Page 41 of Still Falling for You

I wake up in my old bedroom with the beginnings of a headachepressing against my temples. It’s like someone has trapped me in a time capsule. Apart from the ironing pile and my mother’s Peloton in the corner, everything looks the same to the smallest detail. I wonder why she’s ditched the bike here, having three more bedrooms at her disposal.

One of the walls is solely covered with posters of the Spice Girls and Backstreet Boys because I was going through a ’90s bands phase in my teens, while the other has a noticeboard stuck to it with old photos. There are a few photos of Catherine, but it’s mostly filled with Vicky pouting her lips at the camera and an occasional flash of me. The corner of my face here, a lock of hair there. I pad barefoot towards the board, knowing what I’m searching for. As soon as I find the incriminating photo, I pluck it off the board mercilessly. In the picture, I’m standing next to Catherine at one of the rare parties we attended, neither of us being much of a party animal. We’re both dressed in collared shirts, but where mine is ditsy floral, hers is burgundy.

But it’s not our dismal fashion sense or the terrible haircuts we’re sporting in the photo that enrages me. In the corner of the picture stands a boy with ginger hair, looking at me with an unreadable expression. He resembles the Alex I know now more than ever. My grip around the photo hardens. For the first time, I spot another person in the photo I’ve never noticed. Vicky is standing a little distance away in the crowd, sipping a drink and watching Alex with hooded eyes. I study her strange expression for a moment.

Alex is the sole reason for what I do next. Hot tears leaking down my cheeks, I rip it into confetti-sized pieces and chuck it in the bin. Without another glance, I pad back to the warm bed and barricade myself with my pillows and duvet.

Last night when I cried on the phone to my mother, she insisted that I stay overnight at their place, and for once, I had no strength to refuse. I tried to play the sad drunk card, but I don’t think she bought it because I haven’t cried in front of hersince I was a child.

I lie lethargically in my childhood bed for long moments, staring helplessly at the ceiling covered in fluorescent stars that my dad stuck on when I was fourteen. I remember he gave himself back pain for a week, never having been one for physical labour. I cherished them because I knew he had gone out of his way to make me happy. A fresh wave of searing tears covers my face, soaking into the lavender-smelling pink bedding.

My mood shifts from crushed to irate; I need to scream or smash something so badly my hands are shaking. I’ve suppressed this part of me for the last ten years, convincing myself that all those broken parts had healed over, but the truth is, I’d just pushed them deeper and fragmented them into even smaller, much sharper, pieces.

Eventually, I make myself move and take a shower. I find some old clothes in the wardrobe that are freshly laundered and pressed. The wardrobe, too, is a time capture of an eighteen-year-old Holly, so I choose the least offensive garments to put on. Embarrassingly, both the flared corduroy trousers and the purple polo-neck top still fit. When I look at myself in the mirror, I resemble an older version of Sabrina Spellman. I wash my face but don’t bother with make-up. I feel marginally better but still fragile.

I head downstairs and find the kitchen abandoned. I pour myself some coffee from the cafetière sitting next to the fancy-looking bread bin and douse it with five heaped spoons of brown sugar. It’s still warm and bitter, and it’s exactly what I need. I head to the lounge with it and park myself on the largest sofa, pulling my legs up. Feeling exhausted from all the emotions, I drop my head to my knees.

‘Hangover?’ My dad asks jovially from the doorway. His tone is a little too cheery to be genuine.

Everything tenses in me. It’s a reflex that I haven’t learnt to override for the last ten years.

‘Sorry for crashing here last night,’ I say automatically.

‘You’re always welcome here. Your mother was so excited she went to the bakery to buy some fresh pastries for breakfast.’ I nod because I don’t know what else to say. I don’t remember the last time we were alone like this. His expression is uneasy, he’s fighting with something. He says carefully, ‘It’s been too long since you’ve stayed overnight.’

I guess he never understood why, last minute, I chose a university all the way in Wales when all along I planned to go to a local university. I haven’t lived at home since I was eighteen, and yet, I still feel like a little girl in this room with him. Surrounded by cream chenille sofas and potpourri in various silver and bronze bowls placed around the room, I feel more like the old Holly than ever, and it chafes like polyester against sensitive skin.

I can’t stand to look at him, the good old dad. The benevolent father figure he’s pretended to be for so long, and I’ve let him maintain that image by keeping quiet.

He sits on the sofa opposite me and sips his coffee. He’s wearing one of his many almost identical chequered M&S shirts. This one is blue, red and white, and presses tightly around his pot belly when he leans against the back support of the sofa.

I’m reminded of how comfortable our silences used to be. It was me and my dad against the world. I remember the times we would affectionately mock Mother for her tomfoolery, but that turned sour a long time ago. I pretend to check my phone, but what I’m really doing is trying to find something to do with my hands and eyes.

‘You worry your mother.’ He breaks the silence and then takes another loud sip of his coffee. He’s studying me over the rim of his old-fashioned glasses.

I wish he’d leave it there, but he doesn’t. ‘Did yesterday have something to do with Aaron?’

He’s never been the prying type, so at first, I think I haven’t heard him correctly.

‘Whatever happened between you two, you should have given it a second chance. Instead of giving up.’

I place my mug on the coffee table, my body tensing all over. Out of all days, he had to choose to have this conversation this very morning. It reminds me why I have avoided being with him alone. The lecturing.

‘That was my choice to make, and as such, it’s none of your business,’ I snap and flinch at my own words. I’ve never snapped at my dad, apart from that one time ten years ago. Everything floods back in a hot, overwhelming wave that carries so much anger it surprises me.

‘Pardon?’ he exclaims, but it sounds anything but apologetic. He sits up, emanating disapproval. ‘It’s got everything to do with me because it upsets your mother. She has worried about you ever since you broke up with Aaron. See it from our perspective. One minute you are happy, buy a bungalow with that boy and all seems well. Next, you quit your job, break up with Aaron and move to a shoddy bed-sit. We both liked him. He was a decent man.’

I pull myself to my feet, ready to get my stuff and go without another word. Think me a coward, but I’m not good at confrontation. Then everything quietens inside me and hones into a single argument. Why should I keep quiet? I’ve had enough of deceptive men in my life.

‘No. He was a piece of shit,Dad.’ I saydadlike it’s an insult. ‘And I didn’t quit my job. I was made redundant.’

His chin wobbles at my foul language.

‘Young lady,’ he tries to interrupt.

‘You can shove youryoung ladydeep down where the sun doesn’t shine. He was a scumbag who cheated on me in our own home.’ My dad’s eyes widen behind his glasses, and his hand, still holding the mug, shakes. ‘I found out by walking inon them because he didn’t have the decency to tell me himself, so stop singing the praises of that man because he doesn’t deserve that. Unless you think that cheating on someone who you made a commitment to should be condoned.’ I pause for a moment. His lips are slack; I’ve shocked him. The immature, angry Holly inside me is pleased.

‘To top it, he’s expecting a baby with her. What do you say now? Do you still like him that much? Maybe you should give him a chance yourself. It’s not like beingmarriedhas stopped you before.’ I don’t know what has got into me, but a dam has burst, and all the feelings and memories spill out.

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