16. THEO
16
THEO
Driving through Torino was both nostalgic and nauseating. Settled at the foot of the Alps, baroque buildings in shades of beige and off-white are blinding against the morning sun. Early-rising street vendors lazily untie the tarp coverings, settling in for another day of bartering and slow selling. Faces aged by decades of laughing in the sun.
After years of this city, you stop seeing it. By the time I’d hit sixteen I could give a shit less about architectural significance. If the right person would have asked me to pour gasoline on Piazza Solferino and set it on fire, I wouldn’t have thought twice. Behind the Chiesa di Santa Teresa is where we tried cocaine for the first time, and the following Sunday, I kneeled in front of the bishop for my confirmation. I got a blow job inside the archways between San Mariano and Via Tropolo, and threw up on the top of her head while I came.
I park in the spot that says ‘SINCLAIR’, knowing that I’m not the one it’s named after. A pang of jealousy settles deep between my shoulder blades, causing me to hunch forward.
I want what my father has.
The engine cuts off and I sit looking at the museum, unsure of what stops me from going in. Has it changed in the past seven years? My stomach flips when I think about the Statue of Isis anywhere but in the main floor gallery. The ceiling and floor are both black marble, creating a vacuum of onyx that she floats inside. The one truly beautiful thing my father has ever created.
When I walk into the museum, I want it to be as the person I am now, not the idiot boy who did everything so as not to miss out on youth. Heat rolls across my skin as I open the car door but I fight a shiver. A sweat breaks across my neck and the flash of those scenes into a single memory makes me understand why my father hates me. There was a time I would actively do everything he asked me not to. It was the only way I felt anything at all, watching his disappointment deepen each time I fucked up. Every punch of his fist, every lecture, was an escape – absolving me of guilt.
‘Stop being a pussy,’ I say out loud, the only way I’ll actually start walking. Putting my head down, I head towards the back entrance quickly, as if anyone would recognize me at seven in the morning in front of a closed museum.
The walk to the door feels like a funeral procession. Something has died, or ended, or maybe just been defeated. I choose the key from Anika’s keychain without looking, the bite marks memorized as I run it across the pad of my thumb. Slipping the key into the lock, I turn it slowly. It used to be so easy to come here.
The door silently obeys, the frame almost opening on its own. Straightening myself, I walk in slowly. What the fuck am I so afraid of? Everything is dead inside these walls. I smooth my hair behind my ears to gain a semblance of control. It’s a fucking museum, Theo. Just walk.
The long corridor to arrive at the first gallery feels achingly long. The walls are teal and clad with fragments of papyrus scrolls dating back from 2900 BC, sealed behind temperature-controlled plexiglass. The translations are stuck underneath, along with an introduction to the artefacts that visitors are expected to see. I see myself here at six years old, one hand holding a magnifying glass as the other holds his hand. He’s so excited that I want to know more, patting my head with satisfaction.
And I was.
I wanted to know every secret my father would give me. My father is several things. Amore , to my mother. Daddy to Anika. Renowned archaeologist and owner of the largest collection of Egyptian antiquities to the world. Accomplished businessman, dedicated historian, a generous man. A loyal father.
But to me he is only one thing.
A liar.
I reach the first gallery and since the museum isn’t open yet, the room is tented in blackness. Only a single lamp glows in the far-right corner, the ‘ghost lamp’ as Claudio Savoy likes to call it. Meant to keep the artefacts from coming to life.
‘Bad for press,’ he said when he dragged five of them in for each floor of the museum, ‘if a visitor is possessed by a 3,000-year-old Egyptian king.’
A pang of jealousy hits me for Dante, Jo, Lucia and Magdalen, who grew up in the company of Dr Savoy. A true revolutionary in the field of archaeology, awarded for his success in leadership of the two year-long excavations near the Pyramid of Menkaure, on the Giza Plateau. Growing up next door to him was a dream. I used to listen to them dragging in a Christmas tree after a weekend trip to the Alps. Or every 15 August they’d pack the car early in the morning and head to Numana for Ferragosto. Even then, when I loved my father, there was always something missing between us.
So when, one summer, Dr Savoy announced a private excavation he was assisting AERA with, I packed my duffle bag and left the next morning without telling anyone. If my father introduced ancient Egypt to me, Dr Savoy embedded me in it. In the deserts of Saqqara when I was seventeen years old, canvas tents and dried fish for supper. Sweaty and covered in sand, I found a mummified dog and cried from joy.
