Page 60 of If It Can't Be Us

I laugh, “Sorry, Nichole, I’ll try to filter around the baby.”

I love spending time with Andrew and Nichole.

“There’s a Liverpool–Chelsea game starting in an hour, do you want to watch?” Andrew asks.

“Fuck yes, I do!” I say enthusiastically, as Nichole gives me a glare, and I grimace. “Shit. I’m sorry, Nichole.” Andrew and I both laugh. “But I do miss proper football.”

Nichole brings in some tea, which is something that I don’t miss. I’m definitely an American when it comes to my love for coffee. I sip on it anyway as we catch up on the past three months. Andrew is the only onein London that I talk to on a regular weekly basis. Naturally, he knows a bit about Vivian, but I’ve kept the details pretty vague; she’s my cool, hot neighbor, who's become a good friend.

After an hour, Nichole takes Emma upstairs for them to both nap. Andrew and I sit in the living room, a couple of glasses of scotch between us, the soft glow of the fireplace casting shadows on the walls. The sound of a Chelsea match plays in the background, adding a familiar comfort to our conversation.

“It’s good to have you here,” Andrew says, breaking the comfortable silence.

“It’s good to be here,” I reply, taking a sip of my drink. “You’ve done well for yourself, Andrew. I’m proud of you. You’ve managed to escape dad's constant pressure of working in the family business, to do something that you love instead, while moving on, falling in love and building a life… a family. It’s commendable brother.” I lift my drink up, toasting his great efforts and accomplishments.

Andrew smiles, but there’s a shadow in his eyes. “Thanks, mate. It hasn’t been easy, you know that. But I’ve had to… for Nichole, for Emma.” He pauses, then looks at me more intently. “You didn’t escape dad's pressure but at least you escaped London.”

I nod, watching the game out the corner of my eye.

“But what about you? Are you ever going to settle down?” Andrew asks cautiously.

Here we fucking go.

“For fuck’s sake, I am settled, Andrew.” I glare at him. “I have a great career, thriving businesses, a townhouse on the river, a fuck-ton of money, and friends I care about. I’m fulfilled.” I’m not angry with him—I love my brother—but we have this conversation at least twice a year. I brace myself for what’s next: a lecture about not dating, never getting married or having a family, and not understanding how meaningful life can be when shared with someone. It gets bloody old.

“But you won’t let yourself be completely happy, mate. Why do you keep holding onto the past?” Andrew’s eyes soften, taking the conversation in a direction I didn’t see coming.

“What are you getting at?” I ask slowly.

“With Mum,” he states. “You’ve never really let it go. You’ve neverwantedto. It’s almost like you enjoy the anger that you have for her.”

I stare into my glass, swirling the amber liquid. “It’s not that simple, Andrew. You know what we went through, how she was. It’s not something you just shrug off.”

Andrew leans forward, his voice softer but insistent. “We both lived it, Leo. She was tougher on you, I get that. But at some point, you have to move forward. You can’t let the past run your life.”

I let out a dry laugh. “You think I haven’t tried? She didn’t care about me the way she cared about you. She blamed me for her misery.”

“Mate, you’re a bloody psychology professor. You know better than anyone that she was sick. She was depressed, anxious, an alcoholic… She was out of her mind most days.”

“I know that. I’ve spent years coming to terms with it. But forgiving her doesn’t erase what she did.”

Andrew places a hand on my shoulder. “I get it. But maybe it’s time you stopped letting her mistakes define how you live.”

I shoot him a look, and he raises his hands in defense. “Hold on—just hear me out.”

I wait for him to continue digging this grave.

“I think you’ve convinced yourself that you don’t deserve the kind of happiness I have, like you’re somehow responsible for what happened to her. And it’s bullshit. You’ve punished yourself for long enough. It’s holding you back.”

The fire crackles in the silence between us, occasionally interrupted by cheers from the television as Chelsea makes another advance. I stare blankly at the screen. “I fucking love my life, Andrew… But maybe you’re right,” I finally say, barely above a whisper. “I’ve always carried the blame, like I could’ve done something to change things.”

Andrew’s eyes cloud with sorrow. “You were a kid, mate. None of that was on you. You know that.”

I scoff. “I know it logically, but it’s hard to forget when those words come from your own mum.” I take a heavy swig of my drink. “She said some fucked up things to me the night before she left.”

We sit in silence as I swirl the scotch in front of me, the ice clinking in my glass. The cheers from the football match blur into the background. I can feel Andrew’s eyes on me, his concern digging into me like a knife. I fucking hate that. I’m the older brother, the strong one, the one who holds it together, his protector. But I’ve carried this truth for twenty-five years, and now I’ve handed it to him like a burden he never asked for.

Andrew’s face twists in anguish. “God, I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me?”

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