Chapter 13
How did you find me?” I ask. We’re sitting on Max’s sofa. As soon as I announced myself he slunk off awkwardly to his bedroom. Leila is wearing bright red sparkly boots, flares, and a denim jacket. It’s a bold look.
“I went to your mum’s house. She said you only have, like, three friends, and she gave me all of their addresses. It didn’t take very long to track you down.” She shrugs and drapes her long, dark hair over her shoulders. “I went to your friend Demi’s?”
“Dami,” I correct.
“Yeah, I went there first. We looked you up on her friend-finding app.”
That’s how she was so sure I was here. Ugh. And I hid. She shoots me a disappointed look, like a weary teacher with a misbehaving student.
I look at her and try to find something of Dad in her face.
I can’t find any trace. I figure she must look more like her mum.
I guess I don’t exactly know Dad’s face that well, though.
I’ve seen it mostly in photographs. I bet there are all sorts of subtle ways she is, or maybe I am, like him that I wouldn’t be able to pick up on.
The sound of a laugh, the lopsidedness of a grin, the mannerism of a gesture.
“Dami seems nice.” Leila’s comment snaps me out of studying her features. “Your mum seems scary.”
I can’t help but laugh. Leila doesn’t even crack a smile. It’s like she was making a comment about the weather. My heart swells for a moment, thinking of my nice friend and my scary mum.
“So, are you staying here?” she asks.
“Uhhhh . . .” I realize I haven’t established that with Max yet.
And he’s leaving for Paris soon. “I don’t know.”
“Right, well, where will you go if not?” she presses.
“Uhhhh . . . ,” I say again. “I don’t know?”
“Right.” A skeptical look crosses her face, mixed with vague curiosity. I can’t believe a nineteen-year-old is wondering how I could be so disorganized.
She’s right, though. If I don’t stay here, where am I going to go?
“Excuse me,” I mutter, standing up. I cross the living room, knock on Max’s door, and slip inside. Max is folding things into a canvas bag. He looks up as I enter. I close the door behind me.
It’s strangely intimate being in his bedroom.
Obviously I used to be in his bedroom all the time.
Back when we still lived in our dingy flat shares, we barely spent time in any other room.
We’d sleep, eat, have sex, watch movies all in Max’s tiny, freezing-cold box room.
But grown-up Becky and Max don’t hang out in each other’s bedrooms. For obvious reasons.
Namely, that grown-up Max has moved on and just sees grown-up Becky as a friend.
I would give anything for one of those movie marathons in this bed. It looks so comfortable. What would he do if I just climbed into it? Right now?
“Becky?” The sound of Max’s voice brings me back to reality.
“Yeah, uh. I’m really sorry, is it OK if I stay here while you’re away? It’s just . . . I kind of . . . well.” I tail off.
“You have nowhere else so you came slumming it to ole, reliable Max. Yeah, yeah, I get it. It’s not Bali, but needs must.” Max shoots me a bitter grin.
If only he knew how deeply untrue that was.
That there’s nowhere else on planet Earth I’d rather be than wherever he is. “I’d kind of assumed you were staying.”
My tense muscles loosen a fraction. At least I’m not totally homeless for now.
“Hey, sorry if I made things more awkward for you.” He gestures his head toward the door, beyond which Leila is sitting. “I was just trying to help. You’ve got a lot going on. I didn’t want you to feel overwhelmed.” He rubs my shoulder protectively.
“Thanks, Max.” Cozy warmth prickles all the way up my back. Max is always looking out for me and never judges me no matter how much of a mess I make of things.
His hand stays on my shoulder for a second longer than normal before he takes it away.
I wonder, for the millionth time, if he’s read the letter.
He hasn’t commented at all on Leila’s mention of my dad’s letter.
Is he avoiding the subject of them altogether because it’s too awkward?
If he hadn’t received his, wouldn’t he have asked about Leila’s?
But then, Max has never been one to pry.
“I’d better get back out there,” I say. “I have an estranged sister sitting on the couch and all.”