‘You can hang it on your bedroom wall,’ he said while brushing off the excess debris and patting me on the back. ‘Girls love puppies.’
I laughed so hard I fell down the neighbouring dune and broke my right pinkie toe. Sand was falling out of my shoes for months after our trip and every time I ate anchovies, I thought of him and laughed again. The first time I left home was with him. The next was when I left for good.
I switch on the lamp and my heartbeat settles. Everything is the same; the slick black marble overwhelms the space. For a moment you think you can’t breathe, that you really are in a bottomless vacuum. But soon the sensation disappears, and you’re left breathless from the beauty of the space. I’ve visited museums across the world but it will always be this; black marble and a rusty lamp. My home. Nine statues line the walls, each spotlighted with an overhead light. Four on each side, a mixture of giant lions and panthers carved from limestone guarding the single woman on the far back wall. Eyes follow you as you make the procession towards her, cold stone glaring with heated attention. She consumes the room.
Isis. The Egyptian goddess of love. Daughter of earth and sky. She stands alone, carved in dark granite with mystic seduction. Her head is held high, eyes beckoning you towards her. I walk forward, feeling the same compulsion as I did when I was sixteen. I could destroy this entire city. But her? She was the one thing I would never touch.
I’m standing in front of her, looking at the perfect symmetry of the carved granite, and another face flashes to the front of my mind. I’m still midway down the hall. Green doe eyes follow me, mirroring the feline shape of Isis’s, asking me why I went back to the club. Asking me why I left her at the fucking train station when I should have given her the keys myself and told her to drive anywhere she needs.
Wondering why I punched someone for her.
And that’s the issue, isn’t it? Why did I punch someone for her? Even as I think about how stupid it was to go back to the club and risk my father’s wrath on my first day back, the desire to hurt someone again throbs in my knuckles. Deep anger courses through my chest, down to the heels of my feet, and it feels like my body is on fire. I want to do it again. From how the bone crushed underneath my fist to how the blood spilled from my lip. When the pain is at its peak, I can think straight.
Her face now inches away, Isis stares at me with wonder. My whole body freezes. For the first time in twenty years, I am not in complete awe of her. I try to conjure up some appreciation for her, for this room, for anything but the sound of the passenger door shutting closed, the train approaching the station. Idiot. I stumble backwards. For the first time in twenty years, I feel suffocated by this room. Needing to get out so as not to think about her and the whistle of that train, I make my way upstairs.
Fucking hell. Even the red ochre masks hanging on the wall remind me of that bloody ribbon in her hair. And, before I can suppress the thought, my mind drifts to this morning. The second she slid in the passenger seat, I became too aware of everything about her. It was a simple ride down the street, maybe ten minutes maximum. And I managed to ruin it because I wanted to kiss her. To lock the car door and lower down her seat.
Maybe it’s time to pay Chiara a visit.
‘Just had a late night yesterday.’ The words repeat again. What the fuck was I thinking?
From how silent she was when she sat down, that she didn’t wear a seatbelt. How tight my hands gripped the steering wheel. How short her skirt was. Her legs were enough to set me undone.
It used to take more than just nice legs.
How, if I wasn’t driving, my hand would have gratefully stayed on her knee and maybe travelled up her leg until I brushed the soft skin of her thighs and reached her—
Stop it.
My heartbeat quickens as I recall the sight of her skirt bunched up around her thighs.
Careful to not say anything I’d regret, I chose not to say anything. Which proved to be the wrong fucking choice.
But it doesn’t matter, I tell myself. This is good. Let her feel scorned; it’s better this way. Tomorrow will resume as normal. Yesterday was just a slight mishap in the universe. I will hang out with Dante at the club, take too many shots and dance to music I won’t remember in the morning. I’ll ask Chiara if she’d like to come to the wedding with me. She’ll say yes.
There’s no use in remembering how Magdalen looked sitting on the kitchen counter with her legs spread, hands cupping her own breasts as if she were begging me to kneel down and worship her. If I had dropped the washcloth and pressed my body into hers, slowly lowered her on the kitchen counter until her soft body was flush against mine, what would have happened?
I groan out loud, needing to expel the thought from the very cavity of my brain. My head hangs low as I walk up the stairs, trying to rid my mind of the fantasies.
