Chapter Seventeen
Jiggling on the entrance porch to his old house in Kensington, Seb shoved his hands deep in his pockets and tried to control his racing heartbeat. This was where he’d been brought up. Among the elite, among those Made in Chelsea, and among those who wouldn’t know what a breadline was if they stumbled on it. These mansions sat away from the road, separated from the other oversized city properties owned by the wealthiest in London, on one of the most expensive areas in the UK. Most of the terrace town houses were no bigger than his and Jay’s detached five-bed in Greenwich, but the social climbers would pay through the nose to live in SW10. Seb? He’d given it up and would have lived on Jay’s old council estate in one of the poorest postcodes in London if that had been the only choice a year ago.
There had been some ‘new money’ injected into the area—those who had probably made their millions from e-commerce projects, whirlwind celebrity stints, or got lucky on the stock markets. But mostly it was still the same old circle of elite families handing their wealth down from generation to generation that Seb had grown up with. And grown up he had. From the age of nine, when his mother had walked out, he’d morphed from a happy, privileged child to an abandoned youth and into an insolent teen.
The place seemed larger than he remembered, more foreboding. Perhaps it was the lack of any illumination, except for the outside security spot lights, or no movement from within to welcome him home. Not that it ever really had, but a year living with Jay and Seb had been used to someone being there for his return, to smile at him when he walked in the door, or reprimand him for being later than he’d said. The mainly gravel sweeping driveway was vacant of any cars too, and the side-by-side garages were locked and sealed with pristine padlocks, including the one that had used to be his band’s rehearsal space.
He peered in through the left bay window and breathed a sigh of relief that the sparkling white grand piano was still perched in its place of worship. His father was either planning to sell it along with the house or hadn’t yet found someone to take it away. Seb had a sudden urge to save the piano that his fingers had ridden the ebony and ivory on for the best part of eighteen years. Maybe I could just wheel it out the door? Untucking a hand from his pocket, he tried the handle. Locked. He’d expected as much. And considering it needed several sets of keys to open it, and Seb had discarded them all some time ago, he only had one option.
With a deep breath, he pressed his finger on the doorbell and the grand ding-dong echoed through the chunky wood. Shoving his hands back in his jeans, he did a quick sweep of the surroundings. No For Sale sign, so his father really was attempting a private sale. Trust him. If his father’s business contacts were anything to go by, this house would be bulldozed to the ground to make way for a leisure complex by the New Year. Muttering obscenities under his breath, he stood to attention when the scuffling from behind the front door surprised him.
“Sebastian!” Yulia threw her hands to her mouth. “Oh, my goodness!” Waving frantically, she ushered him in for a bear hug. “I have missed you too much!”
It took a moment, but Seb soon wrapped his arms around his old housekeeper’s slender waist, nuzzled his nose into her neck and the familiar floral, powdery perfume sent him on a nostalgic rollercoaster of emotions. This wasn’t his mother, although she had acted as such, minus the real love and attention a young boy craved. He still clung to her as if she had been. From the age of nine, Seb had been fed, clothed and often berated for his rebellious misdeeds by Yulia alone and he’d begged for her to take him to Poland when she took her annual visits because being alone for the summer, regardless of where in the world his father had carted him off to, had been unbearable. She had smiled, though, and ruffled his hair, and told him better things were in wait for him here. He’d never believed her. Until Jay.
As he stood there, hugging the old lady and gently rocking her from side to side, he cursed himself for having walked away from her when he’d turned his back on his father. Suddenly he realised what he had missed out one—the unconditional love of a mother, a decent role model for a father, and the absence of any sibling to share his childhood with. All those things that Jay had, and he often took for granted. Was that why Seb was such a fuck-up? Was that why he was so goddamn selfish? Was that why he always reached so high, when really it was a home and a family that he craved? I’m just like Sylvia. I walk away from everyone who loves me. And for what? He choked.
“None of that, now.” Yulia stroked his neck in comfort, then tugged him away and held him at arm’s length. “No tears. This is happy time. Come in. Your father not here, but he said you may stop by and I so hoped that you would. I am leaving after today.”
Stepping into the house, Seb flinched at the deep boom of the door closing behind him. The entrance hallway, where he’d roamed most of his adolescence, had always been void of detail, but he noticed even the very few hanging pictures, antique paintings and handmade furniture were now all missing. The whole place was a vacant cavern of nothingness. Replicating a Saunders soul, perhaps?
“Do you know when my father will be back?” Seb faced the old lady’s comforting smile and her small grey eyes filled with sympathy.
“Did we ever?”
Seb snorted. Wasn’t that the damn truth?
“Most things I have cleared away.” Yulia nodded up at the sweeping spiral staircase. “Your room is in boxes. Take what you want. Anything left after sale goes to the charity pick-up.” She pushed his back, urging him up the stairs.
