Chapter 11 – Luca
I never thought I’d say it, but Maz Dean is a coward.
He’d say he’s giving me ‘space’ to process, but this time it doesn’t feel generous, but selfish.
By avoiding me, he avoids having to face up to any mistakes he’s made.
He may pretend his mother never walked into the cafe and upended our lives, but I won’t play along.
Yes, he’s got the stubbornness of a mule, but guess who inherited that character trait along with a whole bunch of other charming attributes?
The boy in question is currently stuffing blocks of Parmesan into a food blender.
Instead of working in the cafe, I’m processing my feelings by making a mess of the upstairs kitchen.
A Lorde album blasts from the speakers, her sound perfectly capturing my rage-infused melancholy.
I’ve already prepared a fresh batch of chilli jam and enough apple crisps to feed all of Lombard.
If Dad needs my help, he only has to ask, but since he’s not speaking, I make no move to either.
He can’t call me petulant, because what would that make him, being twice my age?
Once I’ve added basil, garlic, olive oil and roasted pine nuts to the Parmesan, I hit the ‘BLEND’ button with more force than necessary.
While the blender does its thing, I step over to by the window and check the empty pet shop across the street.
The stickers remain where I put them up to cover the S x L heart, secretly and in the middle of the night, like one of those vandals that Mayor Pickering fears will spoil the town’s spotless image.
But I’d rather be found vandalising Lombard than be accused of having a crush on Simo. Again.
We often turn Friday evenings into film nights, but I haven’t mentioned anything about it to him.
Things aren’t weird exactly, but they’re not normal either.
It’s been more than two days since Louise’s lunchtime inquisition and he’s made no move to hang out after school.
Neither have I, mostly because I’m scared he’ll say no.
If it was up to me, I’d rather bear the gossip than keep my distance to make them go away.
But I can’t speak for Simo. I’m used to the other students commenting on me liking boys, but it’s a new thing for him.
And whether someone’s gay or not, having people question who you are day in, day out starts to wear on you.
I realise far too late that the blender is still going, and what was meant to be a textured pesto with small chunks of cheese and nuts has turned into a smooth paste the colour of a swamp.
Still tastes good though. Maybe if I promise Simo fresh pesto if he comes over, he’ll be unable to say no.
Bribing people with food is a special talent of mine, but I’m reluctant to make use of it now.
If it was up to me, Simo would already be on the couch, waiting for the film to start.
It makes me miss the time when planning film nights didn’t send me into an emotional crisis.
As I set water to boil in a pot, my thoughts return to Dad.
He’s never given me a reason to be truly angry at him before.
I’m sure I’ve given him loads, but if so, he kept his frustration hidden.
Occasionally teachers would question how a dad so young could raise a child, but being closer in age made us closer in life.
He hasn’t had enough time to forget what it’s like being a teenager.
He relates, and I’ve always known I could come to him with anything and he wouldn’t freak out.
The grandparent revelation has knocked that trust. It’s made me realise that Dad isn’t just Dad.
He’s sixteen years of a life before I existed, sixteen years he’s shut away. It’s no surprise I’m stress-cooking.
Dad walks into the lounge as I’m draining the linguine.
I divide it between two plates and add the fresh pesto and cocktail tomatoes.
The only reason he gets a plate is because I suck at measuring enough pasta for one.
And maybe also because he worked hard all day, without my help, but mainly because of the measuring thing.
He spots the dinner arrangement and, for a second, he looks as if he wants to say something.
Whatever it is, he keeps it to himself and joins me at the table, bringing a stale taste to my mouth that I quickly drown in pesto.
The food is a tiny peace offering. I’m giving him a chance to speak.
But after several silent bites I’m tempted to drop my fork and walk out.
What holds me back is the refusal to turn my back on pasta.
I clear my plate, then hit the stop button on Lorde.
‘Care to explain?’ I ask.
‘I’d rather not, no,’ he replies, wiping his mouth with a serviette.
‘Right.’ I shove the chair back and make sure the legs scrape the floor hard enough to produce the screeching sound he hates.
‘Luca, please.’ Dad raises his hands in defeat. ‘I know I owe you answers, but it’s hard. You can’t imagine how hard. Look, could you sit?’
