Chapter 53
ALEX
Connor’s voice called up to me from downstairs, sharp enough to make my whole body jolt. I wasn’t about to make the same mistake again. I wasn’t about to risk another outburst from him.
“Yeah,” I said quickly, hurrying downstairs as fast as I could without letting the pain in my ribs show. I gripped the bannister lightly, steadying myself as I reached the bottom.
Connor was standing there, duffel bag at his feet again. He looked like he was ready to walk out the door - sunglasses on, leather jacket zipped, jaw tight. It wasn’t unusual for him to go away, but two weekends in a row? That was new.
“I’m going away again,” he said, looking up at me. His eyes narrowed behind the tinted lenses. “I need you to swear to me that you’re going to behave whilst I’m gone.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “If I find that there’s been another man in this house-”
“You won’t,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “I swear.” My hands lifted slightly, instinctively, like I was trying to show I had nothing to hide.
“Good.” He nodded once, satisfied. “Because I’ve enough to deal with at the moment.” He leaned down and picked up his bag, a heavy sigh escaping him as he straightened.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral as I shifted my weight, careful of my ribs.
“Just some shit with the house on Lanesdon.” He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “Apparently, I have a bunch of idiots working for me that can’t seem to do anything on their own.” There was venom in his voice, and I was just happy that it wasn’t directed at me.
I nodded slowly. Connor had a few houses scattered around Belrose - places he used for storage, places he didn’t want me asking too many questions about. I’d been to two of them before, when he wanted to show me what his ‘business’ looked like. But never the one on Lanesdon Road.
“Oh,” I said quietly, piecing it together. That probably meant he was going down there to sort them out. Keep them in line.
“Don’t grow up, baby bro,” he said with a half-laugh, nudging my shoulder lightly. “It’s not worth it.”
“I’ll try not to,” I said, forcing a nervous laugh back, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my sleeve.
“Money’s on the side,” he said, pointing toward the kitchen without looking. “I’ll see you in a few days.”
I nodded. “And sort Mum out,” he added, rolling his eyes. “She’s been doing my head in all morning.”
I frowned, my brows pulling together, but I nodded anyway.
Was Mum drunk already? It was barely ten o’clock.
Connor slung the bag over his shoulder, gave me one last look, and walked out the door. The sound of it shutting echoed through the hallway.
And then he was gone.
I exhaled - long, shaky, and relieved - my shoulders dropping for the first time all morning. At least I didn’t have to worry about him for the weekend.
“Mum?” I called out, trying to gauge where she was in the house as I stepped off the last stair.
“In here,” she said, her voice sounding distracted, like she wasn’t fully paying attention.
I followed the sound into the kitchen - and stopped dead. She was sitting on the floor in the middle of the U-shaped counters, surrounded by pots, pans, plates, and random kitchen junk scattered around her like she’d tipped every cupboard out at once.
“What are you doing?” I asked, staring at her, confused as I stepped closer.
“We don’t need this,” she muttered to herself, cigarette hanging from her mouth as she picked up a plate and added it to a growing pile on her right. “And we definitely don’t need this.” She tossed a saucepan lid behind her without looking.
“Mum?” I said a little louder, stepping over a stack of baking trays.
“Oh, hey, love,” she beamed suddenly, standing up with a wobble and taking a long pull of her cig. She grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the mess on the floor. “I’m having a clear-out.” She gestured proudly at the chaos as if it were an art installation.
“I can see that,” I said, glancing around at the disaster zone. “Why?” I asked, lifting a pan with two fingers like it might bite me.
“What do you mean, why?” She shook her head as she flicked ash into an already-overflowing tray. “I want to - that’s why. This house is a fucking mess.” She waved a plate in the air like it had personally offended her before dropping it onto the pile with a clatter.
She wasn’t wrong about that one. But the way she was acting - frantic, scattered, buzzing with energy that didn’t have anywhere to go - it worried me. My stomach turned as I watched her move from one cupboard to the next, muttering to herself, cigarette bouncing between her lips.
This was something she’d done in the past. And it normally resulted in lows.
“Mum…” I said softly, stepping over a stack of pans to get closer. My voice felt too small in the chaos of the kitchen. “You don’t have to do all this right now.”
She didn’t even look up. She grabbed another bowl, inspected it like she was judging its worth, then tossed it into a different pile.
“I’m doing it now, so you can either get down here and help me or stand there complaining.” She huffed, flicking ash into a bowl that definitely wasn’t an ashtray.
