Page 63 of A Box of Wishes
Ryan shrugged. “If I knew how long this will last… If I could say ‘can I borrow your sofa for three days’, I’d do it right away.”
“Hogwash. I have a perfectly good flat with a spare bedroom where you could stay as long as you wanted without being in anyone’s way or being beholden to anyone. And I’m sure your Ben would be only too happy to help if—”
“I’ve explained why I don’t want to tell Ben.”
“Yes, you’ve explained. You didn’t make sense then, and you don’t make sense now. Have you thought about what will happen when he finds out? You said his ex lied to him. How is what you’re doing any different?”
“I don’t want to be a burden!”
“Telling him what’s going on doesn’t make you a burden. It just makes you honest. You’re being irrational about it, and that’s not like you.”
“I don’t want—”
“Save it. I understand why you don’t want to tell your ma because shewouldtake advantage, and we both know it. And if you don’t want to bother the family, who—by the way—are ready and happy to be bothered, then don’t. But why not rent one of the contractors’ flats across the courtyard. They’re both standing empty, I’ve checked. The agencies don’t care who they let them to, as long as they let them.”
“Do you know what they cost? I’d need a mortgage! The rental agreements for those are designed for big corporations with deep pockets. Not for the likes of me.”
Alastair set down his mug. “Fine. Have it your way. Do whatever you want. I just wish you wouldn’t lie to me. Or yourself.” He slid off the counter. “I’m for home,” he said and reached for his coat. “Since I’m very clearly talking to the wall.”
Ryan didn’t know how to reply to the embittered rant. Every time he had to justify his choices, the words came a little bit slower. If Alastair was right— “You know me. Bull-headed,” he said, pushing his misgivings aside.
Alastair didn’t reply. He stood with his head tilted towards the door as if he was… listening?
“Alastair—”
“Wait. Do you have any other animals besides Ben’s Morris come visiting?”
“What?”
“I hear… scratching? It sounds as if someone’s trying to unlock the back door.”
Ryan stepped into the hallway and heard it, too: small scratching sounds, less assured than a key being pushed into the lock. He hurried to the break room and found the cricket bat he’d bought after the recent attack. Anyone trying to break into the coffeehouse would learn how stupid an ideathatwas.
In the kitchen, Alastair had his phone to his ear, speaking quietly and rapidly. “The doors are locked and there’s no light showing. They may think the place is standing empty. Yes, right. We’ll wait for you.”
When Alastair caught sight of the bat in Ryan’s hand, he showed neither anger nor surprise. If anything, he looked sad. He took two quick strides to Ryan’s side and wrapped him in a hug. “None of that, kiddo. There’s a patrol just coming down the High Street. They’ll be here in a sec.”
Ryan didn’t want to wait for help.
Again.
He didn’t want to be rescued.
Again.
He wanted to take out the whole angry coil of emotion in his chest on someone’s head. And that was a reaction so unlike him, it brought him out of the rage. He shuddered and leaned against his cousin, wondering how his life had gone so far off the rails in so short a time.
The ringing phone jerked Ben upright. He snatched the handset from the bedside table and clamped it to his ear. “Hobart.”
“Hey Ben. It’s Rob Guillen. Get your arse over here. Two men just tried to break into your boyfriend’s coffeehouse.”
“You got them?”
“We did. Your guy isn’t half livid. He almost went at them with a cricket bat.”
Ryan was at the coffeehouse at—Ben squinted at the clock—one o’clock in the morning? He pushed the thought aside, focused on the here and now. “I’ll be right over.”
Ben dressed but didn’t bother with a shave. Or a jacket. The only thing he allowed to distract him from his dash out the door was Morris’s empty crunchy dish.
