Chapter 12
Darius
“What time do you want to head over to your mum’s?” I ask Oliver over breakfast. He’s been quiet ever since we woke up, lying side by side, face to face, his hand wrapped tightly around mine in the space between us.
When he first told me his plans, he made it clear he wanted to see his mother before the funeral. They haven’t spoken properly in three years and he doesn’t want the first time to be in a crowded church.
My heart aches at the uncertainty that’s lingered in his eyes all morning, and I know he’s still wondering if he wants to do this or not.
Oliver takes a tiny bite of his buttered toast before putting it back on his plate.
“The funeral is at twelve. So, I guess as soon as we’re done here?” It’s just gone ten, and the sun is shining, the day warm, despite the summer slowly coming to an end.
“Okay. Finish up while I make another cup of tea.” I nod towards his toast and half-eaten bowl of fruit. He looks at it and then at me, before he sighs and spears a slice of apple with his fork.
When we’re done, we return to Oliver’s room, where we both change into our suits and head out to my car.
“Ready?” I ask as I start the ignition. Oliver nods, but his hands are fisted on his lap and his teeth are chewing on his already bruised bottom lip.
Before I pull out of the parking space, I reach over, unclench his hands and place one on my leg.
He breathes in deeply, blowing the air out in a resigned whoosh.
“I’m here. Don’t forget that. I’m your getaway driver.
You want to leave? We leave. No questions asked. ”
He won’t take the out. He’s come too far to turn away now, but I need him to know that the option is there and that I’m here, no matter what happens.
“Thank you.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see him turn to face me.
His hand on my lap moves as he draws patterns over my trouser covered leg.
It’s the complete and utterly wrong time for it, but the feel of that solitary finger sends sparks straight to my core.
It’s not the first time either. Last night, as I lay facing Oliver in bed, I had this overwhelming desire to kiss him, and when I brushed my lips to the side of his, I felt it then, too.
“And not just for today,” he continues. “For all of it. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, D.”
It’s the first time that the word ‘friend’ hasn’t sat right when describing what we are to each other, but at the same time, I don’t know yet what the right word is. Maybe there isn’t one for this feeling swirling around in my chest, or maybe there is and neither of us is ready for it.
I don’t reply with words, but briefly caress the back of his hand with mine before steering us the rest of the way to his mother’s house.
There is only one car in the driveway when we pull up outside the weathered semi-detached house with moss growing on the tiles of its roof.
A flowerbed overflows onto the edge of the gravel drive and a patch of freshly mowed lawn leads from the road up to the front of the house with its dark blue door.
Oliver doesn’t make a move when I kill the engine. He watches the house through the windscreen, his hand still firmly on my lap.
“It hasn’t changed.” He points up to the top floor, where there’s a tile missing beneath a large window. “I knocked that down with a football when I was fifteen.”
“If you had better aim, you would have taken out the glass,” I say, dipping my head to get a better look at the top of the house.
“Wasn’t the first football to land somewhere it shouldn’t,” he says, and I turn to watch as he points to his eyebrow where a scar slices through the hair.
“That’s how you got it?”
“Yep. Playing a game of seven-a-side in the park down the road. A week later – I did that.” Oliver points to the house again, a soft wistful laugh passing his lips, as though he’s here with me but also back in that memory.
“I don’t know why I expected to pull up here and everything would look different.
Three years feels like a lifetime ago, but in reality, it’s not that long.
” He rests his head back against the seat, still not moving to open his door.
I’m content to sit with him here as long as he needs, but that isn’t an option when there’s movement at the window that looks out onto the drive, a face at the glass, seconds before the front door opens and a woman in a black pantsuit steps out.
“Mum.” The word is a whisper, released on a rush of air. Oliver’s hand on my leg tightens, and when he looks at me, it’s with those same sad puppy dog eyes he had the night we met. “What do I say to her?”
“The way I see it, you can either say what’s on your mind or what’s on your heart.
” I don’t know what happened between Oliver and his parents that forced him to flee the only place he’d ever called home, but I know whatever it is, it hurt him deeply.
“But if it were me, I’d go with honesty. Regardless of what that looks like.”
