CHAPTER 7
MYLES
Sheridan is terrible at bowling.
We’re not even on the same lane so I shouldn’t be watching, but I can’t help it. Every time she appears from the benches, straightens her T-shirt dress and wanders over to the ball shelf, my gaze drifts to watch her. She’s wildly clumsy and never bothers looking at how many pins she knocks over, apparently fully resigned to any effort. By her seventh throw, she has scored a grand total of twenty-eight points. That’s not even half.
All I want to do is march over there and walk her through a good swing, but I’ll probably be castrated by her brother, so I keep my thoughts and my hands to myself.
On the other hand, I’m somewhat smug to say that I’m leading overall on points, out of both teams. This has wound Beau up to no end, but I’m trying to remain as blasé as possible about it, because I know that’ll rile him up more than boasting would.
By my ninth throw, I somehow end up strolling to collect a ball at the same time as Sheridan. I’m not sure if she’s avoiding looking at me on purpose—I didn’t see her for hours after we unloaded the car at the cabin—or if she’s just that thoroughly checked out and she hasn’t noticed a thing.
Sheridan picks up the same ball she has for every round—a light, green eight-pound ball—and routinely makes her way to the end of the lane. I get a waft of that same apple-y scent I had in the car and mirror her movements. We throw our balls at the same time, but while I watch mine roll to the end and knock every single skittle down with that satisfying clunking sound, Sheridan just ambles off once the ball hits the wood. She somehow bowls over a surprising seven pins, and her mask of indifference slips a little when she realises she only has to knock down three more to get a spare.
“Go on, Shez.” I say without thinking.
Her head whips my way, big blue eyes wide as if she wasn’t expecting me to talk.
“Get the spare.” I nod towards the end of the lane. The remaining skittles are in a clump together on the right-hand side of the alley, so she could easily do it if she concentrated hard enough. I’m not entirely sure why I’m so invested in her result. Maybe I want her to prove Beau wrong, even though it’s a bit late for that.
Wordlessly, Sheridan turns back to the alley to size up the throw. Brinsley and the others on her team are shouting words of encouragement at her, which is more than they’ve done for any other throw. She takes a breath and swings her arm back, then forward, and for once she leans into the throw. This time she stays when the ball rolls down the lane, and watches it plough through all three pins.
A small, disbelieving laugh slips out of her. “Huh.”
I give her a grin. “Nice.”
The girls and Nash are clapping and hooting, and she walks back to the bench with pink cheeks.
Fortunately, Beau and JP had been too busy talking football strategy to notice my cheerleading efforts.
We finish up bowling with our team (if that’s what we’re really calling it) winning, and I have the most points overall. My prize, from a begrudging Beau, is as many sweets as I like from the pick ‘n’ mix in the sweet shop. It seems a little ridiculous, but I’m not one to turn down confectionery when it’s free.
We straggle our way back to the cabin, a little livelier than we had been before. When we get there, Brian and Shirley have already arrived and settled in. Shirley is in the kitchen starting on our dinner, which I know from experience is going to be an absolute feast, and Brian is on the sofa in front of the giant TV watching the news. Hector has been relieved of slumber and is curled up at Brian’s feet, watching the arrival scene unfold. Apparently, he’s still a little drowsy.
“Mummy!” Beau shouts like a complete twat when he strolls into the cabin and spots his mother. He towers over her, as do most of us men. The Bennett women are notoriously tiny, and the men are not quite the opposite, but still on the taller side.
“Hello, my darling boy.” Shirley welcomes her son in a hug that I’ve seen too many times. While the Bennett siblings reunite with their mother, I make my way over to Brian, who has since stood to take part in the welcome party.
He gives me a firm handshake by way of greeting. “Myles.”
“Hey, Bri.”
“Given any more thought to that Beach Boys tribute idea I proposed?”
I snort, failing at not laughing. Every time I see Mr. Bennett, he asks me if I want to start up a Beach Boys tribute act, because with his first name and my surname combined, we’d make Brian Wilson—aka the best songwriter ever born.
“God, you know, I haven’t really had time.”
The older man chortles and pats my shoulder. “If we can get the rest of the boys on board, I reckon Beau would make a really good Dennis Wilson.”
“Beau would probably be quite good at the drums. Just don’t tell him Dennis was the most popular with the ladies because it’ll go straight to his head.”
“Or that he was really good friends with Charles Manson,” he deadpans.
I splutter out a laugh. “Jesus, Brian.”
The Bennett patron cracks up and wanders off further into the throng of guests.
I greet Shirley when she’s finally free with a peck on the cheek and an offer to help with dinner. I always offer to help, because it’s the least I can do given the number of times she’s fed my homeless ass.
I’m halfway through cooking off chicken breasts in a large skillet with lemon wedges and a white wine reduction when Sheridan appears.
“Can I do something?” She offers, again refusing to look my way.
“Sure, baby girl.” Shirley gives her ‘youngest’ daughter a bright smile. “Potatoes need peeling and chopping. Into little cubes.”
Sheridan nods silently and gets to work peeling potatoes. The telltale sign of metal against potato skin in a swift and regular motion tells me that if peeling potatoes isn’t Sheridan’s usual job when she’s home with her family, she’s still done it enough times to be confident at it. And why am I mentally congratulating her on being good at peeling potatoes?
Music is playing from a phone somewhere, a tinny quality to it, but I like having the background noise. Every so often I notice Sheridan and Shirley bobbing their heads along with it, from Harry Styles’s Daydreaming to Jungle’s Good Times to Fleetwood Mac’s Everywhere. I’m sure, if I listen close enough, I can hear one of them singing. And I don’t think it’s Shirley.
