Page 31 of Tangled Desires

“What’s that got to do with this?” I say, too fast. My arms drop, fists clenching at my sides. “I’ve got my shit together now—not that you’d notice.” She’s reaching, but she doesn’t know half of it. Joe does. He’s seen it firsthand—caught me in the middle of a nightmare once when I was eighteen. Nearly put my fist through the wall that night. That’s when the granny flat happened. I could’ve left, should’ve maybe, but I wasn’t about to walk away from Michael. Still won’t.Yearswe’ve lived under the same roof, and shenevernoticed. Never noticed that I was struggling, never asked if something was off.

She never asked. She nevercared.

It was always about Michael. She fussed over him, worried about him, like he was the only one that mattered. Don’t get mewrong—I get it. He’s my little brother, and I’d take a bullet for him. But it stings, you know? It’s not that I wanted more than him, I just wanted… something. Now she wants to act like she’s concerned?

“You need to be serious about these things, Harrison. A baby is no joke,” Joe declares.

“Yeah, I know.”

“So sort it out sooner rather than later. You’re gonna be a dad, Harrison. Think about what’s best for the kid—and the both of you.”

Before the air even clears, Mum jumps in. “I agree. This is huge! You’ve got to start thinking about your priorities. You can’t just hide out in that flat forever.”

Priorities. Right. Like I haven’t been juggling those since I was a kid. “I’m not hiding. I’ve got my reasons for being out there.”

Mum leans in, that cigarette rasp of hers sliding out all condescending. “If you’re serious about this woman and raising a baby, she needs to know about your... illness.”

Illness? What the actual fuck? My jaw clenches. “I’m not sick. I have ADHD,” I snap. “And I’m fine. What’s your point?”

Her tone shifts to that sickly sweet warning. “You’ve got responsibilities now, Harrison. Have you even talked to her? Do you know anything about raising a child?”

I bite the inside of my cheek. Responsibility? That’s rich, coming from her. My teeth grind hard enough to turn enamel into powder. “You wanna talk about responsibility, Mum? Where the fuck was that when we were kids, huh? When Michael and I were the ones cleaning up your shit? We were your responsibility. What do you know?”

Her face twitches. With guilt? Maybe. “That’s not the point, Harrison. I thought we were past that. You’re an adult now, you need to stop acting like some reckless youngin. Staying out late, drinking. This is about your child. You need to grow up.”

Pastthat? Is she out of her fucking mind? The table is vibrating under my leg now, the bounce so fast it’s practically a fucking earthquake. “You’re kidding, right? Moved past it? What exactly haveyoumoved past, Mum? Do you even remember what happened? Or do you just block it out like it never existed?”

My jaw’s locked so tight it’s a wonder I can still talk, and my hands won’t stay still. They’re twitching, aching to throw, punch, grab something, anything, just to get this goddamn tornado out of my chest. She wants to lecture me about responsibility? Like she didn’t turn a blind eye every timehecame storming through the house. Like she didn’t see me bleeding, didn’t hear the fucking shouting. Grow up?

How the fuck is someone supposed to grow up when they’re too busy surviving?

Joe raises his palm. “Harrison, listen. This isn’t meant to cause grief.”

Mum tuts. “No, he needs to hear this, Joe. He’s got a kid on the way—”

“Mum, just leave it,” Michael cuts in, but it’s too late. She’s already lit the fuse. I’m on my feet, chair scraping back hard enough to jar the room.

“Enough. You do not get to tell me how to raise my kid when you didn’t even raise yours.”

“Harrison!” Joe’s voice cuts through like thunder, sharp and commanding. It barely lands. Not now. Not with the noise roaring in my head, drowning out everything else.

Keys. Where are my fucking keys?

I don’t even remember moving, but I’m in my flat, yanking them off the counter. The door slams behind me, rattling the frame. Gravel crunches under my boots as I storm to the car, each step quick and unsteady, like if I slow down, the weight of everything will crash down on me. My hands tremble as I jamthe key into the ignition and twist it hard. The engine roars to life—loud, raw, and furious.

I slam the accelerator, tyres screeching and spitting gravel in a messy spray. My car jolts forward, and I don’t let up, foot heavy on the pedal. The street blurs as I tear through it, windows down, the cold wind cutting against my face. It’s sharp, biting—drowning out everything else.

It’s the only place that makes sense. The only place where all the bullshit doesn’t follow me.

10

8 – 10 weeks

“Another day, another fabulous blow-dry, right, Betty?” I part her hair and clip the sections with practised ease.

“Absolutely, darling! Just make sure it’s big and bouncy,” Betty says, her eyes sparkling with anticipation as she settles into the salon chair; her silver curls frame her face like a halo. I’m halfway through curling the last section when the bell jingles. I don’t even need to turn around.

Shelly Bryant. Like clockwork—same day, same gossip, same nails-on-a-chalkboard energy. The click of her heels is enough to set my teeth on edge, but I stay focused on Betty.

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