into the box
HOMETOWN GLORY BY ADELE
Addison is in my bed.
In my childhood home.
That still feels weird.
I’ve been up for hours. Not because I couldn't sleep, but because for the first time in ages, I slept great.
I chatted with Mum before she left for work. I’ve tried telling her she doesn’t need to keep going, that she’s earned the right to slow down, but she always says she’d go mad without it.
I’ve been trying to keep the noise down so Addison could sleep in peacefully, but I can hear her rustling about upstairs.
I make coffee instead of tea. Addison’s more of a coffee person. I pop some bread into the toaster and grab the butter and jam from the fridge. It feels… domestic. But also nice.
By the time she enters the kitchen, her hair’s damp from a shower, her cheeks flushed from the heat of it.
“Morning,” I say, setting a plate in front of her.
“Hey,” she answers, smiling faintly.
“Sleep okay?”
“I slept great, actually.” She glances around the room. “Where’s your mother?”
“Work,” I tell her, grabbing milk from the fridge.
“She still works?”
I can’t help the laugh that slips out. “Insists on it, yeah. Too stubborn to stop even though she could. She’ll be back later.”
“What are we up to today?”
“The official town tour,” I say proudly, puffing my chest out a bit. “Eat up. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”
I like the way her eyes light up at that, like she’s actually excited to see where I grew up.
By the time we head out, it’s shaping up to be a perfect day. There’s no rain, but the sky is overcast, sheltering the town under a big gray blanket. There is a crisp chill in the air and the faint earthy smell that old towns seem to go hand in hand with.
“Ready?” I ask as we walk toward my car.
“Ready.” She nods and pulls a beanie over her head.
We chat for the quick five-minute drive into town, which ends with me cursing and ranting as I search for parking.
“Three quid to park, that’s a bloody piss-take,” I mutter, locking the car.
“Okay, I’m gonna take a guess here and say that means you’re annoyed?”
I can’t help but smile. “See, you’re British already.”
I lead her through winding lanes of cobbled streets and buildings that lean ever so slightly. There’s so much character in every inch of Stratton Wood. It’s like a postcard. Tudor-style buildings with white plaster, black beams, and iron overhead signs that squeak gently in the fall air.
“This one is the best chippy takeaway in town,” I say, pointing to a small brick storefront. “Spent way too much time here as a lad. Mum would tell me not to ruin my appetite for dinner, so obviously I ruined my appetite for dinner.”
We wander the town for over an hour, aimless in the best possible way. Our arms brush sometimes, and it feels almost deliberate.
I point out the bakery that sells pasties as big as your hand and the train station where Henry dared me to kiss Genny Lawson when I was twelve.
We cut down one of the narrower lanes, past the charity shop that’s been there longer than I’ve been alive. Addison slows, her gaze catching on the window display of secondhand clothing.
“We used to come here all the time,” I say before I can stop myself. “Mum would make a game out of it—see who could find the best bargain. I once got a pair of boots for two quid. I wore them down until they were nothing but a few straps of leather.”
Addison glances at me, brows knit in that way she gets when she’s really listening.
I shrug, trying to make it smaller than it was. But there were things children shouldn’t have had to worry about.
Like hearing your mum crying after she’d gone to bed because another bill had arrived.
Learning which supermarket reduced food first and planning the weekly shop around it.
Henry and I sitting completely still in the living room when debt collectors were at the front door.
Or pretending I wasn’t hungry on nights she was working just so there was food left for her.
“It wasn’t easy,” I admit. “Mum worked two jobs just to keep us afloat. Some weeks it was beans on toast for dinner three nights running. But she never let it feel like we had less, you know? Birthdays still had cake. Christmas still had a tree. She always found a way to make magic. Looking back, I have no idea how she managed it.”
I’ve been staring into the shop window without seeing a thing. I clear my throat, stuffing my hands into my pockets.
“I used to be embarrassed about it,” I add. “I just wanted what everyone else had. But now… it feels like something to be proud of. We didn’t have much, but we had each other. And that was enough. That's what really matters.”
For a moment, she’s quiet.
“I didn’t grow up like that,” she says finally.
“We had money. Too much of it, probably. Big apartment in the city, big garden, big everything… but half the time, it was just empty space. My parents worked a lot. Traveled a lot. Birthdays were catered events instead of kitchen-table parties. And I’d trade all of it for what you just described. ”
Her words catch me off guard.
