Page 102 of We Used To Be Magic

‘Dad.’

‘Dad?’ I laugh. ‘He was too busy looking at his watch, surely?’

Maggie sighs, perching on the edge of the sofa. Caroline sets down the mugs and flops back into the armchair, their mutual silence weighted with disapproval.

‘What?’ I say defensively. ‘I thought this was an “open dialogue”?’

‘It is,’ Caroline says. ‘Which is whyIcan say that I think you’re too harsh on Dad.’

‘He does try,’ Maggie chimes in.

‘To avoid me? Agreed.’

‘Only because you act like you can’t stand him!’ Caroline retorts. ‘And don’t think that he’s oblivious to it, because he’s not.’

‘So what? He’s the one that shipped me off to a different country.’

‘You agreed to go, Ezzy. No one forced you.’

‘Only because he so obviously wanted me gone!’

‘No,’ Caroline says flatly. ‘He wanted you to be safe. He wanted you to have structure. Hedidn’twant you to skip school and roam the city getting wasted with a bunch of random dirtbags, which I happen to think is fairly reasonable.’

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. She’s referring to theonetime I got picked up (and dropped home) by two plain-clothed officers in the park after puking a stomachful of Bacardi on to a memorial bench. The dirtbags in question were the guys who’d bought me cigarettes a few hours prior – they bolted, which is fair, and I got off with a warning after Maggie relayed our sob-story to the cops. I always wondered if I might have gotten awaywith it entirely, had Caroline been the one to answer the door. But she wasn’t, and I didn’t. A month later I was in England.

‘He missed you, Ezra,’ Maggie says. ‘He tried to call – he wrote you all those letters. You never wrote back.’

Sure, yes. Letters were received. Actual hand-written letters recounting every mundane thing that had happened the week prior. They were sad – unknowingly so, which made them even sadder. And they undermined my self-righteous anger, so I ignored them. Eventually they dwindled into the occasional email and an annual birthday card, and I was relieved. It made it easier to convince myself that he didn’t really care, and I don’t know why I wanted that. Or why it’s only just occurring to me how fucked-up that is.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’m a terrible son. Is that what we’re all here to talk about?’

‘You’re not—’

‘No, I am. A shitty brother, too. A worse friend – a bad person, basically.’

It all comes out in a rush, and it’s the first time I’ve given voice to it – the deep, gnawing conviction that there’s a reason why everything I touch turns to shit. I thought it might make me feel better, admitting it – nope. I’m mortified by how pathetic I sound, which isn’t helped by Caroline’s abrupt bark of laughter.

‘Sorry,’ she says quickly. ‘Just – do you really think that anyone who wasactuallyso awful would spend as much time agonising over it as you apparently do?’

‘You’re not a bad person,’ Maggie confirms. ‘Have a sandwich.’

She proffers a box of them, crustless and neatly cut. I hesitate, then sit beside her on the sofa and take one.

‘And we’re not here to talk about anything in particular,’ she adds. ‘We’re just … here.’

‘Because I’m having a breakdown?’

‘Are you?’ Maggie asks, eyes big and soft.

‘No,’ I say instinctively. Then – ‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t have to know,’ Caroline says. ‘We’ll just take each day as it comes. Today, lunch. Then maybe a movie …’

‘You could have a bath,’ Maggie interjects. ‘Baths always make me feel better.’

‘Mags has a point. You stink, actually.’

Maggie responds by picking up a pillow and tossing it at Caroline’s head. I laugh, taking a bite of my sandwich. A mouthful is enough to make me realise that I’m ravenous. I take another huge bite, and for some reason my eyes are suddenly flooded with tears. Because I’m sad? Because I’m not? I have no idea, so I just keep eating, tears dripping down my face as I chew.

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