Chapter 1
Oliver
Ilove this city. I have since the day I first arrived. Alone. Heartbroken. Destroyed.
You can get lost in a city this big. You can disappear and wipe yourself from existence.
And it can break you if you let it. Chew you up and spit you out.
Gum on the bottom of a shoe, discarded and forgotten.
But London is also a city with heart. And hope.
A city that offers second chances. An escape.
A rebirth. And that’s why I’m here. Living a new chapter of my story.
My workday ends, and I spend thirty minutes on a packed tube, the stifling August heat making the commute feel like a trip down to hell.
Commuters with their eyes on their phones, sweat trickling down overheated skin.
Body odours meshing into a scent so unique to the London Underground, I cannot imagine you’d find it anywhere else.
Walking into my tiny bachelor flat on the third floor of a converted Victorian house in the heart of New Malden, I drop my bag and strip off my branded work polo, throwing it onto the back of the sofa.
My naked torso is sweat slicked and opening the window in the hope of welcoming in a breeze does nothing to lessen the heat in my box sized flat.
My stomach aches, and I know I should eat something. I haven’t eaten anything today. Too hot. Too uncomfortable. Just not in the mood. Too many reasons not to let anything pass my lips.
I woke with the stale taste of alcohol on my tongue and lipstick on my neck, with only the faintest reminder of who left it there.
She was brunette. That I remember. With eyes as blue as Caiden’s, and that right there is why I slammed back another drink despite my body already being more liquor than blood by that point.
My mouth is dry, a combination of heat, memories I don’t want, and the lasting effects of a night of excess.
I’m holding a glass beneath the running kitchen tap when my phone rings.
With my free hand, I dig the device out of the pocket of my utility trousers, frowning when I see the name on the screen.
Mum.
Ignoring the ringing, I gulp down the cold water before filling it again. It sloshes in my stomach, looking for something solid to cling to, but it has no luck. I should eat, if only to appease the churning in my gut.
My phone rings off and I move from the tiny kitchenette, cold water in one hand and my phone in the other, to the minute space I call a lounge, sinking into the dilapidated sofa that acts as the makeshift sitting area of the one room space.
Its worn blue fabric is torn in places and it rests at an odd angle because it’s missing the feet on the left side.
But it’s comfortable and had the added bonus of being free.
My unmade double bed is at the far end of the apartment, its battered headboard pressed against one wall. A shelf stands at the end of the bed, its solid back acting as a divider and giving me privacy from the rest of the space.
My phone rings again, and I sip from the glass in my hand, watching the screen. It darkens, before lighting up again.
Mum.
I haven’t spoken to either of my parents in three years, since I left Devon when I was twenty-one and started a new life in a leafy suburb on the outskirts of London.
Staring at my phone, I wonder why my mother is calling now, but as curious as I am, I can’t bring myself to answer. Whatever she has to say, I don’t want to hear it. I’ve worked fucking hard to build my life here. Alone. Without the comfort of a family or parents who give a damn.
Sure, it’s not a perfect life. But it is a good one. I’m safe. I have a job that I like, some money in the bank, and this cosy space I call home.
I don’t need a family. Never have. Never will.
Sighing, I throw the phone face down on the sofa, stand, stripping off my socks, trousers and boxers as I make my way into the bathroom that sits to the right of the front door.
I turn on the shower and wait for it to heat before climbing in, groaning when the hot water hits my tired muscles.
I close my eyes, dipping my head, chin to chest, and let the scorching hot spray beat against my neck and down my back.
Despite the warm temperature of the day, I stay in the shower until I’m overheating and the sweat and sawdust of hard work are washed away.
Then I step out, patting myself dry as I move from the bathroom to my bed, where I find a pair of gym shorts on the floor.
I sniff them, concluding that they are acceptably clean, and pull them on over a pair of black boxers.
My wet hair drips onto my shoulder, and I run a hand through it, ruffling the newly bleached strands.
My phone rings again, where it’s still face down on the sofa.
“For fucksake,” I mutter under my breath, crossing the small room, reaching for it and turning it over.
Mum.
My stomach twists, and this time it’s not hunger. It’s anticipation. Fear. Dread. Swiping to answer, I bring the phone to my ear but say nothing.
“Oliver?” Mum’s voice cracks. I thought I’d forgotten what she sounds like but, the familiar lilt of her voice pinches at my heart, causing far too many memories to come barrelling forward. I’m breathless before she’s even spoken.
“Oliver, are you there?” she asks again.
I swallow thickly, pushing the single word out like a boulder up a hill.
“Yeah.”
She chokes on a sob, her words muffled when she speaks again.
“He’s gone, Ollie. Your dad. He...uh...he had a stroke.”
Her words hit like a sledgehammer to the heart, and I bite my lip to stop myself from making a sound.
Don’t react.
Stay calm.
Breathe.
“Oliver? Did you hear me? Say something.”
Squeezing my eyes closed, my heart pounding against my ribcage, I swallow and finally manage a broken, “Okay.”
She sucks in a breath. It’s not what she wants me to say. Hell, I’m pretty sure it’s not the reaction you should have to learning that your father – the man you once looked up to – has died. But it’s all I have.