“You’d trade all that for beans on toast?” I ask, trying to hide the smile tugging at my mouth.
“I think you had something richer,” she says softly. “Something that really mattered.”
When we turn the next corner, I stop without meaning to.
“This was my school,” I say, nodding toward the brick building with red trim and hand-painted art in the windows. “Primary school, at least.”
She smiles. “I’m picturing a tiny Oliver Bradshaw in a school jumper. Were you just as broody back then?”
“I was shy. Henry, though…” I pause, unsure if the emotion in my chest is going to crawl up my throat. “He used to tell me it was okay to be shy, it just wasn’t okay to be afraid. He used to check out the same book from the library here every week. Without fail. The Wind in the Willows.”
“He liked it that much, huh?”
“We loved it,” I say. “He’d read it to me every night when Mum was working the late shift. He used to tell me the book was actually about us.”
Addison blinks. “Really? How?”
I nod, looking wistfully toward the playground next to the school. “He said he was Toad. Wild and always chasing something new. And I was Ratty. Quiet, maybe a little nervous at times. I was always trying to keep up with him but never quite sure I belonged in the adventures he was having.”
It’s been years since I’ve talked about that. My throat feels tight, but Addison just listens, her expression soft.
“That book meant everything to us,” I add. “It was a constant in a world where not much else was.”
“You were lucky to have him,” she says quietly.
“Yeah,” I reply, still staring at the school. “I was.”
I pivot the conversation, showing her the shortcut back to my house through a church cemetery, and how I’d run through it anytime I was late for curfew.
“I like it here,” she says finally, as we reach the spot we started the tour.
It’s simple, but it feels like the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time.
I tilt my head towards the pub. “Fancy some lunch?”
—So American, Olivia Rodrigo
The second we step into the pub, I’m hit with warmth. The cold outside fades away, replaced by the heat radiating from the crackling fireplace inside. It smells like rich gravy and freshly poured ale, and I think if comfort were a scent, this would be it.
The wooden floor is uneven and creaks under my boots. There’s a cozy mix of high-top tables and leather booths along the edges, and a dog is snoozing peacefully near the hearth like he owns the place.
“Oi, Oliver. You alright, mate?” A voice calls from the bar the moment we walk in.
I tap Oliver’s arm, instinctively lowering my voice. “Is something wrong?”
Oliver laughs under his breath and leans close to my ear. “It’s just how we say ‘how are you?’”
“Oh,” I say, letting out a giggle. “Another one for the dictionary.”
Oliver smiles at the bartender as we approach. “Good, mate. You alright?”
“Can’t complain. Good to see you.” He leans over the polished wood bar to fist-bump Oliver. “You bring trouble with you?” he asks, nodding his head toward me.
“This is Addison,” Oliver says, slipping a hand around my back. “Addie, this is Jamie Taylor. We were in school together. His mum and dad own the pub.”
“Nice to meet you, Addison,” Jamie says, extending his hand across the bar to greet me before looking back over at Oliver. “You want your usual, yeah?”
“Of course,” Oliver says with a smirk.
I turn toward him, curious. “You have a usual?”
“Sure does,” Jamie says, laughing. “Pie and lager, every day, even when we were just young lads.” He leans toward me. “What’ll you have, love?”
“Hmm.” I tilt my head back and forth. “I guess I’ll have the Oliver Bradshaw special too.”
Jamie smiles and heads to grab the beers, leaving Oliver and me to find two stools at the end of the bar. It’s crowded in the pub, but no one even bats an eye that Oliver is here. There are no whispers, no one subtly taking photos. It’s just a local pub, and he’s just a local boy.
I lean back and watch how comfortable he is here.
It’s like he knows where to stand when the draft sneaks in under the door, or which chair has uneven legs.
I know he loves football and being on the pitch, but this town seems like freedom for him.
No one demands answers from him, or expects him to be something he isn’t.
“Got into a fight over in that corner,” he says, pointing beyond a shadowed booth.
“Oh, yeah? Over a girl?” I ask, and immediately wish I hadn’t. For some reason, I don’t want the answer to that.
“No,” he says, laughing like the idea of it being over a girl is ridiculous. “Over football.”