CRAIG
CRAIG
“Where’s his head at?”
Ashleigh doesn’t reply until she’s guided me far enough along the hallway from the unclosed door to avoid being overheard. “Honestly, Craig,” she says in a low voice, “this time, your guess is as good as mine.”
I returned Ashleigh home to the farmhouse after Sebastian bailed on her at the pub to find him in the lounge. And in no sense of the word does he look okay. Sitting forward on the sofa, elbows propped on his knees and head bowed, he’s staring at the bottle of bourbon rolling between his hands as though it is exclusively responsible for reducing the world around him to dust.
Pulling in at the foot of the mini stairway, Ashleigh drops herself down on the top step. “He’s not about to crack the bottle open, that much I can tell you.” She pats the narrow space beside her. “He’ll hold it — glare daggers at it for a while. Then he’ll likely disappear out with Dobby, walking the poor dog’s little legs off.”
I remain standing, turning back toward the room we’ve just peeked into and retreated from. “This a regular occurrence?”
“It’s kind of a weird ritual thing, I guess. Centres him or whatever when he feels like he’s messed up. Mostly, he does it after seeing his mum.”
“Will he talk to me, do you think?”
Her head shakes as she leans sideways, resting her temple against the wall. A small smile crooks her lips. “I won’t stop you trying.”
That’s good enough for me.
Sebastian’s exit had been mighty abrupt. A sharp twist and a yank broke his wrist free of my cuff, and his back turned on all of us. “This was exactly what I needed, Ash. Thanks,” he said, and he was out the door a couple of seconds later. Ashleigh followed, and I was barely a beat behind, but he hadn’t hung around to explain himself.
And Goddamnit , I’m owed at least something of an explanation.
“Tread careful,” Ashleigh whisper-calls after me as I start back along the hall.
“Hey, Bas.” I’m not quiet when I push through the door into the lounge and close it properly behind me, yet even at the sound of my voice, he doesn’t raise his head.
Dobby does, though, and it’s the first I notice his company. Burrowed in snug between Sebastian’s leg and the sofa arm, the dog turns a doleful look on me that suggests he, too, is feeling confused and concerned.
Hesitating just inside the room, I glance over the now-familiar chaos and wait for some sort of acknowledgement. It doesn’t come. The seconds tick by, endless and awkward, and I eventually make a move across to the armchair. I shove a pile of bright scarves to the back of the cushion and perch down on its edge. “So, um —”
“Save it,” Sebastian cautions, startling me half to death. The break in his silence jolts Dobby immediately upright, ears pricked and tail thudding off the sofa arm. He remains fixated on his bourbon. “I’ve no interest in anything you have to say.”
I huff out a breath. “When were you ever?”
“And still, you don’t take the hint.”
“You almost hit my brother, Bas.”
“I know. I was there. You’re mad. I get it. Want to remind me you’re not my problem? Pointless, seems I’m too dumb to learn.”
“What?”
“Can you please just leave me alone?”
Frowning, I lean forward and mirror his pose, ducking my head to better see his face. Because, no, like hell is he fobbing me off that easy. “I’m not mad,” I say, and it occurs to me as I hear myself that perhaps I should be. “You overstepped, absolutely, and, I mean, the jury’s still out on whether Alex deserves a smack.” Or a massive apology ; I guess I’ll find that out when I go home. “But it’s not as if you actually pulled it off, anyway, is it?”
“Gosh, feeling so much better, thanks.”
“Making you feel better is hardly my concern.”
He sighs like I’m the one being deliberately difficult. “I’ve had a pretty lousy day, okay? Ash talked me into that stupid gig, and then Derek behaved like, well, Derek .” His hands still, and the roll of the bottle does, too, his fingers lacing to cradle it. Hitching a shoulder, he trails off. “It wasn’t…”
“It was never really even about me,” I finish for him, knowing that is what he meant to say.
Those words make his head jerk up, and his gaze lifts unerringly to my face. “Much as you might believe the stars shine for you alone,” he scoffs. “What is it you want from me here, Craig?”
I stare him down, all of a sudden feeling at a loss. His question is blunt enough to be insulting on so many levels that I’m no longer sure there’s anything to be gained from answering. A shitty day and a mental snap, it’s likely as much of an explanation as I’ll get, and that’s all I came for.
Except, my mind keeps hooking back on one thing he’s said, that he’s ‘too dumb to learn’ I’m not his problem. Such an odd thing for him to throw at me; it’s as unsettling as it is senseless. Evermore so for being true. Sebastian has turned against his better judgment time and time again, no matter how ungrateful I’ve been. “Just to understand,” is the best I can think to say.
A frown cuts into his brow, but otherwise, his expression remains flat. He barely even blinks. Dobby resettles beside him, head resting on his thigh. After roughly seventy thousand years, I give up all expectations of a response and stand.
When I start across the room, something indistinct flickers and dies in his eyes as he realises it’s not the door I’m moving toward.
I stop in front of him and take the bourbon from his hands. He doesn’t resist. Then I take the free seat on the sofa next to him. He stays perfectly still.
While he looks straight ahead at the tranquil oil painting on the far wall, my attention drops to the bottle’s black-on-copper label. “Tones of oak, maple, and nutmeg,” I read aloud, “and a subtle toffee finish. Nice.”
“It’s my stepdad’s,” Sebastian finally rediscovers his tongue, his low voice yet again jarring me. “I took it from him when I left home.”