Seb climbed each step with a sinking heart and crossed the sterile landing to the end where his old bedroom door remained closed. As he curled his fingers around the handle, he brushed his thumb over the makeshift lock he’d had fitted a few years back. He shuddered with a prickle of doubt. Shaking himself out, he opened the door and stepped inside his childhood.
The room was bare—no sheets on the bed, no artwork on the walls, with faded rectangles where his posters and other memorabilia had once hung. Several large cardboard boxes littered the floor, all taped shut with his name written in Yulia’s messy handwriting and his walk-in wardrobe was cleared empty. He sighed. Not for the clothes, but for the only thing that he would have taken from this room.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled the first box toward him, opened the flaps and peered in. It was odd seeing all the knickknacks of his old life stacked away. He’d forgotten he even had most of the crap inside, having not really cared all that much about anything he owned back then. His guitar had been his only prized possession, and he’d sold that to get home to Jay. Sniffing back his tears, he rummaged through the contents of his miserable existence.
Not finding anything of importance, he kicked the box away and ransacked the next, then moved onto the final one. Opening the lid, he recoiled at the envelope dropped haphazardly on top. With trembling hands, he plucked it out and stared. Inside he knew were the photographs, the letters, the inner ramblings of a lover betrayed and a scornful son—all the evidence that his father had seen and used to send Stephen out of his life for good. Within those photos, those words, was a different Seb. Someone who hadn’t known where life could really take him. One who had an almighty chip on his shoulder and a vendetta that he was never brave enough to do anything about. He’d ignore that too. He’d ignored what Stephen had put him through, all because he had thought it pointless. Why fight? Why retaliate? If you can’t change things, why bother?
Shit.
Tapping his pockets, he cursed under his breath and threw the envelope to the floor. He pulled the first box back to him and sank his hand into the bottom, fishing out an old Zippo lighter. He sparked it, his already calloused thumb tip cracking on the rusty strike wheel. The fire nearly singed his eyebrows—it wouldn’t have been the first time—so he turned the dial down, picked up the envelope and hovered one corner over the flame. The paper charred, and his fingertips were dangerously close to burning. After an intense moment of being transfixed on the orange glow, he stomped over to the ensuite bathroom and threw it down the toilet, flushing the singed ash to the sewers. Where Stephen Coles belongs.
The draught from the open bathroom window caused the outside bedroom door to slam. Flinching, Seb turned, then sucked in a startled breath. On the hook and gently fraying in the breeze hung a jacket Seb had all but forgotten about. Blue, with the printed white lettering distorted by the folds and made of a mesh material that staves off a fierce wind chill and torrential rainfall. Seb almost floated toward it, took it down and held it open in front of him to read the inscription. SPORTS SCHOLAR – RUTTMAN.
Falling to his knees, Seb hugged the jacket to his chest and sniffed for any hint of Jay’s scent. He’d forgotten about that jacket, forgotten how warm he’d felt having it wrapped around him and forgotten he’d chosen to leave it behind when he’d left for New York. How could I have ever considered leaving him?
He stood, yanked open the bedroom door and slipped Jay’s jacket over his own, then hurried to the end of the landing and leaned over the banister. “Yules!”
Yulia tapped out to the bottom of the hallway, her squeaky pumps echoing off the acoustic walls. She peered up, widening her eyes in concern.
“Is the landline still working?” Seb asked in desperation.
“Yes. But I disconnected the phone in your room. You have to use the one in your father’s office.”
Seb bundled down the stairs, kissed Yulia’s cheek and hurtled into his father’s office the other side of the atrium. Funny how that hasn’t yet been gutted of all valuables. He leapt over the desk and into the leather armchair, picking up the dual office phone. Why hadn’t he remembered any bloody numbers? Damn mobile phones for fucking up the ability to memorise important connections. The only one he knew by heart, he dialled.
“Mr. Saunders?” Martin’s voice sounded confused as fuck. Seb didn’t blame him. It had probably been a fair few years since he’d been called from this number.
“It’s Seb.”
“Oh. Right. You went home?”
“No. I went back to Kensington. Dad’s selling the house. I needed to get stuff.”
“Right. Seb, listen—”
“I thought I was meeting my dad today at the Royal about the house. Stephen was just there, and I had no idea he would be. My dad found out all about what happened, fired him. That’s it in a nutshell. I did not go there to meet the wanker. You know that right?”
“Yeah. Course. But you need to say that to Jay. He showed me the photo that was leaked in the press, and believe me, it looks dodge as fuck. You seen it?”
“No. I don’t want to. Whoever took it and sent it in was out to screw us, me maybe? I wouldn’t even put it past Stephen himself. So I need Jay’s number, I left my phone at home. You got it?”
“No, mate. No, I don’t think I have. Noah’s with Ann, ask him.”
