CHAPTER 26
MYLES
Brinsley and I have carpooled to work together since we’re living in the same house. It’s nice, actually, not having to drive so much. Especially since I’m still a relatively crap driver. Both Bennett sisters have repeatedly teased me over it.
“How did you even pass your test driving like this?” Brin had asked me on Friday morning and followed it up with a squeal terrifying enough to disturb a flock of birds when I clipped the pavement. An overreaction in my opinion, but I know I’m no Jensen Button.
I’ve been roped into helping Brin move her things out of Andy’s flat. Not that I find it a chore, but I do worry that I won’t be able to control my temper if I see the bastard.
We’ve taken all three cars, and the plan is to have two of them loaded up with things to store at Brian and Shirley’s until Brinsley finds her own place.
“He usually goes golfing on Saturday mornings.” Brin tells us, with all the optimism of Charlie Brown.
Golf on a Saturday? What a wanker.
John Andrews’s flat looks like a pathologist could bring in a dead body and perform a post-mortem at any second. It smells like Dettol and vinegar, with the odd hint of bark.
I fail miserably to hide my distaste for the place when I drop the moving boxes in the middle of the living room floor.
“I’m so glad you never have to come back here after today,” Sheridan says, already getting to work.
“I can’t believe you ever lived in a place like this,” I mutter.
“Yes, well,” Brin has a hand on her throat, “it’s not my preferred choice of home either.”
“It’s like a fucking morgue.”
We work quickly, and I’m grateful because, honestly, the entire place makes me itchy. The twins fill up boxes and label them according to their location, and I take them down to the cars and put them in the right ones.
My Polo is mostly filled with Brinsley’s clothes, beauty products and her other essentials. I split the rest between Birdie’s Mini and Brin’s Ford Fiesta.
By the time we’re done, it’s quite obvious that Brin was the one bringing life into the place, because now the apartment looks like a wasteland of bachelorhood.
Brinsley leaves him a note with her key, dutifully placed on the kitchen counter ready for when John comes home. We vacate the sparse apartment by lunchtime, with the twins clutching each other like adrift otters.
“Thanks for helping, Myles,” Brin says when we reach the cars again.
“No worries. I’m just pleased you don’t have to live in that,” I wave a dismissive hand at the building, “anymore.”
“Me too,” Sheridan agrees, gravitating towards me.
Brin turns one last look at the place, then flips it the bird. “Good riddance.”
Sheridan turns to me, and I leave a light peck on her lips when she steps into my space. “I’ll see you at home?”
I nod once. “Yep. Take your time, though. I can entertain myself for one afternoon.”
Sheridan kisses me again, innocent enough but with more fervour this time. “Thank you for being so good. I appreciate you.”
“Any time, baby.”
Sheridan and Brinsley are going to a spa after dropping everything off at Brian and Shirley’s. Brin just doesn’t know it yet.
When I find the will to let Birdie go, I slip into my car and head off back to the cottage. I unload Brin’s belongings and leave them in her room ready for her to unpack, which I imagine she’ll do tomorrow.
I head into the kitchen to make a cuppa, and then situate myself in the living room.
I feel strange being in Sheridan’s home without her. Like an intruder. I realise that this might be quite a large step—her feeling confident enough about me to allow me here without supervision. Obviously, I’m not some unruly child with the potential to destroy the place, but her faith in me boosts my ego a little.
I turn the TV on, already on Amazon Prime, and realise that Beau’s game is being televised again. I stick that on and get comfortable.
About five minutes after kick-off, I get a text off Brad with a picture of a blurry football player in a sea of pixelated green. This is followed up with a second photo of the Rangers pitch, and a packed stadium. I’m hit with an instant pang of longing, even though it’s on my screen.
Brad
Brinsley lent me her season ticket for
today’s game. Is no. 71 her brother?
Brad is quite obviously not a Rangers fan, and I’m sure he’s told me before that he finds football tedious. I imagine this has something to do with the Emily situation.
We’ve started going to the pub on Tuesday evenings and I actually quite enjoy the guy’s company. He’s just so incredibly nerdy.
Me
He is. They’re quadruplets. He’s a good friend of mine, too.
Saying that feels weird considering I’ve barely spoken to him for months. If he had the sense to pull his ginormous head out his arse, we might be able to talk again.
Brad
And you’re dating their sister?
