Page 196 of Falling for You
‘Nathaniel!’
I look up as the excited voice of Aunt Tell pours throughthe room like heavy cream. She sashays towards us, her face still thick with show make-up, wrapped in a heavy coat. She throws her arms around my neck – nearly breaking my back as she pulls me down to her level – and gives me a huge squeeze. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to her treating me like her long-lost son when she’s been ignoring me for the past couple of months.
‘Hi Aunt Tell,’ I say as she lets me go. ‘Well done on the show – you were great. This is my friend, Remy.’
Aunt Tell turns to Remy and dips her chin. She holds out her hand and he takes it, giving a little bow.
‘You were fantastic,’ he says earnestly. ‘What would you like to drink?’
Patches of pink form on Aunt Tell’s cheeks and she shimmies her shoulders in a way I’ve never seen an adult do.
‘Ooooh! Champagne, please!’
Remy doffs his flat cap and turns back to the bartender, who now looks thoroughly pissed at the realisation that he’ll be working right up until 10:59 p.m.
‘You enjoyed it, then?’ Aunt Tell coos, putting a hand on my arm. ‘You really liked it?’
‘Yes,’ I say at once. ‘You were great.’ That bit isn’t a lie, at least.
‘You are too kind.’ She cups her chest, turning to gaze at Remy, who gives her a wink over his shoulder.
‘Listen,’ I say, keen to steer the conversation before Aunt Tell is completely swept away by Remy. ‘I spoke to Mom today. She—’
‘Your darling mom!’ Aunt Tell cries, her hands back at her heart. ‘How is she?’
I pause. She’s fine … considering she’s dealing with early onset dementia.
‘She was asking about you,’ I say, avoiding the question in order to keep things light. ‘I was thinking maybe you could come back with us at Christmas to visit.’
‘Sounds wonderful,’ she says, but as Remy turns back with her champagne, I can tell she isn’t listening.
‘Really?’ I press on. ‘Shall I book us some flights, then? I’ll just need your passport details.’
‘Sure, honey,’ she says absent-mindedly, her glittering eyes fixed on Remy. ‘So, tell me, what didyouthink of the show?’
I hop from one foot to the other as the subway rockets around the corner, snaking through the underground passages. Mom called earlier this afternoon, and we ended up chatting my entire lunch break. Everything has slipped back into normal conversation. How are you? How was your day? Was work okay? How’s Stevie? I debated messaging Dad, telling him about the message from Mom, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. If he didn’t already know, then why would I tell him? All it would do is scare him, and he’s scared enough as it is. I know that. I’ve just run away from it.
Guilt hammers under my chest and I close my eyes for a moment.
The train pulls up at Camden and my eyes open asI knock into the man next to me. I mumble an apology, squeezing my way off the tube to start the quick walk back to the flat. The air is cold, whizzing past my face and leaving speckles of ice behind, ready to nip and pinch at the tips of my ears and the tops of my cheeks. The Londoners are fully buried in their scarves now, with only their narrowed eyes poking out at the top, scanning the sidewalks for any gaps in the crowds that they can skirt through. I weave my way through the throng of commuters, pulling my coat tight to my body. Sure, it’s cold, but it has nothing on New York winters. Brian and Helen were chatting excitedly with a few others today about how it might snow at the weekend, but that’s one part of England that I haven’t been swept away by. You don’t know snow until you’ve been to America.
I hop up the final steps of the building and push my key into the lock, giving the door a swift kick to force it open. ‘Hello?’ I call out, pushing the door shut and unravelling my scarf.
‘Hi.’ Stevie’s voice comes from the kitchen, carried by the splats and crackles of something in the frying pan.
Okay, so he is talking to me now. That’s something.
I drop my bag and walk into the kitchen. Stevie is frying an egg.
He looks up from the hob. ‘Want one?’
I shake my head. ‘Nah man, I’m good.’
I don’t know if it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but Stevie looks thinner than he did a week ago. His eyes arecircled by deep, dark rings and his cheekbones are jutting out under his greyish skin. His mouth is pressed together in a line, like he’s fighting desperately not to let out all the angry words that are buzzing inside his mouth.
He nods, flipping his egg onto a piece of bread and following me into the living room.
‘I saw Aunt Tell the other day,’ I say, watching closely for a reaction.
