows where I’m headed. I don’t mean on this road. I mean where I’m headed with Noah long-term, because that’s a journey I never expected to make, but if Luxtons are good at anything, it’s knowing when to pivot. I do the same with this conversation.

“If you don’t get good results today, do you know what we’re going to do?”

I pull into a car park, and we’re definitely late now, but I don’t rush him. I wait, the engine ticking while cooling in the shade of a tall willow, and Marc nods again before picking up where I left off.

“It doesn’t matter if you’ve passed or failed your tests, we’ll face it together, so you don’t need to worry.”

“I told you I’m not worried, and I’m still not fucking scared.” That’s another crack in his voice. Another curse. Another few minutes of spilt sand when we don’t have time today for delays like this, or for detours.

But for this? For Noah finally making eye contact with Marc?

I’ve got all the time in the world for this masterclass in patience, and I’d wonder where Marc learned it if I didn’t have a pretty good idea of who modelled it.

“Fuck it.” Noah verbally kicks over more boundaries he’s made progress with this summer. “And fuck my test results.” Now he glares across the car park at a building that a man exits. “I’m not going in there to get them, and you can’t make me. You’re not my dad.”

“No, I’m not,” Marc agrees. “I’m your big brother. That means you’re stuck with me.” He unfastens his seat belt and winds down a window, settling back as if he’s in no hurry. He also pulls out his phone, the screen filled by a to-do list that I’d assumed was to do with tomorrow’s wedding until Marc says, “And you passing these tests is on my long-term checklist.” He flashes the screen our way, two boxes still empty. “I can wait as long as it takes for you to pass them. Because you can, and you will. I believe that, Noah. You’ll pass with flying colours when the time’s right.”

Noah lets out a huge sigh. “There’s no point waiting today. I already know I must have failed them.”

The man across the car park checks his watch, but I can’t make myself care that we’re keeping him waiting, not when my chest seizes at Noah finally offloading outside a school, not a hospital, about results that would get him a place in its sixth form.

“I failed every test. I must have. They’ll all think that I’m dumb as fuck. That I’m only here because I’m washed.” That’s a triple whammy of fear, swearing, and street slang, which means I can’t keep my mouth shut.

“Washed?”

Marc translates. “A failure. You mean because you got stabbed and missed the end of the school year? You didn’t do that to yourself, did you? They did.” Marc’s as gruff as a born Luxton as he describes drug dealers I better not meet. “They’re washed, not you.”

Noah doesn’t answer, but Marc’s got Luxton grit too.

“They tried to buy you, didn’t they? Gave you a bike, then said you owed them for it. That you could pay for it by making deliveries. Bought you that extra phone too. Did you ever answer their calls?”

Noah’s head shake is so slight I almost miss it. Marc doesn’t.

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