“That you do,” Max agrees, and goes back to packing.
I remain for a second longer, hoping time might just stand still in this moment where I’m near Max in a small, safe space, but there’s only so long one can linger in a corner staring without bordering on creepy. Eventually I slip back outside.
“I’m staying here,” I announce as I walk over to Leila. She’s scrolling on her phone.
“OK, good,” she says flatly, barely looking up.
I sit next to her and observe her tapping away at her screen.
A bit like with dating apps, it’s odd to meet someone in the flesh that you’ve only ever seen pictures of.
You can never account for their manner, voice, or vibe until they’re right in front of you.
I stare at this girl wondering, like I have many times through a screen, about all the experiences she’s had that I didn’t.
She knows our father. She knows what it’s like to be put to bed by him, to eat breakfast with him, to go on holiday with him.
She knows what music he likes, what jokes he finds funny, whether he’s a cat person or a dog person (or a guinea pig person). She knows what it’s like to have a dad.
I’m swept away by a wave of untamed jealousy and try to ride it out. What is she doing here in front of me? Why isn’t she still behind her screen?
When she doesn’t stop looking at her phone, I cough awkwardly. She puts it down in her own sweet time.
“Can I ask, I mean . . . not to be rude but . . . why are you here?” I ask lamely.
She reaches into her handbag and pulls out an envelope. My insides shrivel.
Leila clears her throat and unfolds the paper. “‘Dear Dad . . .’”
“What are you doing?” My face burns.
“Don’t contact me, etc., I’m sorry that you missed out on knowing me . . .”
I snatch the letter out of her hand. This is even worse than Tumblrgate. I’d perform all those songs about tying my dead, blackened heart to a brick and throwing it in a lake, on national television, if she would just stop reading. “This wasn’t addressed to you.”
“That is my address.” She points to the envelope.
“It’s not your name,” I retort.
“It’s kind of nice that we’re bickering already.” She nods. “I thought we’d have to wait at least a few years before we got to that stage.”
I genuinely can’t tell if she’s joking or not. Her face is placid.
“Why are you here? You’re not Dad.” I place my finger on his name again to make my point.
“You told Dad never to get in touch with you, bold and underlined. Even on his deathbed.”
I open my mouth. I close it again. She has me there. “I didn’t mean Dad should be here. I just meant . . . you shouldn’t be here either.”
“OK, well, what did you want to gain from sending this letter?” Leila cocks her head to one side. It doesn’t feel like she’s being confrontational; it seems like she just genuinely wants to know.
“For him to leave me alone,” I say.
“You haven’t spoken in, what, twenty years?” She shrugs. Again, she’s not saying it maliciously; she’s just stating a fact. But I can’t help feeling wounded.
“I want him to know that it’s off the table now. That it’s my decision too,” I explain. “I’m not abandoned anymore because . . . I’m abandoning him.”
There’s a moment where she seems to see me properly for the first time.
Her eyes scan my face, considering this perspective that seems like brand-new information to her.
Maybe it never occurred to her that I felt abandoned.
Maybe she thought I had no interest in our father.
Maybe she’s just never thought about it before, full stop. “Oh,” she says softly.
A lump rises in my throat. Leila sees the tears in my eyes and looks away awkwardly.
God, this is beyond mortifying. Here I am crying about the father who deserted me to the girl who grew up with that father.
Fathering her and such. He probably plastered her scabby knees and did up her shoelaces and boiled her eggs.
God. This can’t be happening. Whatever happened to small talk?
“I’m sorry,” Leila says to the wall. As if reading my mind she adds, “I should have started with small talk. My mum says I need to be less direct. She’s Dutch. I get it from her.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I’m still working very hard on trying not to cry and I’m glad she’s still looking at the wall. I make a mental note never to go to Holland.
“What do you do?” she asks. “For a living?”
“I’m in marketing at a recruitment company.” Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.
