So Now You're Back (22 page)

He was feeling threatened. He was hitting back. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Especially as it was exactly the reaction she'd wanted. Less hostility would be nice, but it was still better than polite and distant.

‘I know I don't,' she said, watching him carefully for any reaction. ‘But maybe I'd like to?' She placed her spoon into the bowl, wiped her sticky fingers on the tea towel she'd tucked into her sweatpants. ‘I enjoyed myself on Sunday at the Serps. I had a good time with you and Aldo. It made me realise I've been pretty shitty to you since you came to work for my mum. And I'd like to turn that around.' She didn't plan to ask him to be her friend, because apart from being totally lame, it would also be pretty transparent. The urge to flirt with him was too enormous. And she'd never been very good at flirting. So she needed to build up to it slowly, organically, if she didn't want to die of mortification in the
process. ‘I'm curious about the tattoo because I'm curious about you,' she said, hoping he'd give her points for honesty.

He continued to fill the cupcake casings, but his jaw lost the hard line.

She worked next to him, the silence comforting in its simplicity.

‘I got a tattoo because my mum hated them.'

She hadn't really expected an answer. Especially not one that made her feel that rare burst of kinship. ‘You did it to annoy your mum? That's hilarious. That's exactly why I got mine.'

‘It's not quite the same. I didn't get it to annoy her. I got it to make her feel better.'

‘I don't get it,' she said, the bubble of excitement bursting to be replaced by something richer and more compelling than curiosity.

‘She was ill,' he murmured, the words flat. ‘We both knew it was terminal. I had to care for her. And she felt bad that I couldn't be a normal teenager. So I got a tattoo, to show her I was.'

His eyes met hers, the fathomless brown opaque and unreadable. She supposed the correct thing to do now would be to say sorry. But the word hung in the air, feeling inadequate and dismissive.

She touched his arm, felt the pull of the muscles as they bunched beneath her fingers. ‘When did your mother die?' Sympathy wasn't hard to find now, the thought horrifying her.

What would she do if anything ever happened to her own mum? It felt so remote, so unlikely, not something she'd ever considered before, but, now she did, she knew the first thing she'd feel—other than loss—was guilt. At all the things she
had said and done over the past few years to annoy or upset her. Deliberately.

She hadn't even said goodbye to her mum properly before she'd left to go on her book tour. And every time her mum had phoned since, she'd been really stroppy with her.

But what if that was the last time she ever got to speak to her? Or the last time she ever got to see her again?

She couldn't even remember now why she had been so mad with her.

Trey could see shock and horror in Lizzie's face; what he couldn't see was pity.

He should correct her. And tell her the truth. His mum wasn't dead. She was just sick. Much sicker than she had been four years ago when he'd got that dopey tattoo.

The nurse at the hospice had told him yesterday they didn't think she had much longer. He didn't think so, either. As he held her hand, the papery skin so thin it was translucent, her breathing had sounded tortured, each new breath a titanic struggle to defeat the inevitable.

The nurse had told him the last of the senses to go was hearing, so all he could do now was read her the girly novels she loved. He'd been embarrassed to read them when her sight had first started to go, especially all the sexy bits. He wasn't embarrassed by them any more. The stories took him to foreign lands in times past, with lots of action and adventure and all the sexy bits in between, in the company of characters who were young and fit and able-bodied and didn't need a catheter or a drip. Transporting him out of the sunny cubicle, where the scent of bleach and bodily fluids could always be detected beneath the masking scent of air freshener; away from the sound of rasping breaths and the sight of the thin
grey hair spread out on the pillow, which belonged to a frail husk of a human being who looked nothing like his mum.

Maybe he could have shared all that with Lizzie, the reality of his life outside his job. And the truth about his mum.

She's had multiple sclerosis since I was thirteen. But she's not dead. Not yet.

But he didn't want to tell Lizzie the truth. Because the reality had isolated him so often as a kid. When he was his mum's primary carer. The truth had made him weird, a freak, and different from everyone he knew.

