Ten
Wes
“Wes, you have to be nicer to Devon,” Emma insists.
I glance up from the email I’m sending to Daredevil, casting her a baffled look. “Huh? Why? You’re not together anymore.”
“But we’re still friends,” she argues. “And I don’t mean the kind of friends that exes always say they’re going to be just because it sounds nice in theory.
I mean I genuinely care about him and want him to be an important part of my life.
He’s going to be around, Wes, and just because we’re not getting married anymore doesn’t mean you have free reign to be an arsehole. ”
I consider her words for a long moment before nodding. “Okay, fine. I’ll stop being an arsehole to him.”
Her eyes widen in surprise at my easy capitulation. “You will.”
I nod. “When he stops being an arsehole to me.”
She lets out a groan of annoyance and picks up a coaster from the coffee table, tossing it at my head.
“Hey, fair’s fair, sis. This hatred thing is a two-way street.”
Family dinner without Emma there is strange.
Usually, she carries the brunt of the conversation, chattering away with Mum about clothes or work or whatever new true crime novel she’s been reading while I oblige Dad in his stilting attempts to discuss the weekend’s football.
It’s nice that he tries but, with the exception of cricket, he’s really never been a sports enthusiast.
But with Emma gone, the focus is solely on me.
And although Mum and Dad have always been supportive of my career choice, they really have no interest in actually hearing about it.
Clothing isn’t exactly a topic of interest for me, and I’m more of a biography guy than true crime or mystery like my folks and sister.
So that narrows down the conversation topics to a mere handful of things: the latest episode of Bake Off , the latest David Attenborough special, what Emma might be up to right now in Paris , and, of course, my non-existent love life.
“So, Wesley,” Mum says airily as she cuts into her roast. “Is there anyone new in the picture?”
I let out a harsh scoff. “Mum, don’t be ridiculous.”
She adopts an expression of pure bafflement. “Why? What’s so ridiculous about that? I was hoping there might be someone special you’d like to bring to my party.”
“I’m bringing Natasha,” I remind her. Mum is sixty next month, so of course we’re having a big party.
“Natasha doesn’t count,” Mum says with a huff of annoyance. “I meant a boyfriend. Someone you might actually have a future with.”
I roll my eyes. “Come on, Mum, you know I don’t do the whole relationship thing.”
She gives a wry shake of her head. “That’s exactly what people say right before they meet the person they’re going to spend the rest of their life with. Isn’t it, Steven?”
Dad looks up from his task of spearing several peas onto his fork. “Sorry?”
Mum sighs wryly. “I was just saying that people often declare they don’t want a romantic partner just before they meet the love of their lives.”
“Oh, yes. I suppose so,” Dad murmurs, getting back to his dinner.
“What do you mean, you suppose so?” Mum demands. “That’s exactly what happened with us.”
Dad blinks at her in confusion. “It is?”
Mum lets out a huff of exasperation. “Yes, don’t you remember? You were completely focused on work, convinced that a girlfriend would be a distraction, and then I came along and just swept you off your feet.”
“Ah, yes, that’s right,” Dad says with a smile, although I can’t tell whether he actually remembers or if he’s just pretending he does to satisfy Mum.
“That’s nice and all, but I’m not Dad,” I say, digging into my Yorkshire pudding. “I’m not a workaholic. I just enjoy the single life too much.”
“You are being careful, aren’t you?” Mum asks, her eyes full of concern. “I do worry…”
“Yes, of course I’m careful,” I assure her. “And this is the 2020s. Things are different now.”
“I’d still be much happier if you had a proper partner. And you would be too,” she insists, “even if you can’t see that now.”
“I’m perfectly happy with how my life is. I don’t need to be ‘settled’ with a husband and kids and pair of Schnauzers to feel complete.”
“What about a pair of corgis?” Mum jokes, prompting me to roll my eyes.
She sighs. “Look, Wes, all I’m saying is maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to at least keep your mind open to the possibility.
You’re going to be forty soon—do you know what I was doing when I was forty?
Raising teenagers ,” she says pointedly.
“Okay, first of all,” I begin, pinning her with a hard look, “I’m still thirty-eight for another four months so how about we stop with the rounding up? And secondly, you can’t scare me with the biological clock thing. I have another forty good years yet before I need to worry about settling down.”
“By which point we’ll be long in the ground,” she mutters.
“Just as long as the will’s in order first,” I tease.
Mum’s expression turns shrewd as she glances at Dad. “Hmm…Steven, are we allowed to put a clause in the will that says Wes doesn’t get anything if he doesn’t give us grandchildren?”
“We can do anything we want, my dear—it’s our money,” Dad says.
Mum arches a challenging brow at me, prompting me to let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head wryly.
I’m definitely going to have to get one of those conversation prompt books for our next dinner; there’s not a chance I’ll be sitting through another torture session like this one. Not even Mum’s roast is worth it.