Despite the anger filling me up, I struggle to direct it towards him. I’ve never had to fight him before, and I don’t know how start now. So I sit.
‘I have my reasons, just believe that. I would never have kept you from my parents if I thought they had something good to give. To you and your mum. To our family.’ He doesn’t look at me as he says this, his eyes scanning the pictures above the sofa.
There’s one of Mum, vest top stretched tight over a belly round as a beach ball.
She poses in front of their ancient Beetle after its final journey to the scrapyard, just days before I was born.
The photograph is faded, bleached by the time that’s passed.
‘That’s no real answer,’ I say. ‘It’s barely even an explanation.’ Also, not a hint of an apology. I’ve always rated Dad for admitting to his mistakes, while most adults I know pretend they’re beyond them.
‘They’re bad parents. You weren’t even born and I knew I didn’t want you anywhere near them. Still don’t, if I’m being honest. And I’m trying very hard to be honest.’
‘You’re not doing a very good job,’ I point out.
‘I’m out of practice. I haven’t talked about them in years.’
Which brings me to the biggest question of all. ‘What was so bad that you pretended they were dead?’
‘It was easier that way. I planned never to see them again, so they might as well have been.’ His words are cold and practical, like he’s making a grocery list rather than cutting his parents out of his life. And out of mine.
‘So, it was easy lying to me?’
‘No, not easy, but necessary. Your mum told me it was a stupid idea, but I was doing it to protect you.’
‘And to protect yourself!’
‘Yes, for good reasons.’
‘Which you won’t tell me!’
‘Luca!’ he shouts, finally. I’m relieved to hear his voice crack with real emotion. ‘I apologise for lying to you. I know you’re hurt and that’s the last thing I want. But I’m not sorry for keeping you from my parents. Because I’d rather lie than give them a chance to hurt you!’
‘Dad, why won’t you just say—’ but he won’t let me finish.
‘I don’t need to lay out my childhood trauma in front of you!
My parents shouldn’t have been parents, simple as that.
The only reason they had a child was to complete their set of status symbols, alongside the villa, the Bentley and the Schiaparelli dresses.
But nobody wants to hear that sob story, and I certainly don’t owe it to you or anyone! ’
That shuts me up. Because he’s right. If it hurts him to talk or even think about the past, who am I to dig around old wounds?
‘There’s one thing you need to understand about my parents,’ Dad says, voice empty. ‘They are utterly and categorically selfish. Their kindness is never that, because kindness comes without expectations. And my parents don’t give without taking. I would know.’
Dad deflates on his chair like a popped balloon. If I had spared him a look these past few days, a proper look, the bags under his eyes would have told me that he hasn’t been sleeping. That this falling-out is costing him as much as me.
I’m not a complete pushover; of course he’s hurt me. But the anger I felt earlier is fading. I don’t want the split between us to run deeper, so I stop myself asking about his parents again. But there’s no way I’m able to move past it completely.
I grab our plates and get up but turn around before I reach the kitchen. ‘I’m going to their barbecue on Sunday,’ I announce.
‘No, you’re not.’
I expected that answer, so I calmly stack the dishes into the dishwasher.
‘You do whatever you want, but you can’t stop me.
’ Now that I have grandparents, I’m not going to waste my chance to get to know them.
The fact that they’re basically celebrities only makes me more curious.
And a little intimidated. But I’m not telling Dad that.
‘You’re not going on your own,’ he says flatly. The chestnut waves of his hair stand up in all directions.
A petty part of me is satisfied to see him so riled up. I kick the door of the dishwasher shut. ‘Why? Scared of what else I’d find out?’
‘Scared, yes, but only because you’d be walking into a lion’s den, and you, my friend, are a defenceless puppy.’
‘Hey, you’re the one making me go alone, even though you know how to stand up to them.’
‘Well, I don’t, do I? If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have had to run so far away from them.’
Point taken. But, ‘They’re here now, so there’s nowhere to run. Also, don’t you think there’s a possibility that they’ve changed in the last seventeen years?’
A grin splits his face, one that makes him look rather manic.