Me
That I am.
Brad
We need to unpack that later.
As if he knows it’s messy as shit right now.
Brad
OH
OH!!
GOOOOAAAAAL!!!!!!!!!!
Sure enough, thirty seconds later on the screen, the Rangers get a corker in from the right wing.
Me
Enjoy the game bud. We can discuss on Tuesday.
The game finishes on a score of 3-1 to Coventry, which nestles the Rangers nicely at the top of the league. Part of me is somewhat relieved that I don’t have to listen to Beau gloat, because his competitive side can be utterly unbearable, but at the same time I wish I was celebrating with him, too.
The Rangers have never been top of the league while Beau has played for them, and I know that he and JP at least will use it as an excuse to have a bit of fun tonight.
I decide to send him a text.
Me
Congrats on the league position, mate. Now you just need to hold that shit down for another six months.
Beau answers quicker than I expect him to.
Beau
Thanks bro. Come out for a drink with us?
We’re going to Pink Skunk.
The Pink Skunk is a massive bar and nightclub in the city centre that somehow manages to attract every type of crowd imaginable, from hen dos to sports bros to the LGBTQ+ community, and still owns the reputation of being an overpriced shithole. I haven’t been for a while but when Nash was at university and I was painting the town with the brothers, it was one of our frequent haunts. I’m not sure if I could stomach it today.
Me
Can’t tonight, sorry. But I’m proud of you and the boys. Have fun.
Beau
Thanks. Is Brin okay? You see her more than me these days. Is she out of that bastard’s place?
Oh, now John Andrews is a bastard? I shove the indignation down, because this conversation is going well and I don’t want to ruin it, as much as he pisses me off.
Me
I think she’s been better. She said she’s living with Sheridan until she can find a place.
A little white lie. I don’t need to mention that I am also temporarily living with Sheridan, or that I helped Brin move her shit into Sheridan’s house.
Beau
Yeah, Dad said. I need to call her. Can we catch up soon? I think we need to air
our shit out.
He’s not wrong. But I know he isn’t going to like what’s changed.
Me
Yeah, soon.
I don’t dare indicate when, and in turn Beau doesn’t reply. I can’t work out if that’s a good thing or not, but dwelling on it seems pointless.
It starts to rain outside, so I stand up and head to the kitchen to make a fresh brew and watch out the window. Droplets paint the view in a dreary, glistening light, and the downpour is obnoxious against the surface of the canal at the foot of the garden.
For the first time in years, I feel an itch to draw. I don’t think I’ve wanted to draw since I was in uni.
I text Birdie.
Me
Don’t suppose you’ve got any charcoal and an empty sketchbook knocking around? X
Part of me doesn’t expect her to answer knowing she’s at a spa, but it only takes her a couple of minutes.
Birdie
No charcoal, but there’s an unopened set of pastels in the bottom drawer of my desk that I won’t use and an A4 sketchpad in my paper tray on the top. X
I wander into the office that Sheridan almost always closes the door on and head straight for the desk in the corner. I dig to the bottom of the paper pile and find the A4 pad, flicking through to find it completely empty. Then I open the bottom drawer and pull out a pristine set of pastels that call out to my finger-smudging little heart.
I perch on Sheridan’s luxury office chair, open the pad to the first page and unwrap the unused pastels. I decide to do a test-run first, because I haven’t drawn something freely outside of lessons at work for a long time.
I conjure up an image of Sheridan in bed this morning and sketch the lines of her in pink—her favourite colour—until the page is full. I turn to the next page and draw another—her messy-haired and sleepy-eyed while we played cards with Brin last night. I draw the Mini, and Hector in his bed, and the cottage, and when I’m satisfied I’ve got my groove, I stand and start to head for the kitchen.
Before I make it to the door, something catches my eye. I don’t know how I missed it before, but I see it clearly now.
On Birdie’s armchair is a storage box crammed with loose bits of paper. Sketchpad paper. Written elegantly on the side in sharpie is the word Frogs. And on the sheet most visible to the room, is a loose drawing of green legs in fishnet tights.
It might be absolutely absurd that my heartbeat starts thundering in my chest, and that I feel heat on the back of my neck. But as I abandon the pad and the pastels and delicately finger my way through the sheets in the box, I realise something.
