Page 70 of Second to None

Then: “Did I just see Cass walking down the driveway?”

“Yeah.” I pretended an intense interest in the pattern of the tiles. A swirl of teal and cream. Waves, maybe, like the unsteady rise and fall of my thoughts. Hard to grasp at anything in particular. “He, uh. He left.”

Two words—he left. They sounded so simple for something that was distant thunder and rain, a faraway storm through frosted glass. Not quite real as long as the windows stayed closed.

“Already?” Confusion wound through my mum’s tone. “He didn’t even say goodbye.”

I busied myself with checking whether the coffee was ready. Not yet.

“And,” Mum continued after a moment, “he didn’t have his suitcase either.”

My spine prickled. “He’ll sort it out.”

“Honey,” she said slowly, as if feeling her way along the words, “what’s going on?”

I pressed my lips together, tongue against the roof of my mouth, and shrugged. “Like I said, he left.”

“Why?” Her tone was gently puzzled, like it didn’t make sense for him to do that. I kept my shoulders loose, attention on the coffee bubbling up in the moka pot.

“I asked him to.”

“You asked him to leave?” She sounded like someone working on a puzzle that didn’t fit.

“Yeah.” I forced another small shrug, tension curling my muscles tight. “Remember how he promised to keep Emmy out of the spotlight? Well, surprise—there’s a video of us out there. It’s all over the internet. Emmy’s in it, and now people are bringing up Jess, too.”

“Jesus.” Mum inhaled sharply and leaned back against the counter, shock melting into disbelief. “Cass put it out there?”

“Of course not,” I snapped. Too harsh—still defending him, second nature even now. I softened my voice. “No. Some store’s surveillance feed got leaked—that tourist trap where we bought Emmy’s bathing suit. They must’ve sold the footage. Good for business, I guess.”

“So it wasn’t his fault?” She sounded relieved, like it somehow made all the difference.

“It wouldn’t have happened if not for him.” I opened a cabinet just for something to do with my hands, ran my fingertips along cool ceramic. “If he wasn’t, you know—who he is. Famous.”

She took the moka pot off the stove, hands moving with steady purpose. “I get what you’re saying, darling. But is that entirely fair?”

I straightened, eyes narrowing. “Maybe not. But is it fair that I’m gonna have to discuss the security protocol with Emmy’s school?”

It wouldn’t be an entirely new topic—we’d chosen her school partly for its security measures and their experience with kids of Manchester United players. But immediate media interest was a different kind of beast. At least the UK had decent protection in place for children of celebrities.

Fuck. I’d never wanted this for her.

“No,” Mum said. “Honey?—”

“I’ll handle it,” I cut in. “May need to contact a private security company. Emmy will be fine at school, though. And as for me—not my first rodeo. I know how to plan around this kind of thing.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” She said it quietly, handing me a cup of coffee with the kind of smile that made me feel about ten years old, with a scraped knee and a trembling lip.

“I’m fine, Mum.” I ducked my head, gaze sliding away, distant rain still pattering in my ears. “I’m not going to dive headfirst into a pool of booze and self-hate.” Not like last time Cass had walked away from me, when I’d sunk into a pit of bad decisions, so low I barely recognised the taste of morning air.

“I’m not actually worried about that either.” Her fingers skimmed the back of my hand. “Honey, you’re… I’ve always been proud of you. But I’m so,soproud of the person you’ve become.”

“Thank you, Mum.” I swallowed reflexively, tripped up by the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, a few silver strands escaping the hair she’d pulled back. She’d retire next year; my dad had already retired. They wouldn’t be around forever. With my emotions turned thin and fragile from tiptoeing along a mental ledge, the thought felt physical in its immediacy.

“I probably don’t tell you enough, do I?” my mum said softly and continued before I could reply. “But Levi, honey—don’t you think that maybe Cass has done some growing up, too?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I told her, voice a notch too sharp.

“Doesn’t it?” Her tone was almost philosophical, a hint sad. It didn’t necessitate a response, and so I turned away, chasing the sour taste at the back of my throat with a bitter sip of coffee. The garden gleamed under an early sun, leaves stirring with an unfelt breeze—empty and silent, no trace of Cass. Already on his way to the airport, maybe.

---