Chapter 24
Recent transactions:
Spencer and I arrive with frizzy hair and crumpled clothes in our parent’s town. It’s just enough outside of London to warrant
two trains and a fifteen-minute walk uphill, as both Mum and Dad are too busy to pick us up from the station. It’s been a
week since Malcolm showed up at the office, and I still feel on edge. After Pacha drove me back to Cecily’s house, I could
hear them talking downstairs as I drifted into a fitful sleep.
The last thing I need right now is to get an inevitable lecture from my parents, but it’s Mum’s birthday, so this dinner feels
unavoidable.
“Weird, one of them can usually pick me up,” Spencer says as our suitcases rattle against the cobblestones.
I don’t tell him they don’t make the effort for me. Back in university, I didn’t complain when they didn’t pick me up once when I was coming home, and it’s been that way ever since. Spencer must have kicked off about it, so therefore, he must be picked up.
“I don’t think I’m ready for this,” I admit.
Spencer throws a reassuring arm around my shoulders. “You need to just, you know, make-friendly. Ask questions, compliment
the food, and smile.”
“Asking her how crochet club is going isn’t going to undo years of mutual resentment,” I say under my breath.
He grunts, forcing his suitcase over a rock. “Well, I need you to do something soon. Your stink is starting to rub off on
me. Did you know Mum said I might not make the subject line on this month’s family newsletter?”
I mock a shocked expression. Even if he got cut, Spencer will no doubt still maintain a starring role in the body of the email
for just existing.
The air becomes crisp as dark clouds begin to circle above us. “I think you need to just go in with a positive mindset,” Spencer
advises. “Ya know, it might help you to not see everything as doom and gloom for once?”
I avoid his suggestion. “Maybe you could help me out. Like when they ask you about work, you could mention how well Wyst is
doing,” I say, every three words punctuated with a breath as the incline steepens.
“But . . . it isn’t doing well.” A bead of sweat drips down the side of his face. “That’s why you needed my help.”
I give him a cutting side-eye. “I didn’t need your help. I could have just as easily hired an actor to play the CEO.”
“No, you couldn’t; you’re broke,” he jibes.
“And you’re not?” I raise an eyebrow under my beanie hat. “You jumped at the idea.”
“Touché,” he relents.
I throw my free hand out dramatically. “Face it, we’re as destitute as each other. Twins to the bitter end.”
We round the corner, creaking the wooden gate open to traverse the garden path to the front door. Un-bloomed pink rosebuds
wind in tendrils pinned by metal hooks up the cream and brown bricks, flirting with the edge of the white windows.
We don’t bother knocking, just bust through the door as Spencer shouts our arrival. The house has that distinct family smell.
The scent of home fills my lungs like a ghost returning to its body.
“We’re in here!” Mum shouts in a singsong tone from the kitchen at the back.
It’s not lost on me that the house is littered with photographs of Spencer. The ones that feature me are the ones that also
include my brother. The one single photograph of me is a portrait from my christening, a bald head and white robe with a lacy
collar and pudgy little fingers. It’s faded with the sun, a white streak bleached from the past twenty-seven years of morning
rays.
Mum is frantically stirring a wooden Christmas spoon in an aged Le Creuset saucepan while Dad is reading the newspaper with intense focus.
We kiss cheeks hello with both of them. Mum seems annoyed about something, not fully meeting my eyes as we exchange pleasantries and I hand her an overcompensatingly large bouquet of flowers.
This isn’t new behavior. She never acknowledges it when something is wrong.
As though part of the penance for upsetting her is to delve deep into yourself and offer up reasons why she would be disappointed in you.
I used to play along, listing the various things I’d done wrong in the past few months like some sort of fucked-up family confessional.
Somehow, despite not actually being Catholic, our entire family dynamic is fueled by Catholic guilt.
After thirty minutes of awkward chat about annoying neighbors and distant relatives and two glasses of wine, we sit down for
a nice dinner of beef bourguignon. The sound of clinking cutlery on plates, clearing of throats, and chewing teeth fill the
air, nobody making a sincere attempt at conversation. A school friend once observed that the Coles don’t ask each other questions.
We simply make statements at one another in quick succession and call it a conversation.
“Good beef, Mum. Is this a new recipe?” Spencer says, cutting a giant piece of carrot in half, his knife scraping against
the plate.
She beams. “Yes, it is! Thank you for noticing, Spenny,”
“Yeah, really good,” I agree, nodding frantically.
“Darling, please don’t speak with your mouth full.”
“So how is work?” Dad asks, looking specifically at Spencer.
Spencer doesn’t reply until he catches our parents staring directly at him.
“Oh, yeah. Everything’s great.” He purses his lips before taking another sip of wine.
“Any new parts coming up we can know about?” Mum wiggles her eyebrows. The way Spencer has spoken about secrecy in the entertainment
industry has made them believe a one-line part on Holby City is as on lockdown as a Marvel movie. “Or are you still helping Jess?” She briefly glances at me, then my plate, then back
to Spencer with an uplift of her eyebrows.
Spencer’s shoulders raise to his earlobes. “Well . . . yes, I am, but not for much longer.”