I start pouring cream into the wine reduction just as Sheridan seasons the potatoes with salt, pepper and dried thyme, and then shoves them in the oven in a baking dish. I can only assume Brian and Shirley brought all this food with them, because I know for a fact that Beau didn’t.
Ten minutes before everything needs to be served, I boil off some tender stem broccoli and then toss it in with Sheridan’s potatoes to crisp it up.
“Do you cook a lot, Myles?” Sheridan asks when I close the oven door.
We haven’t said a word to each other the whole time she’s been in the kitchen. I notice that Shirley has disappeared, and everyone else is spread out across the lounge watching old episodes of Gavin Stacey. Sheridan leans against the sink where she’s just finished washing the mess we created, a glass of the wine I used in hand. I don’t know why, but my gaze drops to her feet, where she’s now sporting a pair of black fluffy slipper booties in favour of her Converse. They look far too warm to be comfortable for the summer weather, and yet I find my lips upturning.
“Every day.”
Growing up, decent hot meals were few and far between. I lived off frozen dinners, ready meals and tinned soup until I was about fourteen years old, so the second I could get in the kitchen and start cooking proper food, I didn’t hesitate.
Sheridan smiles at me, and damn if it doesn’t make me feel warm inside.
“Do you?” I ask, hoping to keep up a conversation with her.
“I always try to. I like being in the kitchen. It kind of feels like the real heart of the house. Know what I mean?”
“I know exactly what you mean. It’s the room where the most activity happens.”
“Precisely.”
“Do you always help your mum in the kitchen when you’re home?”
“Most times, yeah. It’s not really even for the cooking. I just like being with my mum. The rest of ‘em avoid the kitchen at all costs, so it was kind of the only time I ever got Mum to myself.”
I couldn’t exactly relate to her, but I understood the feeling. The desire. I don’t even know who my mother is, and I’ve reached an age in my life where I don’t particularly want to, either.
“I bet the boys hogged her.”
“Oh, completely.” Sheridan is grinning now, and it’s utterly breathtaking. Christ, I don’t think I’ve ever been this instantly attracted to a girl before. I feel a bit insane. “And even though Brin is a proper daddy’s girl, she was never afraid to ask for attention the way I was.”
I can only imagine it all too well. Three loud, demanding children, and then one who was just afraid to be vocal about anything. I understood the desire to keep quiet. In care, being quiet meant a quiet life. No one was looking at you if you weren’t talking. Sometimes they’d forget you were even there.
“Are you not a daddy’s girl?” I tease.
Sheridan looks over her shoulder to the open plan lounge. Sure enough, Brinsley is perched on the arm of the armchair Brian is sitting in, her head resting on his shoulder. When Shez looks back at me, the smile tells me all I need to know. “I love my dad, and I know he loves me. But I don’t have that kind of relationship with him. I think we understand each other and that’s enough.”
I twist my body slightly to snatch the bottle of wine off the counter, fill up a glass of my own, and then top off Sheridan. “As long as that’s enough, Shez.”
We clink our glasses together, which for some reason makes her laugh. And then I’m laughing with her.
“Mr. Wilson!” Beau whines from his place on the corner sofa.
I take a deep breath, and Sheridan visibly smothers a snort. “What, Beau?”
“I need more beer!”
“Beau Bennett, you lazy bastard!” Shirley suddenly appears from one of the hallways. “Get your own sodding beer—you’ve got two working legs, ain’t ya?!”
“But I’m comfortable.” He pouts.
“Don’t care. You want a beer, you get it your damn self. Myles has already made your dinner.”
“I see no evidence of this dinner,” he retorts.
Someone, I don’t see who, throws a cushion at him.
* * *
“Can the four of you sit together on one side, please?” Shirley asks, rising from her seat and gesturing with her finger towards the end of the table.
Knowing better than to complain, the four siblings rise from their seats and congregate at the end of the dining table where Brian has just vacated.
Dinner went as smoothly as it could. Brian provided inappropriate jokes at the worst times imaginable, all the boys groaned good-naturedly; all the girls tried to stifle their tittering laughter; Shirley gave her husband a suitable shunning. No one fought, which was a freaking miracle, and I’m almost certain it’s because Stavros is too chicken shit to say anything untoward around authority figures. Meaning he’s barely opened his mouth all night.
Shirley busts out a giant birthday cake for the quadruplets, and when Brian starts singing, the rest of us join in. Trying to fit ‘Beau, Brin, Shez and Nash’ all together into the song ends up sounding utterly ridiculous but is a cause for a good laugh. In addition to this, Sheridan spends the entire song blushing like someone had been looking up her skirt.
“What the fuck is that?” Nash asks with a cringe as the siblings take a better look at their cake.
“That,” Shirley grins, “is your worst photos, as voted by your friends here.”
Ah.
I wondered why she’d asked me to send the least flattering picture of Beau that I could find.
“Mum, that’s so mean,” Brinsley whines, visibly disgusted by whichever one had been selected for her.
“It was your father’s idea.” She shrugs. “And, according to Bailey, you didn’t have a bad photo.”
“I mean, this one ain’t great.” She points at the cake with a frown.
“Anyway, blow your candles out before they melt all over it. And make good wishes.”
The Bennett siblings take a deep breath in unison and blow out their candles in one go. Shirley then takes the cake back and starts dividing it between everyone. When I get handed a slice, I catch a glimpse of blonde curls dipped in pink.