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FOR ISLAND FIRES AND FAMILY BY DERMOT KENNEDY
Mum calls upstairs and I jump back from Addison like shrapnel. I feel sixteen again, caught with a girl in my room.
Addison stands up slowly, pulling her sweater off and neatly folding it on the bed. She tugs at the hem of her shirt like she’s trying to settle something inside her.
She follows me down the stairs, and I’m glad she can’t see my face. I’m stuck, pinballing back and forth between a nervous blush and wanting to grin like a teenager.
Mum’s setting the table when I round the corner into the kitchen, the smell of roasted herbs enveloping me like a warm blanket.
“Perfect timing, you two.” Mum gestures toward the table and smiles warmly at Addison. “You hungry, love?”
Addison smiles back, taking a seat at the table. “Starving.”
I slide into a chair next to her, deeply inhaling the scent of dinner. “I can’t wait for this. I’m Hank Marvin.”
“What?” Addison leans close to me. “Is this another alias?”
“No.” I chuckle, shaking my head. “It’s another way to say I’m starving.”
She raises a brow, puzzled. “Why not just say starving then?”
“Now, what’s the fun in that?” I ask her, laughing. “It’s a Cockney rhyming phrase.”
“A what?”
“Cockney rhyme. It’s the pairing of words to replace a similar sounding word,” I explain.
“That’s so confusing,” she says, shaking her head. Mum stands at the stove, stirring the gravy, giggling.
“Here’s another,” I say, nodding at her phone on the table. “Dog and bone.”
Addison narrows her eyes at me and holds up her phone. “Phone?”
“Exactly. See, you’ve got it. Might need to get you a bigger dictionary,” I say with a wink.
She stares at me. “Why can’t people just say what they mean instead of putting a riddle over it?”
I raise my eyebrows and laugh. “Oh, that’s rich coming from the PR expert. Isn’t it your job to spin straw into gold?”
“Touché.” Addison bursts out laughing, and for a second, I’m frozen just watching her smile, the kind of smile that spreads across her whole face and lights up her eyes.
Mum sets the dishes down on the table, and Addison’s eyes go wider and wider with each one.
The roast pork looks perfect—crispy skin, steam curling off the meat.
The potatoes are roasted to perfection, the gravy thick and rich, and the Yorkshire puddings are just sitting in a basket waiting for me to devour them.
Mum looks over the table and lets out a proud little sigh. “Right then. Wine?”
Addison grins, leaning forward. “Absolutely.”
Mum grabs a bottle of red from the kitchen counter and pops the cork. She pours each of us a glass, sits down at the table, and raises hers. “To having my boy home for the weekend.”
Her voice goes soft over the word “home.” I smile at her, but it hits me in my chest, because I know exactly what she’s feeling—a mixture of gratitude and sadness. The ache of having one son at the table and not the other. She doesn’t have to say it, because I feel it too.
Addison looks back and forth between my mother and me and seems to realize the moment needs levity. “And to Hank Marvin and his dog and bone,” she says, lifting her glass to meet ours.
“I like her,” Mum says, letting out a laugh. “She’s a quick one.”
“Thank you,” Addison says, giggling. I watch over the rim of my glass as she takes a sip of wine.
She’s so relaxed here already, her cheeks flushed from the laughter.
She looks lighter somehow, like whatever weight she’s been carrying was left in London.
There’s something about seeing her here, in my childhood bedroom, at my mum’s kitchen table, that makes my chest tighten.
“Alright, then,” I say, grinning at Addison. “Are you ready for your first proper roast?”
Addison smiles at me. “More than ready.”
“Right,” Mum says, cutting through our smile-off like she’s reminding us she’s here too. “So we’ve got roast pork, roast potatoes, gravy, Yorkshire puds. Oh, and stuffing. Americans love stuffing, don’t you?”
“We do,” Addison says, smiling. “It’s just about Thanksgiving time in the States too, so stuffing is lovely right now. It reminds me of the holidays.”
Mum spoons gravy over her plate and hands the dish to Addison. “You know, Oliver was the fussiest eater as a boy. Wouldn’t touch a roast vegetable if his life depended on it.”
Addison perks up. “Oh, yeah?”
“Absolutely,” Mum says with a glint in her eye. “Cried once when I made him try a parsnip.”
“Mum,” I groan, hiding my smile.
The conversation flows easily all throughout dinner. Addison makes these little noises every time she tries something new, and it’s hard not to find it completely charming.
Mum’s in her element—she loves entertaining. She’s asking Addison all about her job and what New York City is like. Addison returns the favor and asks what I was like as a child.
