SEBASTIAN
SEBASTIAN
“Nephew!”
Judy’s shout startles my feet to a jarring halt. Out of my truck and several long strides away from its thrown-wide door, caught midway across the grassy divide between carpark and road, I snap around. And from the look on her face as she hastens down the hospital steps toward me, it would seem she’s witnessed entirely too much of this scene.
"Hey, Aunt!" I take an extra beat to rally myself. Flashing a quick smile, I cross back through the rows of cars and swerve the Ranger's rear end to open the passenger side door ahead of her. "Just needed to stretch my legs a little."
But my jaw remains tense, my gaze sweeping defiantly back over the hospital’s boundary to the bus shelter beyond. I’m too slow in blinking from the hateful porter-prick standing there alone.
And my aunt isn’t a mug, her treacle stare missing nothing. She holds her tongue as she joins me, climbing into the cab, waiting until I’ve circled to my own side and slid in behind the wheel. “That man wasn’t here for work this afternoon, Sebastian. He’s currently on compassionate leave.”
It’s a close catch, clamping down on my immediate urge to blurt the very permanent leave from compassion that that man is most assuredly on. Instead, I clip in my seatbelt and start the thunderous engine.
Judy's car is in the garage for its MOT today. She'd asked me at breakfast if I could collect her from work, and after an hour in Clark's company, I'd been beyond glad of the excuse to escape. I ended up bailing on him while he was taking two bags of kitchen refuse to the black bin outside. Far too easily, I convinced myself that Mum might very well be staying away on purpose. I should definitely have waited a little longer for her, I realised the instant I’d turned out of the street.
My impatience got me here a full forty minutes too early. I’ve spent those forty minutes sitting in my truck without a single damn thing to occupy my mind against the whole shitstorm of things threatening to torment it. I honestly can’t recall much more than my desperate need for some sense of release, launching into action at the opportune sighting of porter-prick in my wing mirror.
A double-decker has pulled up to the bus shelter, blocking him from view as I turn out of the hospital onto the busy main road. “So, what?” My eyes finally flick to Judy. “We’re supposed to pity him now, are we?”
“No,” she sighs, still watching me. “No, Isaac’s misfortune doesn’t in any way justify his contemptible attitude. But, dear Nephew,” her hand pats mine on the gearstick. "If you'd succeeded in your effort to teach him a hard lesson, then learned that he's been visiting his daughter in the ICU. How would you be feeling about yourself in this moment?"
I’m prompt in returning my attention to the road. “Oh.”
“Exactly.”
I don’t believe I would have hit the man, wanting only for him to know who I am and what I think of him. My aunt has made her point well, though. Because, of course, damnit, she always does, and given the motivation of my chase, it feels a whole lot like a sucker punch to the gut, acknowledging even the slightest chance that he could well have been the straw to snap my brittle temper.
“You’re a born caretaker,” Judy continues. “You can’t help yourself from seeing a problem and wanting to fix it, I understand this, and it’s one of the very many reasons I love you. But, heaven knows, boy, it’s also one of the main reasons I worry so much.”
“You realise the exact same could be said about you, right, Aunt?”
I can feel her soft smile warm on the side of my face. “I’m a grown woman, Sebastian. I can handle pin-brained weasels such as him. You already have plenty on your own plate, a plate you refuse to share. So, please stop taking from mine, okay?”
She waits for my nod before releasing me from her stare. Then, nothing more is said after that.
It’s a welcome respite, if not an especially soothing one. For me, at least. We’d usually chat about our day, sharing stories, and although I appreciate the pass on this occasion, I don’t quite know what to make of it. Nor do I trust I’m off the hook, even as she relaxes further into her seat.
The scenery soon becomes familiar with the ever-nearing comfort of home, and I keep darting sidelong glances while my aunt lets her eyes drift shut. I could almost believe she’s fallen asleep until traffic slows our approach to the roundabout; one exit leading into Yoverton town and the other heading North through the countryside. Closing in at a five-mph crawl, my finger is eagerly poised to flick the indicator toward the latter when her voice jars me again, and my misgivings are immediately confirmed.
“Left, please, Nephew.”
“What?”
“We’re going to Citreena’s.”
“Why?”
“To meet Ashleigh for dinner. My payday treat. A little bit of self-care that we’re all long overdue.”
A groan escapes my throat, marked only by the keen arch of her brow. But more fool me, really, for believing she might be oblivious to my hard-fought avoidance of the third-degree she’s now steering me directly into. “Perfect,” I attempt to cover. “Such a pleasant surprise.”
“Glad you agree,” Judy dismisses my tone.
And ten minutes later, instead of my planned escape to the woods with Dobby, I’m resignedly trailing her through the Bistro’s entrance for a family meal we both know I won’t survive unscathed.