“You took it, or you stole it?”
I see him shrug. “A self-awarded parting gift.”
“And is there something especially special you’re saving it for, or…?”
He snorts. “No, but Clark was.”
“The two of you don’t get on, huh?” It’s not an intelligent question. I acknowledge that the instant it’s out my mouth. I’m perhaps a touch overly keen to keep this conversation going, even if I can expect nothing but for him to snap or snark at me in reply.
Instead, however, he first turns his face toward me and then fractionally angles his body around. I get the sense of an extreme internal conflict going on in the strained pause before he talks. “I was seven when Mum first met Clark, and for a kid who’d never had a dad, he was the greatest present I’d ever been given. He seemed to really step up to the role, too. We took day trips, went camping, played games, and it was always an absolute blast. No idea was ever too crazy for him.”
I force my mouth tight shut as he takes a breath.
“I invited a friend — Thomas — to a sleepover for my ninth birthday, the first time Mum had ever allowed it, thanks to Clark. And I just knew it would be the most incredible night because Mum was staying out, leaving him in charge of our fun. Except, Thomas didn’t take well to the splash of vodka in his juice. I was used to it. Clark was always up for sharing the odd drink with me; it was our little secret. But we spent most of that birthday at the hospital while my best friend had his stomach pumped, and little Tommy wasn’t allowed to ever again play with me after.
“When I was ten,” he continues, leaving no pause for me to absorb his words. “Clark surprised Mum with a weekend away. A romantic break. Only, he somehow managed to forget to let me in on it. I got home from school on the Friday to find our house locked up. No note, nothing, and Mum thought I was too young to need my own phone. I spent that weekend in the garden shed, living off our bird feeder, drinking from the outside tap.
“Uncle Kye was furious when he found me, and Mum was distraught. She finished it with Clark the minute they got back, but it took me just two days to convince her he was worth another shot. Clark was my dad, after all, right? And he’d promised me a new bike and swimming lessons.”
His knee is now pressed against my thigh. My brain’s telling me to move away. I do not move anywhere. An overwhelming punch of anxiety explodes in my chest.
“By the time I turned thirteen, the shine had worn off him. At least, it had for me. I remember being called downstairs to witness him popping the big question. It was the middle of a random afternoon in our front room, and they were both plastered. And I tried to be happy for them. I really did. Because Mum seemed so happy, and that was the most important thing.
“But then, I also remember the night before their wedding, the small celebratory get-together Clark organised. When he made so merry that Mum had to practically carry him up the stairs to bed come ten o’clock. He pushed her off him halfway up, and I caught her as she fell. My arm was fractured in three places. Her ankle was sprained. Still, even after a five-hour hospital visit, their wedding went ahead as planned.
“Uncle Kye was diagnosed about a month later, and that was my tipping point. I had to get out; I had to move here. Hardest thing I’ve ever done, leaving Mum behind. And Clark’s reaction — fancy a guess?” I’m given no chance to respond. “He raised a toast, of course. Praised me on the bright future I was stepping out into, patting his own back for the decent young man I’d matured to be. My uncle was dying, my mum was broken, and that was my send-off.”
“Bas,” I edge into the grim hush that shadows his tale. My voice is little more than a whisper, but I see him flinch at the sound of it. “You don’t —”
“So, no,” he recovers himself. “In answer to your question, no. I excused him for so long, and now, thinking about all the crap he got away with sickens me. It’s a mistake I’m determined to never make again. But Mum, she still can’t see it. Even losing me wasn’t enough. Uncle Kye tried so hard with her, he did his best for her, and because of his interference in her private business, she wouldn’t come to his funeral.”
“Bastian, I’m so—”
“Don’t. Don’t say it, Craig,” He warns softly. “About your only redeeming quality is that you don’t make me suffer that damn word.”
Biting back a whole host of other words he is unlikely to be any more grateful for, blood pounds between my temples. “You cannot be comparing me to your stepdad.”
His hand reaches for the bottle, his thumb overlapping my pinky on its neck. He doesn’t immediately relieve me of it. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. I can’t define it, and I shut my eyes, but I know I don’t like it. Warmth — too much warmth — has me acutely aware of his continuing watch.
“I need a sense of control,” the hot brush of breath on my lips snaps my eyes wide open, my heartbeat skitter-scattering. His face is within an inch of mine, so close I can see the soft trail of freckles across his nose. His head is tilted the barest touch to one side, and his mouth twists viciously. “I like to know where I stand with people.”
Something like trepidation stirs darkly in my gut. “What the…?”
“And places. And things,” he adds, as though my reaction hasn’t registered. “You want to understand? Well, here it is. I don’t do well with the unexpected or the unpredictable. Those have never been good to me. And you, Craig, you’re nothing if not unpredictable. You can’t even figure yourself out, can you?”
My denial snags on an unwieldy obstruction in my throat. I snatch my hand back, leaving him with the bourbon, and bolt to my feet.
Sebastian follows me up, invading my personal space to the point I’m nearly toppled back onto the sofa. “Here,” he says, shoving the bottle at my chest as he sidesteps past me. Taking it back from him is instinctive. “Knock yourself out.”
A click of his tongue calls Dobby eagerly to heel. I don’t track him out, too stunned to turn, and when he yanks the door open to the unmistakable sound of Ashleigh scurrying away, I collapse backwards in an infuriated slump.