‘There’s a lot of things I believe to be possible, like the existence of the ghoul in the supplies cupboard or Avril Lavigne dying and being replaced by a doppelganger, but my parents changing isn’t one of them. If anything, they get more vicious with age.’
‘You can’t just decide for me, Dad.’
He’s never set bans or given me ultimatums. His strategy was always to tell me his thoughts and then he’d leave me to make my own mistakes.
Like that one time when I was nine and refused to wear an ugly pair of sandals to Simo’s birthday picnic and I stepped on not just one but two furious bees.
Or when I thought we should offer beetroot chocolate cake in the cafe, despite Dad’s attempts to tell me people hate that vegetable, even if the cake tastes like heaven.
He’d always let me have a go at proving him wrong.
‘I’m older than you were when you decided to leave home. So let me decide to get to know my grandparents. And if they’re as bad as you say they are, we don’t have to see them again.’
Dad stares at me with wide blue eyes several shades darker than mine. ‘I’ll have to close the cafe.’
‘No, you don’t. You have staff to run it. We’re only going for a meal, not a holiday. They can cope for a couple of hours.’
Dad groans like a toddler forced to eat something that isn’t beige. ‘Fine, we’ll go. On one condition.’ I raise my eyebrows, curious to hear him out. ‘We stop fighting. I hate that we’re not speaking, and when we are, that we’re shouting.’
‘I hate it too,’ I admit. ‘But I can’t stop myself from feeling things, Dad.’
He gets up and bridges the distance between the dining table and the kitchen. ‘I know that,’ he says, and places his hands on my shoulders. They’re firm and tanned and smell of the coffee he pours all day. I wish I had hands like his.
‘I’m not asking you to get over it all immediately. But you know me well. Better than anyone in my life, except maybe your mum. I want you safe and I want you happy. And I think, so far, I’ve done a pretty good job of it. Grant me a little trust, OK?’
Trust is exactly the problem here. I can’t give him what he’s broken. I say nothing, which he must take as a yes. He gives me a hug and I hug him back, instantly feeling better.
‘Thanks for cooking,’ he says. ‘It was good. Way better than that veggie bolognaise you made once.’
‘I was twelve, Dad.’
‘And I’m complimenting your progress, so let me.’
‘You’re a thirty-three-year-old man who can’t bake for shit, so what should I say?’ The man might have taught me to cook, but as soon as eggs, sugar and flour come into play, he’s hopeless.
‘Say that you will please do a morning shift at the cafe tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ I grumble, but I’m glad that he asked.
‘And promise you’ll stop ignoring your mum’s calls? The only reason she kept shtum about is because I asked her to. She doesn’t deserve any of the blame, and she misses you.’
I’m not sure I fully agree, after all she went along with his lie, but I’d hate to be put in her position. Just the idea of having to lie to Dad because Simo asked me to gives me a stomach-ache. I nod and promise to ring her.
He heads back out to finish closing up the cafe, but halts in the hallway.
‘So are we watching something later, or what?’
I check my phone to see if Simo’s messaged.
He’s sent a selfie holding different snacks – crinkle crisps and cheese twists – and a question mark.
My heart halts, then tumbles. That’s the effect he has on me, a reaction so physical my body basically gives out.
Even though the picture is blurry, the veins on the back of his hands have me weak, but it’s the tip of his tongue pressed against his top lip that almost sends me to my knees.
He immediately followed up to say he got the crisps and the twists.
How I exist next to this human every day and keep my cool, I don’t know.
Dad clears his throat, and I blink several times before I remember his question.
‘It’s between The Favourite and Cruel Intentions,’ I answer.
‘Which is gayer?’ he asks.
Fact is, they’re gay in different ways, but hopefully not so gay as to make it awkward watching it with Simo.
One has cut-throat lesbians fighting for power in amazing clothes, the other has chaotic bisexuals fighting for power in amazing clothes, plus a gay blackmailing side plot.
Now that I think about it, The Favourite is the safer choice.
‘Wait, Cruel Intentions is the one with Ryan Phillippe’s bum, right? I want that one,’ Dad says, and walks out before I get the chance to argue.