I sighed and lowered myself onto the floor beside her, my ribs aching sharply as I bent. I tried to hide it, but the wince slipped out before I could stop it.
She noticed immediately.
“I wish you two would stop fighting,” she commented, reaching out and cupping my face. Her thumb brushed the bruise on my cheek as she tilted my head to get a better look.
“It isn’t like that, Mum,” I said, pulling my face gently out of her grip. I shifted back a little, putting space between us, my hand rubbing absently at my ribs. “I told you before. It’s not fighting if I can’t fight back. If I’m the only one that gets hurt.”
“Well, you know what he’s like, love,” she said, waving her hand dismissively as she dug through another cupboard. A stack of bowls wobbled dangerously beside her. “And yet you continue to push all of his buttons.” She shook her head like it was obvious.
“He hits me even when I don’t,” I exclaimed, my voice cracking with frustration as I leaned back on my hands. The movement tugged at my ribs, but I ignored it. I don’t know why I got frustrated. I don’t know why I even tried explaining to her; we’d had this same conversation a thousand times.
“He’s just trying to toughen you up.” She shrugged, flicking ash onto the tiles without noticing.
“There’s toughening me up,” I said, sitting forward again, my fingers curling into my jeans, “and then there’s beating me so hard I can’t walk for a week.”
“That was one time,” she said quickly, defensive, her voice rising. “And you know I told him off for that.” She jabbed a wooden spoon into a pile like that proved something.
I stared at her, my mouth parting slightly. She really believed that counted as defending me. She really believed that was enough.
“He just takes it too far occasionally,” she added, shrugging like she was talking about someone forgetting to take the bins out.
“Occasionally,” I said, tears now brimming in my eyes. “Occasionally.” My voice cracked as I lifted my shirt, revealing the bruises blooming across my ribs. “Does this look occasional to you?”
Her eyes flicked to them - just for a second - before she looked away sharply, like the sight burned. “I don’t want to see that,” she muttered, turning back to the pile of dishes, her hands suddenly moving faster.
“Of course you don’t,” I said, shaking my head as I let the shirt fall back down, my throat tightening.
“Because then you would have to admit that your son is a bad person. Then you’d have to do something about it.
And you won’t do that, will you? Because then who’s gonna buy you booze?
Who’s gonna give you drugs? Who’s gonna pay for the house because you can’t hold down a fucking job? ”
“You take that back!” she shouted, her eyes going wide as she threw a plate down at the floor. It shattered across the tiles, the sound sharp enough to make me flinch and pull my knees in.
“No, I won’t,” I said, tears flowing down my face as I wiped them with the back of my hand. “Can’t you see I’m hurting, Mum? Can’t you see what he’s doing to me?” My voice cracked, my whole body trembling as I leaned forward, desperate for her to hear me. Actually hear me.
She held my gaze for a long moment - long enough that hope flickered in my chest, stupid and fragile. For a second, I thought she could see me. Really see me.
And then she turned away.
She leaned down, picked up a plate from the chaos around her, held it up to the light like she was inspecting it for scratches, and said, “What do you think? Should we keep it?” She took a pull of her cigarette, completely unfazed.
I felt my whole body collapse in on itself; shoulders dropping, my breath stuttering, like I was watching the scene from somewhere outside my own skin. She would never see me. Not the way I needed her to.
Tears fell freely now, hot and silent, dripping onto my hands. “He’s going to kill me, Mum,” I whispered, barely able to get the words out. “One day, he’ll take it too far.”
She didn’t look at me. She didn’t even pause.
“Keep,” she hummed to herself, placing the plate in another pile as if I hadn’t spoken at all.
I let out a slow breath and coaxed myself up, my ribs twinging with every move, and pressed a hand to the wall as I walked down the hallway, each step heavier than the last, until I reached my bedroom.
I sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. For some reason, my eyes drifted to the bin in the corner - the one I’d been avoiding. Kai’s jumper was still there, half-burned, tangled up with the smashed remains of my Xbox.
My chest tightened.
Pushing myself up, I walked over to it and kneeled slowly, reaching into the bin and pulling the jumper out. The bottom half was charred, but the top half… the top half was untouched. Soft. Familiar.
I pressed it to my face, my tears still falling, soaking into the fabric. It still smelt like him. A smokier version, sure. But it smelt like him.
Something in me cracked at that.
I held the jumper close to my chest, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping me together. Then I lay back on my bed, curling around it, my knees pulling in as the ceiling blurred above me.
I wished the world would swallow me whole.
Just for a little while.
Just long enough for everything to stop hurting.