Page 65 of Something So Strong

“I’m pretty sure that’s not your story to tell.”

Alma inches backwards, knowing she slipped up. “Please don’t repeat that.”

“I won’t. If you promise to not let yourself in anymore.”

Her jaw clicks from side to side as she backs further away. Her role of protector no longer exists, because I claimed it this afternoon when I saw the dismay on his face and the horror in his eyes. Alma had already lost before she grabbed her keys.

Kai is mine.

He belonged to me the second our lips touched.

It hasn’t been a game since then because he’s not something I’m prepared to lose.

Defeated, Alma spins on her heel and storms off heartbroken.

Returning to Kai’s door, I listen for several minutes until I’m sure he’s settled, then scribble another note for him.

Who doesn’t love being woken up on a Sunday morning by their mother?

How about being twenty-four years old, forty-three hundred miles away, and having spent most of the night on eggshells because the man you’re falling for is too broken for his own good?

I even struggle to defend the intrusion from the standpoint of motherly love, because she didn’t seem to care about sending me off to boarding school for months at a time when I was ten. TEN! So I’m not sure why it’s so worrisome that I’ve not been in contact since arriving in Canada.

I guess it’s true to say that I do love my mother, but only in the way that she loves me. And that’s as people who never truly bonded.

As soon as she spat me out, she was back to work, and I was the nanny’s problem. But that’s the upper-class way, so I can’t really blame her or my father. All I’m saying is that it should come as no surprise that I’m closer to Romeo and Saxon than I am to my own flesh and blood. Save my grandfather. Not my French namesake, but my dad’s dad.

During extended school breaks when the boys and I had to return home, I’d have one night in the family penthouse in Bristol—overlooking the river Avon—before being carted off to Grandad’s estate. What teenager wouldn’t want to trade the rich-kid city life for rolling hills and a fierce west wind?

Grandad was the fucking dog’s bollocks, though.

He was upper class as fuck, but when it was just the two of us, he was more like that one guy at the local pub that everyone loves. They hang around, tell the best stories, and even buy a round every now and then. And, in his posh Cambridgeshire accent, he taught me to swear, pack a pipe, and even how to smoke it.

Henry was my hero.

Last winter when he died of lung cancer was the hardest time of my life.

Saxon’s trial was nearing its end, and I had to put on a brave face for his sake. But Grandad was my everything. With him, I could at least say for certain that someone in my family loved me.

At his wake, Romeo, Saxon, and I smoked his pipe and promised it would be our last as an homage. And, whilst I don’t like the fact that Kai smokes, it is a smell I will always find comforting.

In his will, Grandad put money aside for me in a trust with the stipulation that I complete my Masters at Imperial College London within two years of finishing my degree. His school. The best years of his life. And that’s why my time here is so finite. Just over twelve months from now, I need to be back in London attending my first class. But it’s not for the money. It’s because it’s what he wanted.

JEAN: Yes, I’m fine. I can Facetime you later if you like.

MUM: No, it’s alright, just touch base from time to time so I know you’re still alive. Love you.

JEAN: Love you too.

And that’s how me and my kin show love: hollow, and ceremonial, and always reminding me how much more I treasure my chosen family. The one I haven’t seen nearly enough of this week.

JESSE: What ya up to, ya Spanish twat?

ROMEO: Recovering.

JESSE: Did Cleo come crawling back?

ROMEO: You can think so if it makes you happy.

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