Page 74 of Tangled Desires

“She’sthe mother of my child, and her name is Imogen.” The words snap out sharper than intended, but fuck it.

Imogen’s hand brushes my arm, a small move, her voice soft. “It’s fine, Harrison.” She turns to Mum like she’s defusing a bomb. “Sorry, Nancy, things have just been crazy—work, events, doctor’s appointments. We didn’t realise you were feeling this way.”

Her apologising? Hell no. “You don’t need to apologise,” I cut in, tone hard. “She doesn’t owe you anything. We’re busy, but like you said, we’re just out back. Nothing’s stopping you from knocking on the damn door.”

Mum’s lips pull tight, but before she can wind up again, Michael groans loud enough to rattle the plates. “Mum, give it a rest. Can’t we just eat in peace for once? For fuck’s sake.”

I should’ve known better than to say yes to dinner, thinking she’d actually let it go. She’s only gotten worse over the years. So fucking senile. The air in the room stiffens. Her voice slices through it. “Gosh, you’re all acting like I’m attacking him. You know, I rang the pharmacy about your tablets. Know what they said? Haven’t been picked up in over a year.”

The fork bends under my grip. “That’s none of your business.”

“The doctor says you need them,” she snaps back. “Too damn stubborn for your own good. No wonder you’re so on edge.” The words land like a slap. Eyes glued to the plate. Breathing sharp.

“There’s no need to say it like that, Nancy. Maybe he’s stubborn, but he’s got every right to be after everything he’s been through,” Imogen says calmly. I turn to meet her eyes.

“Oh? So he’s told you everything, has he?”

Imogen straightens, doesn’t flinch. “I know enough.”

“And what exactly has he been through? What do you really know?” Her tone is so fucking condescending I grit my teeth.

“Enough!”

The table falls silent, everyone’s gaze fixed on me. Imogen’s hand moves toward mine, but I’m too keyed up to really feel it. “Go on, then,” she snaps. “Storm off. Prove me right, like you always do.”

Joe’s voice drags across the silence. “Nancy, leave him be.”

“Fuck’s sake, Mum,” Michael groans.

“You don’t know the first thing about me.” All eyes are on me now—Michael, Joe, Mum. Imogen. She’s seeing all this.

“Oh, don’t I?” Mum grumbles. “Who was there every time you got in trouble? Who smoothed things over with the police when you were out in those street brawls?”

I’m on my feet before I even register it. “Yeah, you were there—whenhewas, too. And what did you do then? Fucking nothing. You let him treat us like shit, and now you want to act like youknowme? Like you’ve got the right to judge me?” My words pour out fast. “And then you wonder why I don’t come around. Why I avoid this place like the fucking plague?

“I’m fucking SICK of being dragged over the coals every time I walk in here. Haven’t we dealt with enough?” I gesture at Michael, bellowing. “Haven’t I?”

Mum’s eyes well up, tears sliding free as she stares, stunned. “When you decide to act like a real parent, maybe we can have a normal conversation.” Her voice wavers as she stands, mutters something, and rushes out. She’s gone, and the silence she leaves behind feels suffocating.

“This has to stop. You two need to sort this—for everyone’s sake.” Joe’s demand hangs heavy in the air. Imogen’s hand rests on my arm. I can’t meet her eyes. Everything’s piling up—Dad’s call, Mum’s constant digs, dragging Imogen into this mess. It claws up my chest, tight and sharp, each breath harder to dragin. The last time it felt like this, I’d hit him—hit that bastard after what he did to Michael.

I shove back from the table, the chair scraping loud against the floor, and head for the door. Each step’s heavy, deliberate. I don’t stop until I’m past the granny flat, past the fence, straight to the shed. The door groans as I push it open, slamming shut behind me. My pulse hammers, pounding through my skull like a drumbeat. The shelves blur as my hands start yanking through them. Something heavy. Something to throw. My fingers land on two boxes shoved high up. The first one barely budges. The second I drag down with a grunt. It hits the floor with a dull thud.

The cardboard flaps tear as I pull them open.Junk. Old shoes, moldy and crusted. A deflated football and… snow globes. Cheap ones. Plastic bases scratched up. Souvenirs from petrol stations.

My hand hovers, then grabs one. The plastic feels gritty under my fingers. I stop all movements, and just stare at it. I know this one. I was seven. Mum bought it for me the day after he hit me for the first time. Said it’d make me feel better. Like a fuckingsnow globecould fix that.

The snow globe flies from my hand, smashing against the wall. Shards scatter, and fake snow drifts down like ash. My chest heaves, breaths ragged, but I’m already reaching for another. This one’s bigger, heavier. My grip tightens until the edges bite into my palm. I know this one, too. It was that week I couldn’t go to school because of the bruises. Bruises too dark, too swollen to hide. She’d left it on the kitchen table like a peace offering, like an apology.

My arm swings. The globe crashes against the wall, bursting apart in a spray of glass and water. Tears blur my vision, streaking down my face. I can’t stop fucking shaking. My hands, my chest—everything trembles.

This is so fucked. Why couldn’t my life be normal? Why couldn’t I be normal?

I press my back against the wall, sliding down to sit in the wreckage. Hands trembling, breath hitching. The bruises. The lies. The noise in my head that never stops. It’s too much. All of it. It twists and tears through me, leaving nothing but a hollow, broken mess.

24

25 weeks

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