Page 55 of Wish You Once More
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Mat
“Mat? Is that you?”
“Melinda? What’s wrong?”
She choked back a sob and my vision started to swim before she’d even said a word.
“I’m so sorry, Mat, your dad passed away earlier this afternoon.” Her voice wavered thick with tears.
The phone dropped to the table with a clatter and I jumped to my feet and ran out of the restaurant. Outside, I gulped in mouthfuls of air trying to fight the shock.
My Dad was dead.
My Dad was dead.
My Dad was dead.
I’d only seen him a few days ago, listened to him telling me how proud he was of me, how I needed to make things up with my brother.
Shit. Jonny.
How was he? Had he been there at the end? Why did I make him go through that alone?
Because I was the selfish fucker he said I was.
I bent my head back and screamed long and hard at the sky. Once I’d got it out of my system, I paced the pavement, unable to process how I felt.
After I don’t know how long, Bree came out of the restaurant. She was pale, eyes red as she handed me my jacket.
“I paid the bill. We should go back to your place.”
“No.” I shook my head. “We should go home.”
Bree placed a steadying hand on my arm. “Not tonight. We’ll go first thing in the morning. There’s no point in getting there in the early hours of the morning, we’ll be no use to Jonny and Melinda.”
Darthampton was where I needed to be. Not Manchester.
“We can get the train, there are always overnight ones.” I resumed my pacing, dragging a hand through my hair, my thoughts whirling. “It won’t take long to pack.”
“Mat, look at me.” Bree grabbed my arms to stop me, gripping my biceps tightly so I couldn’t help but face her. “You’re not thinking straight. Rushing back tonight won’t solve anything.”
It would at least mean I could put things right with Jonny sooner. Deep down, I knew Bree was right. Trying to pack and organise transport would take time, and it would be stupidly late by the time we left.
“Okay,” I relented. “Let’s go.”
Bree took my hand and we walked back to my apartment, neither of us saying a word. When we got in, I slumped on the sofa, elbows resting on my knees, head in my hands. I could hear Bree clattering around trying to find drinks. When she wafted a glass of whisky under my nose, I downed it in one go, holding it out for a refill.
“I’m not sure that’s…” she began, then let her unspoken words trail off, before replenishing the glass. She sat down beside me, placing the bottle on the table in front of us, her hand on my thigh.
“Thank you for being here.” I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block the threatening storm of tears. “I don’t think I could have handled this on my own.”
“I’m glad I could be here for you.” Her fingers gently stroked a pattern over my jeans. “I’m sorry you’ve lost your Dad.”
Hearing her say the words aloud made the situation absolutely real. I would never see my dad again, would never get to have a drink with him, tease him about his choice of television programmes, bother him to go out on dates with unsuitable women, get him to do things other than work.
It had to be a dream, a horrible, dark nightmare I’d wake up from soon.