No, Magdalen Savoy is not possible and you know why. Shaking off the thought, I’m walking up the steps when I hear laughter coming from the second-floor gift shop and freeze, my blood draining. My pace increases, skipping a step to reach the top of the spiral staircase until I’m behind the door. Listening to the voices: one is definitely a woman but it’s muffled by the heavy aluminium, so I can’t make out if the voices are familiar. When I check my watch, I see it’s only 7.45 a.m. No one should be here for another two hours. Bracing for impact, I push the door in, and my eyes widen in surprise.
Dr Claudio Savoy sits on the weathered leather chair, top button undone, and face red with laughter. Thinning grey hair sticks up in every direction. Claudio’s eyes are squeezed shut, trying to compose himself, but then he breaks out in a fit of laughter again. Seeing him laugh makes me want to smile. It takes me a second, but then I see he’s not alone. Turning my head, my stomach drops.
It’s Magdalen.
I blink. How did she get here before me? Shame drips over me at my callousness in the car. If I’d just pressed her, or opened my fucking mouth, we could’ve come here together.
She stands in the corner of the small office by the bookcase, leaning gracefully with her arms crossed. Her eyes are bright and mischievous as she watches her father’s fit of giggles. She is so beautiful, it hurts.
The laughter quickly dies as both their heads whip towards the direction of my intrusion. Smiles fading, Magdalen’s posture stiffens as Dr Savoy claps his hands in excitement. I try not to be embarrassed, but my heart warms against my will.
‘Theo, my boy! What a beautiful surprise! What on god’s green earth are you doing here so early?’
Momentarily caught off guard, I don’t know what to say.
Trying to avoid seeing my father?
Couldn’t sleep, I was fantasizing about your daughter without a shirt on?
Didn’t you know? You are more of my home than I’ll ever let anyone know.
‘Just checking to see you didn’t change too much since I was last here.’
‘Give me some credit. You know I wouldn’t let your papa do too much damage to our masterpiece.’ His hands brace the table, and he grunts as he stands up. The bottom button on his shirt threatens to pop open and I wonder if he still sneaks cornetti in the bottom drawer of his desk.
Walking towards me from behind his desk, Claudio nearly knocks over all the receipts, articles and torn pieces of paper with handwritten notes that clutter his desk. There are four empty cups piled next to one another. So many pens. He keeps an extra cupful underneath his desk just in case. Claudio’s desk always calmed me as a child. To know that someone so messy and so like me could be known for his brilliance. That you didn’t need to lose your chaos in order to grow up. My own father’s office mirrors this one, but one floor up. I picture it – organized, labelled and covered in locks.
‘I should have known better. After all, il museo è il quinto Savoy. ’
‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ He hobbles towards me, brown eyes behind silver-rimmed glasses. Beard peppered with grey. ‘You are the fifth Savoy!’ He gives a raspy laugh and reaches up to cup my face, squeezing my cheeks. It’s scary to think of who I might have become, if it wasn’t for this man.
‘I missed you.’ I swallow. ‘Didn’t get to tell you that last night.’
‘We missed you more, my sweet boy.’
‘Sure, sure.’ And although I have no right to ask, the question remains etched in my head. Why did you let me run away? A ridiculous question. But one I have found myself wondering all these years away.
He looks me over once more from head to toe, nodding with approval.
‘I’m glad to see you’re still handsome.’ He winks, his short body looking smaller than I remember. ‘America can make some people very ugly.’ He wags his finger in the air.
‘Papa!’ The raspy laugh across the room scolds Dr Savoy.
I stiffen, trying not to look at her. Even in my fucking peripheral she’s all I see. Ridiculous. I feel like a teenager stealing glances at a Playboy magazine in the barber shop. The sound of her voice pulls me in and, before I have the chance to resist, my eyes find her. I sigh. Magdalen leans against the desk, her hair now clipped up to show the sharp angles of her face. Freckles concentrate around her nose and my fingers hum to trace them. To count them.
And because I’m looking at her, it becomes glaringly obvious that she is not looking at me. ‘That’s disrespectful, Papa. Without America we wouldn’t have condensed milk! We love condensed milk.’
‘Condensed milk?’ I ask. She looks at me, eyes spelling out asshole , and then to her father, whose eyebrows are raised in amusement.
‘Yes, in 1856 Gail Borden invented condensed milk.’ Her voice is reserved, like she’s testing to see if she can continue without being interrupted. ‘Some would say a revelation to the modern-day baking industry.’ She locks eyes with me. I swallow again, holding her gaze. Even across the distance of the room, the vividness of her green eyes is startling.
‘Long live condensed milk,’ I murmur, my throat feeling tight.