His responsibilities as her carer had never bothered him—cleaning her teeth, washing her hair, helping her with the bedpan, feeding her when she got too weak to eat. It had all just been a growing part of his daily routine. But as the responsibilities grew, other people became aware of them, and that was what had made him uncomfortable: the social workers who were forever encouraging him to join some stupid club; the kids at school who thought he was a loser because he could never hang out after class; the teachers who didn't give him a detention when he didn't do his homework, even though they gave everyone else one.

He didn't want Lizzie to look at him like that, as if he were different, or, worse, pitiful. He wasn't sure she would, because she had always seemed pretty direct—not to mention self-absorbed—but he wasn't going to chance it. Better to take the easy route and tell Lizzie half the truth.

‘She died a few years ago.'

‘That sucks.'

He smiled at the pithy comment. The honest anger on his behalf so much better than the apology he usually got.

Why did people even say sorry to you when someone died, or got so sick they might as well be dead? Did they think it was their fault? And what was he supposed to say
back? ‘Don't worry, it's OK' or ‘It's not that bad', as if you were comforting them? Or just ‘Thanks'? As if them saying sorry was actually going to help.

‘Yeah, it does suck,' he replied.

‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?' she asked, slipping the tray of cupcakes into the oven.

‘No, it was just me and my mum.'

She threw the oven mitt down. ‘That's even suckier, then.'

‘I suppose. Although I would have expected you to figure I was better off,' he pointed out. ‘Seeing what a hard time you give Aldo.'

Her face flushed a dull red.

He liked that she had no make-up on. She usually wore a lot of gunk around her eyes. She looked better without it. Not that he usually had an opinion on what women wore on their faces. He liked lipstick as much as the next guy. But without the gunk she seemed less remote, more real. And he could see her eyes more, that cornflower blue bold and expressive—as if he were getting a precious glimpse of the real Lizzie behind the hipster mask.

Emotion flittered across her face, easy to read. First embarrassment, then guilt, then the hint of defensiveness. He found all three captivating in their own way. Especially when she held back the snarky comment she probably wanted to say and smiled instead.

Lizzie had a very cute smile when it wasn't ironic.

‘Sorry, but those who don't have annoying little brothers,' she said lightly, ‘don't get to pass judgement on those who do.'

He chuckled. All the melancholy thoughts of his mother, and the upcoming duty visit to the hospice, neatly dispelled.

‘What about those who always wanted a little brother,' he countered, ‘and think those who have one ought to appreciate them more?'

‘Excuse me, but wanting one and having one are two very different conditions.' She propped one hand on her hip and placed the other on the countertop, her stance combative, and flirtatious. Sweat had gathered in her cleavage, making the skin glisten, spotlighting the small, firm breasts beneath her jogging bra. He dragged his gaze back to her face, with an effort.

‘But I give you major points for wanting a little brother like Aldo,' she said. ‘After seeing his dark side.'

‘His dark side's not so bad. Yours, on the other hand …'

He let the playful insinuation hang in the air. Knowing he shouldn't flirt back with her. He'd been avoiding her all week for this very reason. Flirtation wasn't cool. She was eighteen and fragile beneath all the bravado and bitchiness, according to her mum. And he was twenty-one and in her mum's employ. He'd been careful to keep his distance from day one in this job, but after what had happened at the Serps, he'd been extra careful, realising that friendly Lizzie could be a lot more dangerous than arsey Lizzie.

But today, after all the stress of what was going on with his mum, the chance to think about something else and enjoy some, OK, mild flirting didn't seem like such a major crime. And while Lizzie's mum thought she was fragile, she didn't seem particularly fragile to him. She certainly wasn't naive, or romantic. If her arsehole boyfriend had taught her one thing, it was to be smart around guys, and not get too invested. And it was a lesson she'd obviously learned with interest if the ballsy way she'd handled that prick in the park was anything to go by.

Luckily, he'd learned the exact same thing when he was seventeen and lost his virginity with one of the neighbours. Jenny had been a nice lady, divorced with a young kid and lonely. And the sex had been amazing, at least for him.
He wasn't so sure it had been that great for her in retrospect, because he'd had the staying power of a tsetse fly and couldn't locate a clitoris without a lot of fumbling. But she'd been sweet enough not to complain.