It’s an inevitable raking over coals that I’ve already dodged twice yesterday and again at breakfast, and the door has scarcely closed at my back when Ashleigh calls me to account. “Finally!” At this hour on a Monday afternoon, the place is buzzing with her YCS peers, the scent of coffee thick on the air. “I was about to put a bounty on your head.” She’s snagged a small table by the window, which she’s not occupying alone, and my feet immediately glue themselves to the floor.
"Hey, Team Shay!" Steph beams brightly from the chair beside her.
Opposite the pair, Lyndsay’s fair head turns to send a smile our way. “We’re not stopping, don’t worry.”
"Good to see you too, Ash,” I respond dryly as my aunt leaves me behind. “How was school?"
“Don’t give me that, Bas. Where have you been?”
“I can’t be expected to get somewhere on time if I wasn’t made aware I’m even meant to be there.”
“Right, except I can’t make you aware of anything if you’re nowhere to be found!”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been furtive.”
“Because I need to broadcast my every move?"
“You’re such a—”
“That’s quite enough,” Judy cuts in, and there’s an indecipherable mumble of protest, cheeks puffing, as Ashleigh’s lips are pinched shut between my aunt’s finger and thumb. “Kids, please.” She lets go, meeting my smirk with a chiding frown. “Don’t make me regret bringing you out in public.”
“Bellend,” Ashleigh finishes on a stubborn huff.
Our arrival should rightfully be the signal for her friends to excuse themselves, and I notice that Lyndsay at least has the decency to look a little awkward about not taking it. Steph, however, doesn’t appear the remotest bit inclined to vacate her place at the table, manners be damned, as she holds up her hand for a high-five. “Take a pew, Momma Bear. Brighten the mood like only you can.”
“Anything for you, honeybee,” my aunt indulges her, fist to palm, before claiming the empty seat next to Lyndsay and beckoning me with a glance that I ignore.
A sweep of the room to a half-hidden brown door beyond the counter finally motivates my shift from the entryway. And when Ashleigh calls out a caution to not even dare think about disappearing, I ignore her, too. But it seems I’ve underestimated this setup. Within two strides of reaching the restroom door, my elbow is hooked, the firm clasp pulling me back a step.
“Have you spoken to your boy?” Derek doesn’t miss a beat. Because, of course, he's also here, readily cued to launch an ambush from the seating nook beside the counter. And, resisting my tug against him, it could almost be funny, his utter disregard for every word I said to him the other night.
Except, it really isn’t at all. “Not my boy, Derek, and still not your concern. Let go, please.”
“So, the two of you haven’t talked since—?”
“Let. Go.”
“Seriously, Davis, I’m not interfering for the hell of it here, trust me. If you could quit pretending like you don’t care for just a minute, just to hear me out, that’s all I’m asking, okay?”
I blink at him, and his grip relaxes enough that I can jerk my arm free. Yet, against my better judgement, I hesitate as he flicks a pointed glance across the Bistro to our table. My gaze unwittingly follows, caught by Ashleigh’s sharp stare, and I’m too late to act on the advantage.
Judy’s watch of me is less blatant, her attention half turned toward Lyndsay. But I can sense her counsel for my restraint when Derek makes a disquieting start.
“We think Lawton’s in some kind of trouble,” he says. “Involving our mutually despised foe. You asked me to count you in, so I am. And also, because my sweet lil cuz has wrongfully taken it to heart that she’s somehow responsible for the Grand Turdwaffle’s vengeance, this is actually very much my concern.”
Another blink does nothing to shut him up. A prickling rush of dread opposes his words. Even so, I dumbly remain rooted while he continues.
“Alex picked up a voicemail about two hours ago. He ditched us as soon as he listened to it. All we heard him say is ‘Gary fucking Tinwell’ before storming off, and we haven’t heard anything from him since. But—”
“Three mochas and three cookies.” The timely arrival of a take-out order on the countertop’s edge distracts Derek from whatever my face is betraying.
Both his stare and his hold releasing me, I remember to breathe as he turns an easy grin on the familiar young server who hovers too close for comfort. “Cheers, Alston.”
One more blink marks the end of my patience, cutting our eavesdropper the barest sidelong glance. “Nope. Count me out now. Thanks.”
Mikey winces, quick to look elsewhere. Derek freezes mid-reach for the tray. Then I’m at the restroom door and shoving through it.
If anything was ever fair, I’d slam the rewind button on the whole accursed weekend.
However, in the unfair actuality, Craig and I cannot reset the friendship we’d sown, and my every misguided attempt to be there for him cannot be undone. For all that I thought Ashleigh’s inquest into Saturday’s wreckage would be my biggest concern, Derek’s news feels immeasurably worse, those goading remarks I fired at Gary fucking Tinwell in the heat of the moment now backfiring distinct culpability through my veins.
Citreena's toilets smell like fresh pine, the two stalls are graffiti-free, and by the grace of small mercies, the colourful tirade I unleash at the mirrored wall offends nobody's ears but mine.