‘Ah, yes! Let us say a silent thank you to dear Mr Borden,’ Dr Savoy sighs happily, looking between the two of us. ‘And may his contribution be remembered for ever!’ Smacking his hands together playfully, Dr Savoy points at the two of us.
‘My my, the two of you! So tall and grown up. You both have become beautiful before my very eyes.’
‘Papa, please.’
‘It is true, no? Theo, when is the last time you saw Magdalen? Probably when she was—’
‘Thirteen.’ It was the last thing I thought about before going to sleep last night. She was thirteen, writing in a journal while Anika made up a dance routine in our living room. I had to walk past them to get to my room.
Magdalen snorts, dipping her head back, and my eyes find the delicate curve of her neck. I lick my lips, imagining the soft flesh beneath my tongue. If I really let myself imagine it, I hear the soft moans she would make in my ear as I sucked on the sensitive skin.
‘Wow! So long ago. You two must have a lot of catching up to do!’
My god, I need help. Her father is in the room.
‘Anyway, I didn’t mean to disturb you both. I assumed no one would be in the museum this early. I’ll leave.’ My hand hovers above the doorknob, ready to escape the tension in the room. Tension created by my desire to feel Magdalen beneath me when her fucking father, my mentor, is two feet away. I try to remember if I still have Chiara’s number so I can resolve this teenage-like lust without Magdalen ever knowing.
Dr Savoy settles back in his chair, arms crossed over his stomach. ‘No, no. My wife thinks I need to appreciate the solitude of mornings. She sets my alarm for five thirty a.m. now.’ He huffs and I frown, surprised.
‘I thought you got your best work done at night?’ I can’t hide the judgement in my tone.
‘This is true. But what I’ve learned is that it’s much easier to change than we think it is. You just have to want it enough. I saw that it made her unhappy that I was always in my office at night and decided it was time I made the effort to change.’
‘But you love the night-time,’ I repeat.
He sighs, exasperated. ‘I love my wife more than I love the night, Theo.’
I can feel Magdalen watching us. Her brows are furrowed in confusion. We’ve always been in a group setting together, and it strikes me that she’s never seen her father and me interact alone.
‘Well, have you tried talking to her about it? Because I don’t see how it’s fair that you have to change who you are. I mean there are studies that literally prove that people work best at different hours, for fuck’s sake. Smells like bullshit. You’re not the only one who has to sacrifice for her happiness, Claudio.’
The silence is deafening. I bite the inside of my cheek, looking down at the tiled floor, heat creeping up my neck. Why do I always say the wrong thing?
He readjusts the metal frame of his glasses, looking resigned. ‘Magdalen, perhaps you should show Theo around the museum. Show him what’s changed. The new exhibit Dexter helped lead is quite a treat.’
I glance over at Magdalen, who although confused does not look angry at me for arguing with her father. She shrugs, picking a piece of invisible lint from her skirt.
‘ Certo, Papa . I’ll see you later tonight.’ She walks over to behind the leather chair, squeezing his shoulders affectionately. ‘Enjoy the cornetto.’
‘Follow me.’ And when she looks at me, even two metres away, I almost trip in place.
I look at Claudio one last time, whose demeanour has shifted from father to doctor. I know I’ve upset him.
Turning around to leave, I’m halfway through the door when I hear him say, ‘Dinner is at eight tonight. Under the veranda. Wear a shirt that doesn’t look like it’s been dragged through mud.’ A laugh escapes me as I take in my shirt. A single hole on the far bottom right. ‘Also, try to come not drunk this time.’
I roll my eyes but my heart swells, feeling seen. ‘For you, I’ll wear a suit.’
Magdalen snorts and I flash a grin at her. She’s so much livelier around Claudio. Waving behind my back to Dr Savoy, I walk behind her out towards the gift shop.
‘Why do boy-fights only last five seconds?’ she says when the door closes, rubbing her palms together.
‘That was hardly a fight. It was miscommunication between two old friends.’
She pauses, analysing my words. It makes me nervous to know how intensely she pays attention to what I have to say.
‘You consider my father an old friend?’
We approach the second-floor gallery dedicated to marriage ceremonies and I pretend I’m analysing artefacts to stall.
‘I mean I’ve known him my entire life. He’s who I was with before going to university.’
‘Huh. I don’t think I’d ever call your father my friend.’
No shit. My hands flex, trying to dismiss the memory of being eighteen and running to Claudio, begging him to the point of tears to let me leave with him. When he finally allowed me to go, I hugged him so tightly that my forearms were sore. And for those three months in Egypt, we were inseparable. Or maybe I was just impossible to get rid of, following him around everywhere he went.