On the other end of the line, Mum sniffles, her voice hardening when she speaks again. It’s a solid wall of disappointment I remember with vivid clarity.
Why are you lying, Oliver?
Why would you say that?
Why are you always causing trouble, son?
“I don’t know what is wrong with you, Oliver. But that man raised you, and he deserves some respect.”
Pain lances through my chest, and I bite back a bitter laugh. Respect is earned. He told me that one too many times.
The hand holding my phone starts to shake, and I’m aware that my breaths are coming faster and shallower than they should be. I tip my head back on the sofa, a wave of dizziness washing over me.
Breathe, Ollie. I remind myself, taking in a breath and pushing it out, trying to focus on getting enough oxygen to my burning lungs.
Mum continues, either unaware or unbothered, that her son is in the throes of a panic attack.
“We haven’t arranged the funeral yet, but I will let you know when it is, and I expect you to be there. After everything he did for you and everything you put him – us – through, the least you can do is show up.”
Images of that night three years ago, when I poured my heart out to them and they threw it all back in my face, play behind my closed lids. I can still picture my father’s brown eyes, hard with anger, his jaw ticking as he listened to me.
You’re always causing trouble. And this is the worst thing you’ve ever done, Oliver.
“Alister said he forgives you for –” White dots dance in my vision, and I slam my eyes shut, letting my phone drop to my lap. I don’t hear the rest of what my mother has to say and I don’t care because Alister can take his forgiveness and go fuck himself with it. The lying rapist piece of shit.
I rest my hand over my heart, feeling the thud thud of it against my palm. Unsteady. Aching. Another shard splintering off the already delicate organ.
Shit.
Fuck.
My father is dead.
I repeat that fact in my mind, over and over again. Then I say it out loud, the words bitter on my tongue. I don’t move for what feels like hours as I wait for one solid emotion to win out over the swirling mess of them in my head. Anger. Sadness. Regret. Relief.
That last one steals my resolve, and I grab a pillow and scream into it until my throat is raw. And then I sit. In a stillness that is betrayed only by the tremor rumbling through my body. I need…fuck…I need to not be here. To not be thinking about what I have to do next.
Go to his funeral.
Don’t go.
Fuck.
I’m used to having only myself for company.
I’ve lived alone long enough to become accustomed to it, but I can’t deny that right now I wish I had someone to talk to about this, even if I would never share the full story with them.
No one can ever know my biggest secret. The only two people I told never believed me.
The longing in my bones has me reaching for my phone again, my mother having hung up at some point.
Pulling up the name of the one and only person I’ve ever let in.
Even if he never realised that I’d softened my heart for him.
We fucked around on and off for six years and stupidly; I fell.
But I was never a real choice for him. More of a safe place to land.
But now he’s found a safer place and I have no one.
Fucking Caiden.
Jumping off the sofa, I shove my phone in my pocket, and rummage in my basket of clean but not yet folded clothing. I locate a grey gym tee which I pull over my head, then put on my trainers and leave my flat; the door locking automatically behind me.
The gym is two short blocks away, and I walk at a steady pace along the pavement, pushing through a crowd of people standing outside a pub. It’s bright and hot out, and the town is alive with the after-work crowd, getting a drink or two in before they head home to prepare for another day.
Smart people.
I’m tempted to duck into the pub and grab a pint, but I’m too worked up and nothing besides running or fucking is going to help right now.
The gym is cool when I walk in, and I welcome the drop in temperature, only wishing it wasn’t so damn busy inside.
There isn’t a treadmill free, so I pause at the vending machine and buy an energy drink, downing it while waiting for someone to vacate one of the treadmills.
I stretch and use the rowing machine until one opens up, my muscles warmed and ready to be worked.
I start with a slow jog, rapidly increasing the speed until I’m full-on sprinting, my lungs burning with exertion. It’s the rush I need, and I push myself harder, faster. My feet hitting the treadmill in a rhythm that echoes in my bones.
With my eyes on the blank screen in front of me, I run.
I run until the only thing I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears. Until I don’t know if it’s sweat or tears burning my eyes. Until I realise that what sucks the most is that no matter how hard I push myself, I cannot outrun the truth that tonight, I wish I wasn’t so fucking alone.
My stomach clenches around nothing, my body hating me for putting it through this with no fuel other than a shitty energy drink, and though I want to run until I forget everything, I’m forced to stop when nausea creeps up.
The treadmill slows, and I dip my head, sucking in lungfuls of artificially cooled air. I step off, wait for my heartbeat to steady and the threat of emptying the contents of my stomach to subside.
I should eat something.
I should go home.
I should call my boss at the bar where I work part time and ask for a shift. If only to keep my mind occupied.
I should do a million things, but the one my heart is begging me to do.
My mother always said I was never good at making the right choices, and over the years, her words have become a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy. I tell myself that even if I’m making the wrong choice now, it’ll hurt less than sitting alone in the stillness of my empty flat.
So, I do the one thing I shouldn’t do. I leave the gym, sweat slicked and light-headed, and hop on the bus to Kingston. To a man who doesn’t want me but is the only person who might understand what I need.