I keep going because I can’t help myself. There are loose sketches, and essays worth of notes, and detailed plots which I know almost by heart, and pencil storyboards, and letters from voice actors, and from the Toonies. The fucking Toonies!
I panic when I realise what I’m doing and step back. I drag my hand down my face, inhaling deeply.
This is crazy. Crazy.
Sheridan—my Sheridan—my Birdie, created my favourite show?
I take my phone out and look through the BennyBetty Instagram page to find the image she posted in the summer—the one of her desk—and make the comparison.
It’s the same fucking desk!
I’m having heart palpitations.
This is, quite possibly, the best day of my damn life.
* * *
Brin and Sheridan return home just before I’ve finished making dinner.
Brinsley is puffy-eyed and red-cheeked but still has that post-spa glow about her. She doesn’t say much before she excuses herself upstairs.
Sheridan, on the other hand, looks positively ethereal. Her skin is shiny with oil, curls piled atop her head with a few strays stuck to her neck. Her blue eyes are clear and bright, and her cheeks look utterly pinch-able. I feel a warmth spread through my chest at the sight of her, so deep I feel it in my cockles.
“Dinner smells good,” she tells me, leaning into my side.
“You smell good,” I reply, and lean down to kiss her deeply. When she pulls away, she looks a little light-headed. Glad it’s not just me. “How was the spa?”
“Fine. Bit busy, but generally fine.”
I make a contemplative sound. “Don’t imagine a spa to be very relaxing if it’s busy.”
“It wasn’t. I had a massage and even that was difficult. Wasn’t anywhere near as good as the one at Lerwick.”
I rub her back soothingly. “But you still look pretty.”
The tips of her ears turn pink, just like her hair. “Thank you. Did you draw much?”
Ah. “A little.” I didn’t draw anything after my revelation. “I actually wanted to ask you something.”
“Oh?” Sheridan leans back against the counter, her arms folded across her chest so they push her tits up. “Don’t tell me the art teacher needs advice.”
“No.” I pinch her waist in favour of shoving my face between her cleavage, and she yelps, smacking my hand away. “Nothing like that. I just wanted to confirm something.”
“Okay…”
I lick my lips, suddenly nervous. “Did you, by any chance, create the web show Goth Frogs?”
Sheridan stares at me for a second, the colour quickly leaching from her face. “Er–”
“Birdie,” I take her face in my hands, stroking my thumbs across her cheeks, “it’s not meant to freak you out, I’m sorry.”
She looks so pale, and I feel like a complete bastard. “Well, um, I, er,”
I bundle her against me when I realise she’s shaking, pressing her body tightly against mine. “Baby, I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I saw some stuff in your office. It’s my favourite show and I got excited. I didn’t mean to freak you out, alright? I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t leaping to conclusions.”
She mumbles something I don’t quite hear.
“Huh?”
Birdie pulls back and peers up at me, eyes damp. “Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, I created Goth Frogs.”
I blow out a breath and stroke my hands over her oily hair and face. I can’t seem to stop touching her. “I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s my favourite show. Brin caught me watching it at work once.”
“That’s kinda cute.” She makes a blubbering, giggly noise. “Only Brin and Beau know about it. Not even the voice actors know who I am, or the site hosts, or the Toonie organisers. Aside from Beau and Brin, and now you, I am completely anonymous. And I kind of like it that way.”
“So, you’re not going to these awards?”
She shakes her head. “Absolutely not. I’m not going to win, but I don”t want to be seen. I like my secret life.”
I study her for a moment, and she looks set on her decision, as sad as it makes me. This woman deserves to be celebrated. But I suppose, even if she doesn’t go, she still might win. And regardless of whether she does or doesn’t get anything out of it, I’ll still celebrate her in my own way. “Alright. Then I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
Birdie smiles up at me as she leans forward, pressing her front against mine. “Thank you, Myles.
I bend down to give her another deep kiss, which she melts into like butter.
“Are you working on anything else?” I ask her when I return to the cooking.
She hesitates, nervously chewing on her lip. “I have an idea but it’s in the very early stages. It needs a bit more body and thought before I’ll be happy to move forward with it.”
“What is it?”
“You really want to know?”
I scoff. “Of course I do. I want to see everything you’ve ever done.”
She blushes again, and I can’t believe how lucky I am to have her. “I can show you after dinner, if you like?”
“I do like, Birdie. I like very much.”