Chapter 25
Twenty Five
Henry
Iofficially hate weekends.
They don’t involve seeing Matilda.
By Saturday morning, I’ve realised I’ve become dependent on my daily dose of her — her bold, ridiculous outfits, her infectious laugh, even the coffee she brings me every morning. Hell, even that tastes better when it’s from her.
So I drag myself to the gym to burn through the restless energy, then decide to stop by my dad’s. I’ve got his invite for the awards ceremony, though I already know he’ll find some excuse not to come. I understand, but it doesn’t make the sting any softer.
I try not to dwell. Dwelling leads to that familiar pit — the kind that creeps up when I stop moving long enough to think. I’ve never been one for sharing feelings. It’s a learned defence mechanism. I didn’t need therapy to figure that out.
The problem with bottling everything up, though, is that it fills you slowly, drop by drop, until one day the weight drags you under.
I’ve been there before — twice — and I can feel the pull again.
Between Dad’s health declining and whatever the hell I’m feeling for Matilda, I’m treading water harder than ever.
But this time… I don’t want to throw my feelings away.
Maybe it’s the self-destructive side of me talking, but I want to hold on to them — to her.
I’m just waiting for the fallout.
I genuinely meant it when I invited her to the awards ceremony. It was supposed to be a simple thank-you. But when she told me she was applying for the residential position, something in me shifted. If I’m going to lose her, I at least want her to know the real me before she goes.
“Dad?” I call as I step into the house, dropping my keys onto the sideboard.
“In the kitchen!” he shouts back.
Panic hits before reason does, and I bolt for the kitchen, already imagining him collapsed on the floor. Instead, I freeze in the doorway.
He’s standing.
One hand braced on the counter, the other buttering toast like it’s the most normal thing in the world. His stick leans against the counter beside him.
It feels like a sledgehammer to my chest.
“Dad, what—?”
“Morning, son. Toast?” He turns, smiling casually, as if my world hasn’t just tilted.
“I—uh—no thanks.” My voice sounds foreign, weak. I don’t dare move in case the moment breaks.
“Be a dear and pop the kettle on.”
“Yeah… sure.” I fumble for the kettle. “Where are the teabags?”
“Oh, I’m using decaf now. No sugar. And there’s oat milk in the fridge.”
I blink at him. “Who are you and what have you done with my father?”
He chuckles, pointing to the new box of decaf like a man who’s joined a cult.
I open the fridge and pull out a tub. “Vegan butter?”
“Yes. Tastes just the same and it’s better for me.”
I stare at the tub, at him, then back at the tub. My brain can’t compute.
By the time I follow him into the living room, he’s sitting comfortably in his chair, plate balanced on his lap. I bring the tea tray over — unsweetened, decaf, no biscuits — and I can’t help but ask, “Dad, what’s going on?”
“I just decided to take better care of myself,” he says matter-of-factly. “Trying a new diet for MS.”
“And where did you hear about this miracle diet?” I ask, already suspicious.
“My nurse recommended it.”
His tone’s off, but I let it go. Whoever convinced him to try vegan butter and decaf tea deserves a medal. Especially if it’s got him walking again.
The tea is revolting — like liquid cardboard — but I choke it down. Once I’ve recovered, I take a breath and bring up what I came for.
“So… I might’ve been nominated for an award. RIBA. They’re doing this ceremony thing and, well, I got a few tickets. Thought maybe you’d want to come.”
“Nothing about the RIBA awards is not fancy, Henry,” he says, side-eyeing me over his cup.
“You know about them?”
“Of course I do, you moron. My son’s an architect — a bloody good one — and when he gets nominated, I do my research. I’m just wondering why it’s taken you a week to tell me in person.”
He fixes me with that look — the same one I got as a kid when I’d forgotten to do my homework.
“Dad, I’m sorry, I just—”
He laughs, cutting me off. “I’m pulling your leg. Congratulations, my boy. I’m proud of you. Your mother would’ve been too.”
He motions me closer for a hug, and I go, swallowing hard as warmth floods through my chest. I don’t let myself feel proud often — it’s dangerous — but for a second, I do.
“About coming along,” he says, pulling back. “I can’t make it, son. Not strong enough yet. But Matilda said I can stream it, so I’ll be watching and cheering you on.”
I blink. “You spoke to Matilda?”
“Oh, yes.” His voice is a touch too casual. His eyes flick away — a tell I’ve known since childhood.
“When did you speak to her?” My tone’s sharper than I mean it to be, but something in me bristles.
“She’s called a few times since I came home from hospital,” he admits. “Just to check in. She’s a dear like that. You know, that woman’s a good one. You’d better buck your ideas up if you want to keep her.”
“I never had her to keep,” I mutter. “She made that clear last Monday.”
The words taste bitter even as I say them.
“Probably for the best anyway,” I add quickly, lying to him — and to myself.
Dad fixes me with a look that could strip paint. “Don’t be a fool, son. That woman has feelings for you. Even a blind man could see it. Stop being a stubborn twat and ask her to the damn awards ceremony.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I may have already asked her, actually. But as a work thing, not a date.”
Dad groans and drags a hand down his face. “Jesus, help me.”
I grin despite myself.
“Alright, here’s some advice from an old man who knows better,” he says, eyes twinkling.
“Do whatever you can to turn that work thing into a date. Because that woman’s a firecracker, and if you let her slip through your fingers, then you really will need a lobotomy — because you’ll have lost your bloody mind. ”