Page 40 of Falling for You
‘Reminding you,’ she says sweetly. ‘Why don’t you come home tonight after work and have dinner with us? Then we can go together in the morning. I have a dress you can wear. I finished making it this week. You’ll love it.’
‘What colour is it?’
‘Purple.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Dark purple! Like an aubergine colour.’
Hmmm. That does sound quite nice.
‘Okay, fine. Thanks, Mum.’
‘Message Dad with the time you’ll get into the station and he’ll pick you up.’ I can hear her smile and my heart warms. ‘We’re making stew.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Nate
I elbow my way through our flat door.
I only travelled with the suit I was in for the ball, which meant that during my stay in New York, I had to wear the clothes I had intentionally not taken with me to London. Think high school jerseys and jeans that skim the top of your ankles and are stained with various mystery patches from years ago. Why Mom never threw any of these clothes out, I have no idea.
In a way, it was a stroke of good luck, otherwise I would have been stuck in my suit, or wearing the plaid shirts and faded jeans that Dad has worn for the past twenty years. Although I’m pretty sure he only has one pair, so that would have left me in one of Mom’s dresses. Stevie would be thrilled. Or, if I looked better than him, furious.
‘Hello?’ I call through the flat as I kick the door shut behind me. As soon as I stepped off the plane I was greeted with a steady torrent of rainwater, hitting me at all angles. It’s what I heard one passenger describe as ‘wet rain’, which sounded insane to me, but her friend nodded seriously and they both carried on chatting like it was completely normal.
My flight didn’t land until nine, and it’s almost midnight now. From the silence that greets me as I walk through the flat, I gather that Stevie is out at another gig. Even if he hadn’t said hello back, I would have heard his music. He’s like a walking Spotify megamix. One day it’s ABBA and Cher, the next it’s Green Day and Sum 41. He’s been that way ever since we were kids.
The London streets were bustling as I sailed through the city on the top floor of the 24 bus. I could see clusters of people huddled under canopies outside bars, sucking on cigarettes and hunching their shoulders, and restaurants humming with groups of friends and lovers, leaning over tables and laughing. Out of nowhere, I felt an odd pang of longing as I watched them, like I wanted to jump off the bus and join in. They all looked so happy. It’s the first time I’ve experienced London the way I had imagined it would be in my mind.
Well, that and the night I met Bat Girl.
Stevie hadn’t managed to find her after I’d left the ball. He didn’t see my messages, which I’m kind of glad about. If she wasn’t already royally freaked out about me running off without even saying goodbye, let alone apologising, my drunk brother ambushing her with a second-hand, desperate apology would probably have tipped her over the edge. And Stevie isn’t exactly subtle in his plots to find me a girlfriend, so God knows what he would have said to her when he was fuelled by gallons upon gallons of espresso martini.
Yeah, it’s a good thing, really. If I was meant to see her again, then Dad would have called thirty minutes later. Bythat time I could have asked for her number and hername, for God’s sake. But he didn’t, so this is just how it’s meant to be. Although I really miss that ring.
I grab a beer from the fridge before stretching out onto the cold, lumpy sofa. Stevie has done his best, filling the place with plants and artwork, but it’s missing the comforts of my New York pad. Well, a decent sofa is the least you would hope for.
In typical Mom fashion, she was fine for the entirety of my visit. She continued to downplay everything, remaining steadfast that she just tripped over her own feet and fell down the stairs, just as anyone could have done. There was no reason for me to have come back.
If I hadn’t been with her the past five years, I would have believed her. She was so convincing, it’s almost impossible to imagine that she isn’t fine. But I know the truth, sadly.
She shooed me out of the house and back onto a flight to London at the first opportunity, insisting that I carry on living out our London dream, taking care of Stevie and finding Keira Knightley or Emma Watson. She shamelessly told me that she was living through me and made me promise to send her more postcards. (I didn’t even realise that was a thing any more. I call her every day and send her pictures constantly – is that not good enough?)
I ended up only being in New York for three days, taking some last-minute time off work. Thankfully, working as a writer means I can pick the work back up again pretty quickly if I write in the evenings, so Brian wasn’t concerned about the short notice when I called him up. However, this has putme back a week or so in my quest to find Aunt Tell. But on the plus side, Mom did chat about Aunt Tell a lot over the past three days, which made me feel more confident about my plan. If she loves her so much, then surely Aunt Tell must love Mom that much too? Maybe it’ll be quite easy to persuade her to come home for a bit to visit Mom.
Dad didn’t say much during my visit, just stayed by Mom’s side and made himself busy around the house. But when my taxi arrived, he hugged me in that tight, strong way he always does and told me to take care of myself, and we went back to pretending that everything was normal and not talking about Mom’s illness. But at that moment, it suited me fine. It was much easier to get on a plane pretending that her dementia wasn’t real. Hell, if Stevie and Dad do it all the time, then why can’t I?
I look up as the door clicks open, and to my surprise Stevie walks in. He’s out of drag, but I can tell by his red face he’s come back from a show. He always scrubs his make-up off like he’s scrubbing red wine out of a carpet, and it means his face holds a pink tinge for a few hours afterwards. His hair used to be a clear giveaway, too, having a life of its own after sitting under a wig and hot, bright lights for hours, but since he shaved it and bleached it blonde, it’s much tamer.
‘What are you doing here?’ I say, getting to my feet and grabbing the suitcase he’s lugging behind him.
He shoots me a death look, which makes it clear that he’s spent the last however many hours sitting on a Megabus. ‘I live here?’ he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, which I suppose it is.
‘I thought you’d be at a show,’ I say, kicking the door shut as he stumbles in and throws himself on the sofa next to me.
‘I was,’ he replies, his voice muffled by the cushion his face is squished against. ‘It was a lunchtime show, in Manchester.’