My gut sinks to new depths as my muscles tense ready for impact. It’s an internal dread, which you gain a sixth sense of over time. My throat goes dry, and I try to moisten it with a too-large glug of wine.
“What did I say about taking up all his time?” Mum tuts in my direction.
I clear my throat and take another long sip of wine before answering. “It’s actually going quite well and—” I get cut off
before I can finish my sentence.
“For you. But Spencer is putting his career on hold to keep your business afloat,” Dad chimes in. His face is stoic, but his
fingers are gripping his knife and fork so tightly his knuckles are turning from pink to white.
My eyes jump back and forth between Mum and Dad before cutting to Spencer. He’s looking down at his plate, pushing a piece
of beef around, leaving red-brown smears on the floral-patterned china. Unwilling to come to my defense. Is he seriously not
going to correct them?
“And what career is that exactly?” I roll my eyes, popping a potato into my mouth. “Sorry I can’t provide you with five seconds of screen
time at the cinema.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I clock Spencer wincing.
“Sorry,” I say, instantly regretting my words.
Mum scoffs, refilling her glass. The red wine sloshes up the sides, leaving light streaks as she brings the glass to her thin
lips.
Usually, I would just keep my mouth shut and my head down, just get through the forced family time with as little friction as possible.
But the situation with Malcolm has been replaying in my head for days now, the regret that’s been searing through my blood ever since that night.
I didn’t stand up for myself then, and I can’t let that happen again.
Especially not with the people who are meant to support and love me no matter what, in the place that I’m supposed to be the safest in the world.
Anger, bitterness, and jealousy rise up my throat.
I know some people aren’t born with the privileges of safety, support, and love at home.
I understand I’m lucky compared to other people.
But Spencer has received the kindness, forgiveness, and understanding I’ve craved, causing an insatiable need in my bones, a hunger I’ve never been able to subdue.
My cutlery clatters onto the china as my chair scrapes against the floorboards. I’m a bomb that’s about to go off, and I need
to get out of here as swiftly as possible.
“Spence, can we go please?” My voice shakes as I ask. I pick up my plate and storm into the kitchen.
Spencer doesn’t respond, just stares at his plate as Mum gets up from the table to follow me.
“There’s no need to take Spenny with you—in fact, I think that’s the whole problem.”
“Sorry for dragging your precious baby down to my level,” I spit over my shoulder.
Mum’s voice softens. “You know, you could get back on track. Ask for your job back and just move on without all that . . .”
She waves her hand around as she tries to think of the word. “. . . drama like last time.”
“Drama?” I repeat, my mouth wide in disgust. “It wasn’t ‘drama,’ Mum.”
The memory of Malcolm’s whiskey breath as he threatened me reappears in my nostrils.
She sighs as she continues to ignore me. “And maybe you’re right; maybe we did put too much attention on Spencer, so now you feel the need to lash out for attention.”
My voice breaks, tears stinging my eyes, and my plate clatters into the sink. “You think I went through that on purpose?”
They’ve never said it outright, but I could tell. I could feel the disappointment radiating off them like an odor every time
they saw me.
My father’s face is red as he stomps into the kitchen, clearly having heard our argument echo through the house. “Your penchant
for making poor decisions was the first step toward it being your fault. Then make a big song and dance about it all, trying
to get that boy fired, ruining his prospects too and bringing more attention onto yourself for no reason.”
The words slam into my bones like he shot them out of a gun; jagged shrapnel marking home in my body.
The thought was already lodged in my brain, a snake slowly wringing its way around the soft tissue, tightening when I wasn’t
watching it. But the way I shattered, buckling under the fractures, was a long time coming.
My shoulders cave inward. “Dad . . .” My chest cracks open under the armor.
I look at my mother, and she stares at the floor. Not fully agreeing with his harsh assessment but not disagreeing either.
Probably her attempt to stay neutral, but it feels like a double negative.
“You were on track to do well. You could have made something of yourself. I just don’t want you dragging your brother into
your mess too. You walk around acting like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
I take a shuddering breath. “Maybe I do act like that, and I’m sorry. But my world collapsed in an instant. I’m just trying to pick it back up again before it crushes me.” My voice wobbles. “I just wish you both would help me do that.”
My dad interrupts, “I think we’ve done the best considering you—”
“Stop.” The room goes silent as my brother stands in the kitchen doorway. “Just stop.”
To my surprise, my parents do stop. Like well-trained dogs, they pause in place and turn to Spencer.
He swallows. “None of what happened is Jess’s fault. We’re doing well. With my help, we are going to go all the way. You’ll
see how great of a job she is doing when we win the prize money. When we come home with a million pounds’ investment.”
My stomach drops. I know Spencer is trying to be supportive, but my eyes widen, begging him to stop divulging the details
of TechRumble. To not get their hopes up for this to actually be something.
For a second, I panic, my whole body tensing at my parents’ reaction to Spencer’s admission. But then I soften; maybe with
Spencer’s support, I don’t need to care about what they think of me.
Before I have a chance to explain, Spencer continues, “Jess is the smartest, hardest-working, greatest person I know. I’m
sorry you can’t see her the way you see me, because you’re missing out. If you want to start acting like real parents, we’ll
be in Vienna.”
He holds his hand out to me as we leave without saying another word.