‘I didn’t know that, how much my father helped you.’ Her voice is low and when I look over at her she’s looking back at me, fingers twisted together in confusion. The tight lines of her mouth make me feel like she has more to say, but she turns to look around the room, and we continue to peruse the gallery in silence. The only sound is her shoes against the hardwood floor, every so often stopping to stand and examining another vase or ring. Observing her profile as she takes in the artefacts, it seems she looks at me the same way she looks at these objects – cautiously.
‘I’m sorry for what I said in the car. Last night, when I saw you underneath that table...’ I let out a harsh breath, thinking about the hurt in her eyes. I still in the middle of the gallery, pretending to be absorbed in one of the terracotta bowls on display. ‘When I saw you there, I knew right then that he wasn’t gonna get away with it. And if you assume it’s because I feel some brotherly obligation to protect you on Anika’s behalf, you’re fucking wrong.’ I turn to her, my chest tight. ‘I wasn’t thinking of Anika at the club or in your kitchen. All I saw was you.’
For a moment Magdalen does nothing but stare at me. Her green eyes are cool underneath the dim lighting of the gallery and her mouth is a straight line, unwavering. Great. I’ve stunned the girl. Scratching my jaw nervously, I realize this is the most I’ve ever spoken to her and I’ve basically admitted that I’m fucking obsessed with her.
‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she replies softly, holding my gaze. As much as I want to say more, to ask her for coffee afterwards or visit the piazza to sit and watch the farmer’s market set up, there are reasons Magdalen Savoy is an impossibility. So I break eye contact first, needing space away in order to remember why.
Blinking rapidly, I try to change the subject. ‘So, basically, they haven’t changed a thing in this museum since I left.’ I tuck my hands in my pockets and walk down the gallery, pretending to give a fuck about any of this.
‘Well, they now carry T-shirts that say: “I LEFT MY HEART IN A MUMMY’S TOMB”.’
‘I’m surprised there isn’t one that says: “GOT A SAR-COUGH-AGUS FROM MUSEUM OF TORINO”.’
She snorts. ‘Did you just come up with an ancient Egyptian pun on the spot?’
‘No, Magdalen.’ I pause, turning around to face her. ‘I’m just a normal sarcophaguy, like everyone else. Please, don’t treat me any differently.’
Her mouth hangs open, shock and delight covering her face. So fucking cute. Turning back around, we exit the exhibition room and enter the adjoining one dedicated to ceremonial tombs. The quiet padding of Magdalen’s shoes lets me know she is right next to me. I love it more than I should.
‘Of corpse, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me for my insensitivity.’
I pause, looking at her, a grin stretching across my face. Full of surprises, that girl.
Before I walk again, she nudges her hip into mine in friendly amusement.
‘You and I are a lot alike.’
She’s looking up at me, cheeks flushed a beautiful pink.
‘How so?’
‘We’re both insanely good at puns. Both tall, and don’t say you’re taller because I’ll cry.’ A whisper of a smile threatens to break across my face. The foot separating us feels too far and my body hums to move closer.
‘You’re tall enough, Magdalen.’
Her own smile frays. ‘We also both ran away from something.’ Prodding at the boundaries of our friendship, she again turns to look around at the items on display. My heart lurches. For a moment, I ignore her comment about me running from something and focus on her own confession. She ran away? What on earth would Magdalen Savoy have to run away from? Dr Savoy is nothing but warmth. But love. She has no fucking right to want to leave him.
‘I didn’t run away.’
‘But you just said—’
‘I didn’t fucking run away.’ The mixture of anger, curiosity and blatant attraction for her makes my head spin viciously. But there is no conviction in my tone. I may as well sink to the floor and start crying in front of her.
She takes no time to respond, probably anticipating my denial. ‘So why did you leave Chivasso for seven years?’
‘I was busy. I... I was working and school was intense. Lost track of time.’ Suddenly the lack of air conditioning makes its presence felt. A bead of sweat forms at my hairline. I need to go home and have a cold shower.
‘But you didn’t even come to Christmases or Easters, not Anika’s birthdays or Dante’s graduation. To me, that’s the definition of running away.’
‘Are you fucking analysing my schedule? Should I write the time and date of the next time I’ll be in town?’
‘Only the celestial phase and coordinates of your exact location.’
I roll my eyes now, frustrated, turned on. If only she knew how twisted our fucking families really are. ‘This conversation is over.’
