Page 12 of Away With You
I swallow down the last of my whiskey, listening to my phone vibrate on the glass table next to me. Knowing my friends like I do, they’ll keep messaging me until they get the response they want to hear. So, if I’m to have any peace tonight, I better message them back and then turn off my phone for the night.
NATHAN
No way am I going to that wedding.
DYLAN
Good. Stay strong, man.
My friends know how much pressure I’m getting from my parents to make an appearance at my older brother’s wedding on New Year’s Eve. They don’t care that he’s marrying my ex-girlfriend, with whom I had the only significant relationship of my adult life. They only care about appearances and what it would look like to their friends, the press andsocietyif I skip my sibling’s wedding.
For my part, I’m just shocked they had the gall to not only invite me but expect me to turn up.
NATHAN
Will do.
Have a drink for me.
DYLAN
We’ll have two.
Satisfied that I’ve got them off my case for at least another day and a half, I turn the lights off and sink into my favourite chair. It’s made from old leather, buttery soft, with deep cushions and a back that reclines just enough to ease the pressure of sitting on my spine. I bought it for the first flat I lived in, back when I was still a teenager. I’d just joined theRedline Racingdriver academy as their reserve driver and was making my own money for the first time in my life. Growing up with ridiculously well-off parents, I never wanted for anything materialistic, and yet I always craved my independence. The ability to be financially stable without their help. So, after I signed my first contract and saw my first pay cheque in my account, I bought this chair as a reward for something I’d achieved by myself. This chair is a symbol for me, and I’ve taken it to each place I’ve moved to.
It's also perfectly moulded to fit my body; like a warm hug when I sink into it.
I spend the next hour in my chair, watching the world go by outside my windows. It’s December and close to frigid temperatures now, but that doesn’t stop Londoners from getting out and enjoying their Saturday night. I used to be like them, and if Katie had agreed to stay and have dinner with me tonight, I would have been one of them. But even after much gentle cajoling, she’d been firm in saying goodbye after two hot chocolates. I’d stood by and watched her fasten her adorable but ugly winter jacket, my chest tight at the idea of saying goodbye to her. Which is just strange, given I’ve not thought about her once since leaving school. Or perhaps, not more than a dozen times at least.
“Knock, knock.”
I pull my thoughts from Katie and her wide, honey-coloured eyes and listen to my sister’s light footsteps on the staircase as she makes her way up to me. Rosie is the only other person, outside of my housekeeper, who not only has a key to my place but is happy enough to use it. Sometimes when I get back from a race weekend away, I’ll find chocolate wrappers in between the couch cushions and my Netflix algorithm suggesting ‘90s sitcoms, and I’ll know she’s visited and made herself at home. I quietly love it.
“Hey, big bro,” she calls when she gets to me, flicking on the lights and killing my melancholic mood. “Why are you sitting in the dark? Are you having a mental health crisis?”
Rosie studied two semesters of psychology during her time at uni and believes this makes her uniquely qualified to comment on my moods and emotions (or lack of emotions, as she likes to point out).
I push my butt back in my chair and ease it out of recline mode. Standing, I stride over to where she’s dumping her overnight bag on the floor and pull her in for a hug. With only two years separating us, we’ve always been close, and in themonths since George’s betrayal, we’ve grown closer still. I think she’s angrier at our brother than I am.
“Did I know you were coming over?” I ask into her hair. She’s blonde like me, but where my eyes are blue, hers veer more into the grey spectrum, often resembling a dark storm threatening to blow.
“I thought you could use some company…” she says, flashing a smile up at me.
“And you have no food left in your fridge?” I finish for her.
Sometimes the two-year gap between us feels bigger than it should. Where I’ve been a functioning adult out on my own since eighteen, Rosie has led a more sheltered, pampered existence. If she runs out of food, she doesn’t go get some more. She just turns up here instead. Not that I’m complaining; an evening hanging with her is much preferred to an evening hanging with my thoughts.
She lifts a careless shoulder. “Two birds, one stone. It’s not like I get to spend much time with you, bro. You being home on a Saturday night is unheard of.”
We walk downstairs to my kitchen and I perch on one side of my marble-topped breakfast bar, watching her rummage through my fridge. The good thing about my sister is that when there’s food available, she’s an excellent cook. Now that she’s here, I’m in for a treat.
“Spag Bol?” she asks, poking her golden head up over the fridge door, her eyebrows raised in question.
My stomach grumbles. Other than the hot chocolates I had earlier, it’s been hours since I’ve eaten. “Sounds great.”
She gets to work, chopping the celery and mushrooms, while I sit and watch her. It’s only when she’s got everything boiling away on the stove that she turns her inquisitive gaze on me. “So, spill. What are you doing at home on a Saturday night?”
My cheeks heat. “It’s not that unheard of…”
