Page 11 of That Reunited Feeling

And it made me wonder, even more than I already had been, about what Hannah’s life has been like. Who’s Dylan’s dad? Is he a nice guy? And what’s the story with her latest ex?

I don’t know how much Maggie knows, but she’s playing her cards close to her chest. All she would tell me is that they are not one and the same man. And that Hannah left the latest guy in a hurry. Hence, she was in a bit of a bind when she moved toBlythewell. My aunt said I should ask Hannah if I wanted more details.

In fact, “Ask Hannah,” or “You should talk to Hannah about that,” or “I bet Hannah would know” have been Maggie’s go-to phrases in the twenty-four hours since I realized we were under the same roof.

But as both Hannah and I are clearly doing our best to not cross paths, a cozy fireside chat seems unlikely.

After checking out my childhood home, I went to see whether some of my favorite music stores were still there. I’m not sure if it was an accident, or if I did it intentionally, but the route took me past my high school. The place where I fell in love with Hannah. And where I got into way more trouble than I should have. At the time, I thought there was something wrong with me. Walker and our cousins were all so studious and focused. And there was me running riot—the family freak.

But I know now I wasn’t a bad kid. I was just a kid who’d lost his parents and had no coping mechanisms.

Christ, I put Maggie and Jim through hell. From the weird haircuts and colors and the ear-piercings to the graffiti, to getting drunk on the brandy snuck from the liquor cabinet at a friend’s house and throwing up on the sofa. And the fights. Oh, the scrappy, scrappy fights.

They were so patient, but they finally cracked when I convinced Elliot, the youngest of their three sons, to play decoy while I stole three albums from a record shop and the police gave him a good talking-to. They couldn’t have me dragging their boys into my downward spiral. Something had to give.

I hated that they sent me to London to stay with Uncle Bob and Aunt Linda that summer. I hated being away from my friends and from Walker and the guys. And most of all, I hated leaving Hannah.

But they were right—moving there was exactly the reset I needed. So much of a reset that I stayed.

Bob and Linda had always yearned for kids but weren’t able to have them, and they’d wanted so badly to take Walker and me when our parents died. But they’d eventually agreed with Maggie and Jim that losing our parents and moving countries all in one go would be too much and it would be better for us to stay close to home.

So when I went to visit, my London relatives welcomed me with open arms and firm hands. Bob being a psychologist probably helped—he never once lost his temper. And when he saw me taking an interest in their neighbor kid’s guitar-playing, he encouraged it fully, bought me my own, and set up lessons.

That guitar was the first possession I cared deeply about. I was so upset the day their cat scratched it. I spent hours sanding out the mark and patching it with varnish. I’ve had more expensive guitars since, but it’s still my favorite.

I’ve even brought it to the US with me—it’s sitting in my room at Maggie and Jim’s house right now. I can’t remember when I last had time to play, and thought being here would be the perfect breathing space to get back on that horse.

My skill was never in the making of music, though, but in spotting the talent of those who make it better than I ever could.

And that’s what this evening is about.

I check my phone. 10:20 p.m. Divine Justice were due on at ten, but the small stage at the end of the room still isn’t set up and there’s zero sign of activity.

“What’s happened to the band?” I ask the bartender as he places my drink on a napkin in front of me. I nod toward the dark, empty stage.

“No music tonight,” he says.

“So why does your website say they’re on at ten?” I open the browser on my phone and flick to the window I’d left open.

“It doesn’t,” the bartender snips. “It says they were herelastThursday at ten.”

Shit. Sure enough, there’s the date. I’m a week late. My organizational skills strike again.

“Yeah, I see that now. Thanks.” I sigh, shake my head at myself, and zap my tastebuds with the cool, acidic, minty drink while the bartender returns to wiping down the back shelves.

Might as well just drive back home. At least Hannah will be tucked away in her own part of the house at this time of night.

I have one foot on the floor to head to the restroom when my phone pings. A text from Hugo, my best mate in London.

HUGO (10:22 PM)

Ruptured knee ligament in training. Career over. Press release tomorrow a.m. Wanted you to know first.

What the fuck?

Hugo is a footballer. To the core of his being. The game runs through his veins and his mind twenty-four hours a day. It’s in his DNA. It’s his life, his world, his reason for existing.

And he’s not just any old footballer. Hugo’s a midfielder for the team that’s won more Premier League titles, more FA cups, and more European trophies than any other English club in history. On the international stage, he’s saved England’s arse countless times, scoring from seemingly impossible free kick positions and in nail-biting penalty shoot-outs. His one-man run on goal even got them to the semifinals of the last World Cup.

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