Seb sighed, the unexpected guilt kicking in. “No, I’ll leave them alone. Listen, Martin, I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For storming out. Not talking to you guys first. For being me.”
“Hey, you’re Seb. I’ve come to accept that you walk first, regret later. Does this mean you’re not going solo?”
Seb laughed, shaking his head at the absurdity. “When has that ever worked out for me? I need you guys to ground me, or fuck knows where I’d float off too, right?”
“True facts. Listen, we’re not opposed to a tour. Or a re-sign, but I just think we need time to think about it. We’ve all got so much going on, you included. Let’s concentrate on making great music. Then America will come to us. Just like Sony did.”
Seb nodded, mainly to himself. “You’re right. We never did want mainstream appeal. We wanted just enough success to not have to get a real job, and I’m sorry I pressured you both into doing so much. I just saw the stars, y’know? I guess, I still want to prove something to all those who said I couldn’t do it. And to those that said Jay and I couldn’t work. I wanted to shove us so far down their throats they’d be shitting my lyrics.”
“I know you did. You’re Sebastian.”
“Thanks, Martin.”
“For what?”
“For always being right. For always being the one to talk sense into me. For always being there.”
“No problem. But I did think I’d passed the baton to Jay.”
“Yeah, but I haven’t learned to listen to him yet.”
“You should. The man’s in a state. Heartbroken. And we all know what that does to a bloke, right?”
The poignancy of Martin’s statement hit Seb where it hurt and he slammed the phone down, leapt out of his seat and across the atrium to fiddle with the locks on the front door.
“Are you leaving, Sebastian?” Yulia stood at the archway entrance to the main drawing room, her rain coat buttoned up and hands clasped behind her back.
“Yes. I’ve got all I need. Thank you.”
“Are you sure?”
Seb furrowed his brow. Yulia brought her hands around and held out a shoe box—All-Stars, Limited Edition, with stickers laden all over the crumpled cardboard.
Seb tilted his neck. “How did you know I’d want that?”
Yulia smiled. “What else do you have here that you can’t replace?” She cupped a hand to Seb’s cheek and stroked a thumb over his stubble. “There’s something else, too, I put in. And my new address is on a card.” She tapped the box lid. “Send me a note every now and then. Don’t let me know how you are by reading you in the papers.”
Seb smiled, then kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”
Taking the box, Seb stepped out into the grounds. The house didn’t need a second look as he strode across the gravel driveway. That part of his life was over.
Can I salvage any of the new one?
* * * *
“Riley.” Jay wriggled his shoulder, freeing himself from Riley’s hold.
“Come on, Jay.” Riley’s smile didn’t falter, nor did his lecherous gaze. “I know you and Seb have this thing, whatever. But what do you really have in common? Is there anything keeping you together?”
Jay narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“I can understand the lust, sure. But the love? Really? Yeah, he’s got that dark, moody vibe and a real, nice, tight arse. I’d’ve given him a go, for sure. But you,” Riley pointed a finger, “you have the edge. I like blokes that keep you guessing. I think we’d be great together. A nice fuck, followed by watching the football. Fucking perfect, you ask me. And I wouldn’t be forcing you to tell people about me. I’d be happy being locked in your closet. You should give this a chance. Like you would have done all those years ago.”
Jay’s mouth parted, making way for words that didn’t follow. This was doing his nut in. Would I? If Jay had known back then that Riley had feelings for him, would he have given him a chance? Jay had often wondered if the only reason he’d stolen a few kisses with Tom back at school was because Tom had been the first openly gay man he’d even met, so Jay had leapt at him when the chance arose to find out what his own feelings were all about. Would it have been different if Riley had made a pass at him—and not in the football sense? Would Jay have remained in the closet, catching a few chance liaisons with another footballer going through all the same stuff he was? Would he have even dumped Ann, or would he have done it all behind her back and lead the life of a closet player?
Would I even be injured, right now? If that brawl on the pitch hadn’t happened all those years ago, Jay would have signed pro at eighteen as predicted by his Academy coach. University wouldn’t have ever been an option. I wouldn’t have crashed into Seb.
And that was what really mattered. Wasn’t it?
“And, hey, if your fella’s been playing away, then what’s the greatest revenge? As you know, I’ve got a camera.” Riley winked.
Jay met his gaze, searching for something in those eyes that would tell him what to do right then, the same way Seb’s deep brown doe eyes had always managed to give him direction. But had those eyes been telling him the truth all this time? Or did they hide a multitude of sins? Jay didn’t want to believe that Seb could have wanted to risk ruining their relationship, but do people really know anyone at all? Take him and Ann for example. She hadn’t guessed about his sexuality even whilst they had dated, and now Jay had just found out she had been sleeping with Noah, often behind her boyfriend’s back, for at least two years.
