Chapter 4
The bartender approaches as I climb onto the ripped stool in the dark Boston backstreet bar. The air is filled with the aroma of old beer and the sound of late eighties grunge rattling from the greasy red speakers on the wall.
“Sparkling water with lime and mint,” I tell him.
The guy three seats down shoots me a puzzled look, then returns to the painstaking task of stripping the label off his beer bottle.
There’s no way I’d risk drinking and driving at the best of times, least of all when I’ve borrowed Max’s customized Lexus. No point renting a car when Max keeps his vehicle collection in the row of garages he had built at Maggie and Jim’s house. For a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to lend me one, but then he said, “Okay. As long as it’s only the Lexus. And don’t forget, we drive on the right.”
Fair point. I almost never drive when I’m here for a visit. But I needed to get out. Constantly worrying I might bump into Hannah at the house is giving me the same stress level I’ve come here to escape. At least her habit of constantly singing or humming to herself means I generally spot her—and can avoid her—before she spots me. But it’s all a hassle I could do without. I’d move into a hotel if I wasn’t sure Maggie and Jim would be upset and offended.
So, I’ve turned to the two things that have always saved me in the past—music and work.
There are some local bands I’ve heard good things about on the grapevine, so I’ve come to the city to see them. The two at a different venue earlier in the evening were okay, nothing special. But the one due to play tonight in this dimly lit, half-empty hole-in-the-wall looked particularly promising in its online videos.
Wanting to get out of the house for as long as possible, I made the hour or so drive at lunch time and spent the afternoon on a little tour down memory lane. First, I parked up outside the house Walker and I grew up in, before our parents died and we moved in with Maggie and Jim.
It looked pretty much the same apart from being painted a different color and having a much tidier front yard.
I’d thought it might be upsetting to see it again, but it was heartwarming to know it’s being loved by a whole new family. I sat there long enough to see a woman leave with a smiling little girl all wrapped up in pink and purple winter gear, and a scruffy, waggy dog on the end of a leash.
But it was a reminder that my sense of belonging here is long gone.
And it made me wonder, even more than I already had been, about what Hannah’s life has been like. Who’s Dylan’s dad? Is he a nice guy? And what’s the story with her latest ex?
I don’t know how much Maggie knows, but she’s playing her cards close to her chest. All she would tell me is that they are not one and the same man. And that Hannah left the latest guy in a hurry. Hence, she was in a bit of a bind when she moved to Blythewell. My aunt said I should ask Hannah if I wanted more details.
In fact, “Ask Hannah,” or “You should talk to Hannah about that,” or “I bet Hannah would know” have been Maggie’s go-to phrases in the twenty-four hours since I realized we were under the same roof.
But as both Hannah and I are clearly doing our best to not cross paths, a cozy fireside chat seems unlikely.
After checking out my childhood home, I went to see whether some of my favorite music stores were still there. I’m not sure if it was an accident, or if I did it intentionally, but the route took me past my high school. The place where I fell in love with Hannah. And where I got into way more trouble than I should have. At the time, I thought there was something wrong with me. Walker and our cousins were all so studious and focused. And there was me running riot—the family freak.
But I know now I wasn’t a bad kid. I was just a kid who’d lost his parents and had no coping mechanisms.
Christ, I put Maggie and Jim through hell. From the weird haircuts and colors and the ear-piercings to the graffiti, to getting drunk on the brandy snuck from the liquor cabinet at a friend’s house and throwing up on the sofa. And the fights. Oh, the scrappy, scrappy fights.
They were so patient, but they finally cracked when I convinced Elliot, the youngest of their three sons, to play decoy while I stole three albums from a record shop and the police gave him a good talking-to. They couldn’t have me dragging their boys into my downward spiral. Something had to give.
I hated that they sent me to London to stay with Uncle Bob and Aunt Linda that summer. I hated being away from my friends and from Walker and the guys. And most of all, I hated leaving Hannah.
But they were right—moving there was exactly the reset I needed. So much of a reset that I stayed.