I’m walking towards the exit, my T-shirt feeling itchy and tight against my skin. Calm the fuck down. Only twenty-five stairs to the downstairs exit. But then I hear it. Those same quiet footsteps behind me.
‘Why is this conversation over? I left, too. I just wanted to compare notes. What’s fucked you up so badly?’
I turn around abruptly and the suddenness causes Magdalen to slam into my chest. Our faces are inches apart and I step closer so that I’m looking down at her. My eyes find hers, seeing her searching for an answer in my gaze.
‘I told you I didn’t run away from anything. That’s all you fucking need to know. And no offence, really, but we’re not friends like this. I don’t really care why you left, so if you could mind your own shit, Magdalen, that’d be brilliant.’ She looks at me, shocked.
Let it go, Magdalen. For the love of Christ, let it go.
Before I step back, my eyes selfishly find her trembling lips and I swallow a groan before turning around again.
Speeding down the spiral staircase, I’m about to turn left to exit the building when it dawns on me that her gentle footsteps behind me have stopped. Of course they have, you idiot. Why the fuck would she want to follow you now? Stealing a final glance, I look up to see her at the top of the staircase, hovering above the second step.
‘Nice one, Theo. No wonder I never talked to you.’
Mustering the final blow, I spit out, ‘Let’s keep it that way, yeah?’
‘You got it.’ Nodding to herself, she disappears into the darkness with a sharp turn.
‘Fuck this shit.’ My hands slam against the handlebar of the exit, the door hitting the wall with a thud that makes me cringe. I always left the anger outside the museum. Even when I was grounded, hungover, or pissed off at Dante, once I walked inside, one deep breath could settle my nerves. I quickly look back at the walls to see if I left any indentation, but thankfully, nothing is there. Things are already slipping and it’s been less than a week. I haven’t even spoken to my father alone yet.
When I get outside, the bright sunlight makes me squint. I walk blindly back to the car, my hand above my eyes to try to make out the shape standing in the parking spot next to my car. For the love of god. It’s not even 8 a.m. and this has turned into the worst day of my life.
‘Just because it says Sinclair doesn’t mean you can park here, Theo.’
My skin crawls at the sound of his voice. Just my luck. In the bright morning light, his face looks sallow. Creases around his mouth and eyes expose his age, grey highlights weaving through his hair. But he’s dressed in a crisp white shirt and fitted navy trousers, looking the part of wealthy museum owner and silver fox.
‘I was just leaving.’
‘So what’s your verdict on the museum? Up to your standard?’ He smirks and locks his car, walking towards the entrance where I stand.
‘It looks the same.’
He smacks his tongue. ‘That’s it? It looks the same? Give me something more, son.’
‘Fine. You want my opinion? You haven’t changed one goddamn thing in seven years. That’s fucking lazy.’
‘Watch your mouth.’ He’s next to me now, both of us 6 foot 4, each of us trying to be a little taller.
‘What? You wanted my opinion, Papa .’
‘We haven’t had a decline in attraction.’
Why is he trying to prove the success of the museum to me?
‘Good for you. What about special exhibitions? I heard Oxford just had a recent excavation. Have you reached out to them for a loan?’
‘You know how I feel about Oxford.’
‘It’s Oxford University. No one gives a fuck that you got denied tenure.’
He steps closer, the smell of expensive cologne and aftershave drowning me in the open air. And then his hand is on my shoulder, gripping with force. From the outside, the motion could look endearing. A father giving his son advice. I stop breathing, a Breitling reflecting the sunlight in my eye, as he leans in to whisper in my ear.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you’re going to cool it down with the attitude, Theo. You stay in my house for the summer, you treat me with a little respect, then you get the fuck out. Now get your car out of my parking spot. Last time I checked, you’re not the Sinclair with the fucking museum.’
Swallowing hard, I shove his hand off my shoulder and step back. He’s mad about the spot. I haven’t seen him in seven years and he’s angry I’m in his parking spot. I laugh to avoid having to look at him. So that the crack in my voice can be masked as purposeful.
‘Yes, sir.’ My voice is rough as I salute my father, my hand coming off my forehead to almost hit him in the nose. ‘I’m so sorry I’ve disrespected your beloved museum. Good luck.’ Winking, I turn to the car and get in and turn the engine on. The wheels squeal as I quickly back out of the spot and give him a final wave through the window. It’s only when I’m a few blocks down that I pull the car over, my hands shaking so badly I can’t hold the wheel.