“Oh, he was such a shy boy,” Mum says, giggling. “Clung to me like a barnacle at school drop-off, but ran away from me like a disease if we stopped at a football pitch.”
I bury my face in my hands while the two of them giggle over me like schoolgirls.
Addison tells her a story about how she was brought up in boardrooms and hotels, and would create a sales pitch complete with PowerPoint presentations for her parents when she wanted something.
Mum’s laugh softens as she listens, like she can see the little girl who just wanted someone to notice her and really listen.
After dinner, Addison helps clean up even though Mum protests.
I wrap up all the leftovers and stash them in the fridge, because I’m absolutely going to demolish the rest in the middle of the night.
When we finish, we sit at the table, drinking what’s left of the wine, swapping stories until our cheeks hurt from laughing.
Mum takes the three empty wine glasses and washes them up before putting the kettle on for her nightly tea.
Addison yawns and stretches, rubbing her eyes. “I’m gonna head to bed,” she says sleepily. She turns to me as she stands. “Goodnight, Ollie.”
There’s something about the way she said my name so softly that lands low and deep in my chest.
“Night, Addie,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible and not like I’m melting inside.
The telly’s on, but I’m not even paying attention. It’s just Sky Sports playing football highlights from the last few weeks. I’m laid out on the sofa in my sweats and a hoodie, one arm behind my head, the other holding my phone up as I stare at that photo. Again.
Me and Addison, from that day in London a few weeks ago. She doesn’t even know I have it. The stranger took it using her phone, but when she handed it back to me, I airdropped it to myself. I don’t even know why.
She’s laughing in it, head thrown back, my arm around her waist. I look different, too. Softer, maybe. Like I’m not using all my energy to keep my guard up.
“How long are you going to stare at that photo, love?”
I nearly drop my bloody phone onto my face. Mum’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. God knows how long she’s been standing there.
“I only just opened it,” I lie.
“I’ve been standing here for ten minutes. Try again.” Mum smiles at me like she’s not buying it. She steps into the room and curls up on the other end of the sofa. I sit up to make room for her. “So… Addison.”
“What about her?” I ask, already wary.
“What’s going on there?”
“What do you mean?” I rub the back of my neck. “She’s my friend.”
Mum snorts, the kind of sound that says I just handed her a load of rubbish. “Right. When’s the last time you brought a friend home and let them sleep in your childhood bedroom?”
I groan, letting my head fall back against the cushion. “Mum, it’s not like that. I told you she needed a break. I was just being nice.”
“Oliver Rhys Bradshaw,” she says, and I immediately wince. “She calls you Ollie.”
I blink. “So?”
She tilts her head, like I’ve walked straight into this one. “There have been only two people in your entire life that have ever called you Ollie. Me.” She pauses. “And Henry.”
The room falls silent for a moment. It usually does whenever one of us says his name. It’s not that either of us avoids talking about him. It’s just that the air seems to shift whenever we do.
I look away toward the telly. “It doesn’t mean anything, Mum.”
“Bollocks.” Mum leans forward and smiles. “It means everything. You have never let anyone else call you that. You’re letting her in, letting her know you. That’s not nothing.”
I shake my head slowly. “And? She’s leaving, Mum. She signed a contract just for the season. She’ll be gone when it’s over. Those are her rules.”
“Sod the rules,” Mum says, eyes warm but steady. “Why’s that matter?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if she doesn’t leave? What if she wants to stay?” Mum watches me like she can see through the walls I’m trying to keep up. “And even if she does leave… why does that mean you can’t feel anything now? Why wait until it’s too late?”
I don’t know what to say. I’ve spent so long pushing people away, keeping everything locked up tight.
I glance around the room, taking in all the photos she holds on to. “Are you ever lonely here?” I ask softly.
“Sometimes, yeah.” Mum smiles, but it’s wistful.
“But I feel both of you boys here. Every mark, every daft mistake. I see the hole you put in the wall when you decided to play football inside. I see the dent at the bottom of the stairs when you wrestled each other over the remote. I see the fence Henry broke when he was running to make it home before curfew. I see you boys in every bit of this house, and that keeps me warm.”
My throat tightens. Every memory feels so vivid, like I can see them playing in front of me on the wall like a projector.
“But, Ollie," she continues, "there’s still moments ahead for you. You can’t let them pass you by because you’re scared, or you’ve already written the ending in your head. Life doesn’t work like that.”
Mum pats my leg, smiles, and heads upstairs to bed.
The telly continues to hum in the background, but I’m still staring at that photo. But this time, I smile.