Bob and Linda had always yearned for kids but weren’t able to have them, and they’d wanted so badly to take Walker and me when our parents died. But they’d eventually agreed with Maggie and Jim that losing our parents and moving countries all in one go would be too much and it would be better for us to stay close to home.
So when I went to visit, my London relatives welcomed me with open arms and firm hands. Bob being a psychologist probably helped—he never once lost his temper. And when he saw me taking an interest in their neighbor kid’s guitar-playing, he encouraged it fully, bought me my own, and set up lessons.
That guitar was the first possession I cared deeply about. I was so upset the day their cat scratched it. I spent hours sanding out the mark and patching it with varnish. I’ve had more expensive guitars since, but it’s still my favorite.
I’ve even brought it to the US with me—it’s sitting in my room at Maggie and Jim’s house right now. I can’t remember when I last had time to play, and thought being here would be the perfect breathing space to get back on that horse.
My skill was never in the making of music, though, but in spotting the talent of those who make it better than I ever could.
And that’s what this evening is about.
I check my phone. 10:20 p.m. Divine Justice were due on at ten, but the small stage at the end of the room still isn’t set up and there’s zero sign of activity.
“What’s happened to the band?” I ask the bartender as he places my drink on a napkin in front of me. I nod toward the dark, empty stage.
“No music tonight,” he says.
“So why does your website say they’re on at ten?” I open the browser on my phone and flick to the window I’d left open.
“It doesn’t,” the bartender snips. “It says they were here last Thursday at ten.”
Shit. Sure enough, there’s the date. I’m a week late. My organizational skills strike again.
“Yeah, I see that now. Thanks.” I sigh, shake my head at myself, and zap my tastebuds with the cool, acidic, minty drink while the bartender returns to wiping down the back shelves.
Might as well just drive back home. At least Hannah will be tucked away in her own part of the house at this time of night.
I have one foot on the floor to head to the restroom when my phone pings. A text from Hugo, my best mate in London.
HUGO (10:22 PM)
Ruptured knee ligament in training. Career over. Press release tomorrow a.m. Wanted you to know first.
What the fuck?
Hugo is a footballer. To the core of his being. The game runs through his veins and his mind twenty-four hours a day. It’s in his DNA. It’s his life, his world, his reason for existing.
And he’s not just any old footballer. Hugo’s a midfielder for the team that’s won more Premier League titles, more FA cups, and more European trophies than any other English club in history. On the international stage, he’s saved England’s arse countless times, scoring from seemingly impossible free kick positions and in nail-biting penalty shoot-outs. His one-man run on goal even got them to the semifinals of the last World Cup.
He’s also the player most likely to be seen out on the town with a singer from whatever the latest girl band might be. But that’s hardly relevant to this devastating news that’s about to rock the football community around the globe.
It’s almost three-thirty in the morning in London. Man, he must be stressed to be up and about. Well, at least up. He’s not likely “about” much with a ruptured knee.
I hit call. He picks up on the first ring.
“What the fuck, man?” I ask before he’s had a chance to speak.
“Yup. It’s over.” He’s worryingly calm. Hugo usually takes being given one sugar instead of two worse than this, so he must still be in shock.
“What happened?” I’m devastated for him. “And when?”
He sighs. “In training yesterday. Thompson was showing off. Thought he’d take me down for a laugh.” He grunts. “Guess it wasn’t funny.”
“There must be something someone can do.” Why isn’t he more frantic? “I mean, you have the world’s best surgeons at your beck and call. Someone must be able to fix you.”
“Maybe if I was ten years younger. But in a thirty-four-year-old who’s been pushing his body to the limit for almost twenty years, it’s never going to heal well enough to play again.”
“But it was only yesterday. Surely worth getting some more opinions.”
He must feel like his life is over. Yet his voice is measured and accepting. “The top guy’s already seen the X-rays and the MRIs. The verdict is in.”
“Aren’t you angry? Frustrated? Sad?”