His mum had totally freaked when she'd found out, so Jenny had moved away. And he'd been crushed. The loneliness enveloping him. He figured out eventually that he hadn't been in love with Jenny. He'd just needed the chance to escape every Saturday afternoon while her little boy was with his dad. But it had taken him months to get over the misery whenever he'd walked into the house and saw the new people living next door. If there was one thing a kid whose mum had primary progressive MS should have known, it was that nothing stayed the same, and you couldn't rely on anyone.

But for a while he'd relied on Jenny. And he shouldn't have.

Ever since, he'd steered clear of romantic relationships. He already had enough shit to deal with, without asking for more. Once his mum was gone, he'd think about dating, but until then, he didn't need the hassle.

So there was no way he would ever go too far with Lizzie. Which meant it was daft to get paranoid about enjoying her company. Or some extracurricular flirting. If it made them both feel good, and he was well aware of the limitations, where was the harm?

‘How can you possibly judge how dark my dark side is,' she replied, her breasts doing that perky thing again as she leaned into his personal space, ‘when you've never had an older sister? I can tell you categorically it's perfectly normal to bitch at your little brother. Even my therapist said so.' The colour in her cheeks bloomed like a mushroom cloud. She opened the oven door.

He found it endearing that she was embarrassed about the therapy. He knew that feeling, too. ‘Therapists are mostly all talk, though, right?'

She pressed her finger into a cupcake to test it. Then slammed the door, shooting him an uncertain look. ‘You've had a therapist, too?'

‘I've had several, when my mum was sick. They weren't all bad, but it seemed to me just talking about stuff wasn't going to make my mum better. So what exactly were they being paid for?'

She propped her bottom on the counter, the smile that flitted over her features instant and genuine. ‘Same.'

His pulse gave a funny lurch. Not a big deal.

‘Aldo isn't any different from other boys his age,' he continued, the blip of panic unsettling enough for him to divert the conversation onto safer ground. Aldo was his area of expertise, after all.

‘Except that he doesn't have a dad,' Lizzie pointed out. ‘He doesn't even know who his dad is.'

‘So what? Neither did I. It didn't do me any harm,' he said easily enough to make himself almost believe it. Until he saw curiosity sharpening her gaze and realised the conversation was right back where he didn't want it again. On him.

Lizzie knew a lot of people who didn't have dads, not just Aldo. She also knew people who had dads who were dick-heads. But still she felt bad for Trey. Which was silly really. Even if Trey had needed a dad once, as she often thought Aldo needed one now, he didn't need one any more. He was strong and competent and confident. Except …

‘Why didn't you want to hug Aldo, at the Serps?' She'd been wanting to quiz him about that for days. ‘It was so
obvious that's what he needed, and he wanted it from you, not me.'

He looked taken aback by the non sequitur, but then he straightened away from the counter and she knew this wasn't just surprise at the sudden change of topic. Because he looked a lot less relaxed.

‘I can't hug him. I shouldn't even touch him really. It's a child protection thing.'

It was her turn to be surprised. ‘You mean you've
never
given him a hug?'

‘It would be crossing a line I'm not allowed to cross.'

Bullshit
was her first thought. And her second. ‘Who said you're not allowed to give him a hug? I can't believe my mum told you that.' Her mum thought Trey was God's gift to childcare, and from what she'd observed while he was looking after Aldo—when she wasn't allowing her judgement to be coloured by jealousy—her mum had got that right. ‘You're important in Aldo's life, you must know that.'

His jaw went rigid, and she saw the glint of annoyance, so unlike him. ‘I'm not his dad, or his big brother. I'm a paid employee.'

He had to know he was more than that. Especially to Aldo. But then she remembered a line from her GCSE English, something about protesting too much. Was it Shakespeare? She couldn't be sure because she'd barely scraped a D in English Literature. But even so, it applied. Trey was definitely protesting too much. The question was why? Then she thought of him standing beside her at the park, that blank look on his face, his fingers curled into a fist, and she had her answer.