“Oh. Is that . . . interesting?” I can tell she’s trying hard to be polite. It doesn’t come naturally. She’s not at all how I expected her to be, from her Instagram or her red sparkly boots. I expected her to be . . . fluffier? She’s quite abrupt.
“I mean, it’s . . . There’s a lot of . .
.” I run through all the things I’d say to people when I started working at We Work, You Win.
There’s such fulfillment in helping people find jobs they love .
. . Satisfaction in growing the business and increasing inquiries from top companies .
. . Creativity in developing brand awareness .
. . I’m sure all those things are interesting to some people, but not me. “No,” I say finally.
Leila snorts.
“But I quit,” I add. “The other day.”
“Oh, that’s good. Well, what do you want to do next?”
“God, I don’t know.” Familiar panic starts flooding through me at the mere thought of trying to figure that out.
Flying somewhere far away in the face of my imminent death was easier.
Now I’m back in London everything is weighing on me again, piling up around me so I can’t move. Before I can elaborate she moves on.
“And you live at home?”
“Yep,” I say. “Well. I did. What about you?” I ask. “Are you at uni?”
“No,” she says. “I’m taking a gap year. Saving up to travel, working in a bar. I’m not sure I want to go to uni anyway.”
“Working in a bar, when I was just a bit older than you, was the best time of my life,” I say mournfully.
“What was so good about it?” Leila asks.
“Err . . .” I met Max. Everything was possible. I hadn’t failed yet. “I met lots of people.”
“Don’t you have three friends?” Leila finally turns back to me, clearly sensing the danger of me crying has passed.
“What is this, an interrogation?!” I yelp. “Jesus. Yes, I have three friends. And two of them I met at school. All right? Are you happy? I just liked the bar.”
“Sorry,” Leila says. There’s a silence while I recover. “I really need to work on my chitchat,” she adds thoughtfully.
“It might be an idea,” I say through gritted teeth.
At that moment Max’s bedroom door opens. He’s got his rucksack strapped to his back and his camera bag in his hand. He looks adorable. I wish he wasn’t leaving.
“Are you going?” I say.
“Obviously.” Leila nods at his bags. I’m beginning to find her irritating.
“Yeah.” Max is trying to edge toward the door as quickly as possible and avoid looking directly at Leila, after lying to her about not knowing me earlier. “Bed’s made. Food is in the fridge. Spare keys are in the bowl.”
“Such a good boyfriend,” Leila comments.
“Oh, err, we’re not . . . I mean, we’re just friends,” I correct her. I can feel a blush creeping up my neck. Leila stares at my reddening skin. Then she stares unabashedly between Max and me with obvious confusion. Can someone teach this girl to read the room?
Max doesn’t react. He’s probably too busy thinking about getting to St. Pancras to notice my face is on fire. “Nice to meet you, Leila.” He waves. “See ya, Becky.”
I get up and follow him into the hallway so we can have a moment to ourselves. He leans against the front door smirking. “And here we have living proof of nurture over nature,” he whispers. “I can already tell you’re polar opposites. You should be studied.”
I can’t help but smile. “She’s half-Dutch,” I explain.
“Right, well, enjoy.”
We lean in to hug. And then something happens.
Something that has not happened in five years.
Instead of putting his head to one side, like in a normal hug, he tucks my head directly under his chin.
When we were going out we always used to laugh that I was a whole head shorter than him and he’d hold me in that exact position, my face buried in his chest, before we’d kiss.
The smell of his aftershave, his warmth, his arms around me, my head under his.
I’m twenty-four again. We’ve stepped back in time to 2019.
I might be disappointed by the Game of Thrones finale, but my best friends and I still have time for each other and talk to each other about things other than kitchens and overflowing inboxes.
I don’t want to kill my mum. I love Max and he loves me.
I have prospects and life feels like it’s going to be easy.
Too quickly, present Max pulls away and coughs awkwardly.
“Bye, Becky,” he mumbles, without looking at me, and leaves. I stand with my arms still slightly raised, staring at the closed door.
And I know, like I always know with Max without him actually saying the words.
He read the letter.