“Oh, yeah. Profanities have been yelled. Tears have been shed. And I’ll probably do a lot more of both for quite some time. Not much I can do, though. Just recover from it as well as I can and then take life from there.” There’s a sharp intake of breath and an oof. I presume he’s trying to move. “But before that, I have to do a fucking press conference in the morning.”
If there’s one thing Hugo hates, it’s the press.
“You’ll be fine. Just stay calm. Don’t lose your shit. And it’ll be over in a flash.”
The song coming out of the speakers changes, and a woman sitting at one of the few occupied tables gets up on unsteady legs and tugs at the arm of the man with her. “But it’s my favorite,” she begs. “Just one dance.”
The man snatches his arm away and stays firmly put.
“Thanks, mate.” Hugo chuckles, low and sardonic. “It was just an ordinary day. A regular training session. Then this shit fell out of the sky.”
“Talking of things that fell out of the sky…” This story should give him a laugh. “Not exactly in the same league as a career-ending knee injury, but turns out, I’m staying under the same roof as my high school girlfriend.”
The label-stripping guy three stools down looks at me out of the corner of his eye and winces.
“What the fuck?” Now that sounds more like the Hugo I know and love. If hearing about my woes cheers him up, I’m happy to go with it.
“And her son,” I add.
“What the fuck fuck?”
Label guy sucks in a sharp breath and shakes his head.
“Indeed,” I tell Hugo. “My aunt took her on as a live-in housekeeper and somehow strangely forgot to mention it before I got here.”
“Ooh,” Hugo says with the tone of a schoolyard tease. “Do I sense a possibility to rekindle the old flame? Something to cheer you up? Drag you out of your stress pit of misery?”
Ridiculous. “Number one. I’m only just fucking divorced and interested in no one. Number two. If you’d seen the look in her eye when I bumped into her, you’d realize that fire is well and truly extinguished. Like, with water, and foam, and sand, and whatever the hell else it is that puts out fires so well there’s zero danger of them reigniting.”
“What do you mean? She didn’t recognize you?”
“Oh, she recognized me all right.” I take a sip of my drink to cool the warmth rising in my chest at the memory. “And hated me.”
“Hate and love are so very close together, my friend.” I can almost see him pinching his thumb and forefinger together. “So very close.”
“I’m confident this isn’t hate verging on love. This is hate verging on more hate, with a large helping of animosity and a serving of resentment thrown in.”
“Okay, mate, well, keep me posted. I have to be up in four hours to get ready for this arsing presser.”
“I look forward to seeing it splashed all over everything when I get up tomorrow morning.”
Hugo blows out a hard breath that ripples his lips. “You never know when the next phase of your life is going to be thrust on you out of the blue, I guess.”
“Tell me about it.” Getting divorced and losing half of everything I owned was bad enough. But, unlike Hugo, at least I still have my business and career. “But if you’re going to start philosophizing, I’m definitely going. Good luck for tomorrow.”
The woman’s given up on trying to get the guy to dance with her, and they’re both now sitting there in silence.
“Thanks,” Hugo says. “Night.”
Christ, these last few months have been a total wanker.
On top of my marriage imploding, holiday work stress, and discovering the one place I was guaranteed to find peace is filled with an ex with a grievance from hell, I’ve missed the band I most wanted to see because I’m an organizational ignoramus, and my best bud’s life’s work is over.
Is it a full moon, or new moon, or half moon, or whatever type of shit moon it is that brings bad luck?
Or has my luck just run out? It’s like I’m being punished for life being too good by everything going wrong at once.
And why don’t I, the man who managed to get his shit together enough to build a billion-dollar music empire from scratch, have a fucking clue how to fix any of it?
I down the rest of my drink and grab my car keys.
But even the sharp, chill liquid can’t calm the quiver of dread in my belly at the thought of returning to The Place Where Hannah Now Lives.
Dread that feels shockingly similar to excitement.
But it’s definitely dread.
It had better be dread.