He nods, squares his shoulders and climbs out of the car. His mother is still at the door and as we get closer, I notice her eyes are an identical shade to his, and equally as sad.
“Oliver.” Her tone is formal, reminding me of a school teacher, and I briefly wonder if that’s what she does for a living. “I’m glad you decided to make it. You didn’t mention you’d be bringing a friend.”
“Hi, Mum. Yeah, uh, this is Darius. He’s…”
“The getaway driver,” I joke, throwing some levity into the otherwise awkward encounter.
She doesn’t react, her face stoic, but Oliver lets out a quiet chuckle and it was worth it for that reaction alone.
“Darius Thorne-Sutton,” I continue, reaching out to shake her hand, “lovely to meet you, Mrs Cross. I’m sorry for your loss. ”
Her gaze darts to her son before meeting mine. She sniffs, wiping at her eyes. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you.” She steps to the side, gesturing for us to enter the house. “It’s been tough without him, but I’m taking each day as it comes.”
Inside, the place is warm and airy, with large windows at the back that look out onto a concrete patio and a small lawn, complete with a garden shed and thick sleepers that map out what I presume to be a vegetable garden.
There’s a huge tree in the bottom corner, the remnants of a rope swing tangled around the thick upper branch.
“All the food for the lunch is prepared,” Mrs Cross says as we enter the dining room that connects the entry hall to the kitchen. There’s a long table pressed up against the wall, a lace cloth covering the platters of sausage rolls, pork pies, scotch eggs, and other assorted savouries.
“This all looks good, Mum,” Oliver says. “Dad would have liked it, especially the sausage rolls.” She looks at her son, a flicker of fondness crossing her features before she turns and enters the kitchen and busies herself making tea.
Oliver and I help her carry the teas and a plate of biscuits to the lounge, where there’s a set of matching brown armchairs and a two-seater settee in a similar shade.
Mrs Cross sits in one armchair and Ollie and I take the two-seater.
Though it’s a generously sized sofa, we sit close enough that our legs touch.
“How have you been?” Oliver asks, and my heart melts because he is really trying here.
“I’m okay most of the time. Some days I wake up and forget that he’s gone. Those days are the hardest because the reminder that he’s no longer here stings just as bad as it did when the doctors told me he’d passed.”
Oliver looks at his hands. He’s fiddling with his fingers, digging his nail on one hand into the nail bed on the other. Moving back slightly on the sofa, I reach behind him, slide a hand beneath his suit jacket and press it to his back. Oliver leans into my touch, dropping his hands to his thighs.
“The house is very quiet now that I’m here alone.
” There’s a subtle shift in Ollie’s posture at the obvious reminder that he no longer lives here, and an even bigger shift when she adds, “But Alister has been a godsend. Making sure I get out, tending the garden, helping with the arrangements. I’m so lucky to have him.
” I don’t know who Alister is, but the mention of his name has the muscles in Oliver’s back tensing.
Mrs Cross takes a sip of her tea, and I reach for mine on the small table beside me. But instead of taking a sip, I hand it to Oliver, who is clearly holding his breath, his entire frame wound tight.
“Drink, puppy,” I whisper, forcing him to take the tea from me and watching as he breathes in and out before bringing the cup to his lips.
Mrs Cross observes the exchange, sipping from her own cup.
“We wondered what happened to you after you left, Oliver. You said you were going to London, but we never heard what you were doing there or if you’d be back.”
“I told you I wouldn’t be back. That I was done.”
“You were angry, we all were after the things you said. We thought you’d realise that – ”
Oliver stands abruptly, his heel stubbing into my toes as he does. “I need to use the bathroom.” He hands me the cup he was holding, and I watch his back as he retreats from the room, his footsteps heavy on the wooden stairs leading to the first floor.
“He was always such a temperamental child. Constantly causing trouble,” Mrs Cross remarks.
“Has his father’s temper. But none of his father’s graciousness.
” She tuts, then stands, gathering up the half drunk cups of tea.
“I fear not much has changed.” There’s this building flame in me that is burning with the need to defend him.
To defend that man who is so much more than whatever bullshit they think he is.
“He’s amazing. He works hard. He has goals, has big plans for his future. He’s kind and honest and so incredibly sweet. And it’s sad that you don’t know that about him.”