Page 28 of Worth the Wait
So he told himself a different lie.
That this whole thing…this pathetic, half-baked reason to swing by the garage was aboutclosure. Curiosity. Not hope.
That whatever version of Nathan stood behind that forecourt door now wouldn’t look at him the way he used to. Wouldn’t lean in too close or smile as if it meant something. Wouldn’t let his voice softenjust for him. That he’d gone into the army with questions and come out with answers.Straightones. Clean ones. Ones that didn’t leave room for Freddie Webb and everything messy they once were.
And if none of that was true?
Well.
That wastomorrow’s lie to deal with.
Chapter six
Collateral Damage
Nathan hadn’t even finished his second coffee when the garage shutter opened and let in the damp morning air. The forecourt was already soaked from a passing shower, puddles shining like oil slicks, the Worthbridge skyline a low, grey smudge beyond the rooftops.
Exactly how he remembered it.
No desert sky here. No wasteland.
Worthbridge.Home.
He’d dropped Alfie at his new school less than half an hour ago. The kid hadn’t said a word the entire drive. Hood up, earphones jammed in, backpack slung too low on his spine as if it carried more than books. As if it carriedblame. Nathan had tried, again, to start a conversation. A joke. A comment about the weather. Anything. But Alfie had stared out the window, silent and stubborn, and Nathan had given up before they reached the third turning.
He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up. Trying, failing,pretendinghe didn’t hear the quiet judgment from all sides. The whispers, even unspoken, were clear:Take him back to his mum. Wash your hands. Walk away.Let him fall back into that estate. That trap. The gangs that had already started sniffing around by the time Nathan had shown up.
But how could he?
It was harder than he’d imagined. Full-time parenting. He wasn’t trained for it. Could strip and clean a rifle in under ninety seconds. Could throw himself out of a chopper in crosswinds. But this? Trying to raise a boy who barely looked at him?Thatfelt like walking into battle without armour.
Until recently, he’d done his parenting from afar. Deployed, always. Sending monthly maintenance payments that tore a hole in his infantry wages, even if his room in the barracks meant he didn’t pay rent. Katie did though. And he’d paid hers. Every bloody month. Paid so she could turn that flat into a halfway house for her next fix, for whatever bloke she was screwing in exchange for something stronger than affection. He hadn’t known. Hadn’twantedto know. Had told himself Alfie was fine, school was fine, everything was fine.
God, when he thought about what he’d let his son grow up in because he hadn’t been ready. Because he’d buriedhimself in duty, in structure, in distance. Because it was easier to be a soldier than a father.
It was gutting, really. To think how one bad decision, one mistake when he was eighteen, shoved onto him by peer pressure he hadn’t been strong enough to resist, had spiralled intothis.
“Start with the Corsa.” Ron didn’t look up from the battered clipboard he kept wedged between oil tins on the counter. “Cambelt’s rattling like a skeleton in a tumble dryer. She’s got a school run to do, wants it by three.”
“Right.” Nathan pulled on his gloves.
Petrol, wet concrete, and the pungent tang of metal dust had seeped into the walls of the place years ago and gave Nathan that familiar feeling of home. The garage was old, but solid. Corrugated metal walls, greasy skylights letting in a little light but not enough, and too many tools that never got put back where they belonged. One hydraulic lift still wheezed when it moved. The coffee machine in the corner groaned worse than Ron did, and the radio never picked up a station that wasn’t mostly static. But it worked. Itfunctioned. And today, that was more than Nathan could say about himself.
So he got to work yanking the Corsa’s bonnet up and half-buried his body in the engine’s guts, wrenching the belt housing open, knocking his knuckles into bolts, the sting of old scars flaring where the skin still hadn’t fully healed. He’d almost buried his thoughts in grease when a car with the distinctivewhine-thud-whineof something that wasn’t happy caught his attention. So he slid out from under the bonnet, wiping his hands on a rag that was more oil than cloth, smearing grease up his forearms as he watched the car roll into the forecourt.
Red Peugeot.
Like the one that had been outside his house yesterday.
Paint dulled with age, exhaust coughing gently, the driver’s door opened, and Nathan’s heart gave a traitorous kick in his chest when out stepped Freddie Webb.
No uniform now. No badge in sight. It was all figure-hugging jeans, a dark jumper clinging to a trim physique, and a fitted jacket stressing his now broader frame, and hair that was both a mess and perfectly styled. It was the look that saidI didn’t try,but meantI absolutely did.
Then those eyes, warm, dark,honest, landed on him.
Nathan swallowed. Hard. And didn’t have time to get his game face on.
Because it still felt as absolutely devastating as it was the day Nathan had stood in Freddie’s bedroom and uttered the words,“I’m leaving.”And Freddie had hit him.