Jay hung his head, his fists forming tight balls. Was that what bands did when they toured? All those times Seb had stayed in hotels during gigs, when Seb had regaled stories of both Noah and Martin’s conquests, and yet claimed he had remained in his hotel room. Jay couldn’t believe that it might not be true. Not Seb. Not his Seb. But he had, hadn’t he? Seb could separate the two things. Love and sex? They weren’t combined in Seb’s mind. He had managed to be in love with Jay and yet sleep with a man in New York. Why would it be any different now that they were together? And was it all because Jay couldn’t give him what he needed?
Jay stood, a little too quickly that his knee gave in and he grabbed the counter, sucking in through gritted teeth.
Riley held his elbow and chuckled. “Bit keen, are we? I’ll call a cab.”
Jay clung onto the counter, waiting for the shooting pain to subside. He could not let this injury get the better of him. Not this time. He had to find the strength. Maybe Ewa was right—progress was all in the mind. Maybe that was what his whole problem was—his lack of courage. Riley had been right about one thing in his big speech—Jay and Seb barely had anything in common. They’d been brought up at different ends of the District Line, West to East, rich to poor. They roamed in different circles. Even their interests were polar opposites. Did it matter? The fact that the one thing they did share was their complete stubbornness and deep passion for their career goals often pulled them in conflicting directions. Would one of them always have to make a sacrifice to please the other?
Would it always be Seb? Because Jay hadn’t been doing much sacrificing lately. Had he ever? Jay hung his head with the realisation. Shit.
“I’m going to head to the little boys’ room.” Riley rubbed Jay’s back. “Then I’m game to get out of here too.”
Jay called over the barmaid. “JD. Double.” He needed courage, and it seemed to work for Seb.
Once handed to him, Jay downed the lot in one swift gulp. At least the alcohol would be good for something—dull the pain he was about to go and put himself through. But he had to. He had to prove it to himself. He had to prove it to Seb.
His phone buzzed on the counter, lurching Jay’s pounding heart into his throat. Pressing his finger to the button and illuminating the screen, he cursed. It wasn’t a new message. Just a reminder of Ann’s old one. Blinking to focus on the words, Jay could hardly see straight. Not being a big drinker, the small amount of alcohol he’d consumed had fuzzed his vision along with his rationale. He slid the phone to him and composed a reply.
Head fucked. Bit drunk. Riley wants to blow me.
Confident in his plan, Jay straightened. It was about time he tried something new and let himself go, become more like Seb. He took a deep breath when Riley returned with a brazen smirk.
Jay didn’t even care that he’d be the one to wipe that smile from his face. Again. Hope it won’t have to be with my fists this time.
* * * *
Seb jumped off the DLR, the shoebox tucked under his arm, and rushed up the mountain of steps, cursing himself for not taking those runs with Jay when he could have. Reaching the top, he had to stop for breath. You’d think I’d be fit by now! Slapping a hand on the exit wall, he used it to accelerate himself out of the station and into Greenwich High Street. Most of the late-night haunts were closing—Seb had no clue what time it was, having no watch or phone to check but he guessed it had to be hitting eleven if it was shoving-out time.
Passing the Court Yard pub on the corner, he had to dodge a bloke slamming out of the double doors and stumbling onto the street, phone to his ear asking for a cab number. He hurtled over the cross roads by the church, then sprinted up the residential street. His residential street. Reaching his detached house, he stopped at the gates and heaved in a deep breath. The lights were off. Where’s the welcome home this time?
Fighting off the dejection, he scrunched his All Stars on the gravel driveway. Jay’s car sat wedged next to his VW, so Jay couldn’t have gone anywhere. Reaching the porch, Seb tapped his pockets. Shit. In such a hurry to storm out earlier, he hadn’t taken his phone or his keys. For the second time that day, Seb had to knock on the door of a house he called home.
Clearing his throat, he rapped his knuckles on the wood. This was not one of his finer moments, but he refused to be humiliated by it. He waited, on the doorstep, listening for any movement behind the walls. He knocked again. “Jay?”
Nothing.
Scrubbing his brow, he shuffled his feet on their welcome matt and knocked again. Harder this time, then crouched and opened the letter box. “Jay?” No reply. “Please, baby, open the door.” He wobbled unsteadily, and his thighs stretched the rips on his skin-tight jeans. What he’d give for a bit of give right then. “Don’t make me sing through this letterbox. The neighbours hate my music as it is.”
No answer. Seb hit his forehead to the wood, striking harder each time that he might knock some sense into himself.
“Right, I’m just going to have to do this here, aren’t I?” Oh the mortification! What would the Joneses think? Do I really care at this point? “I would never, have never, will never cheat on you. Ever. Period. I love you, goddamn it! Even if you are a stubborn fucking arsehole!” He huffed. Better calm it down, I’m meant to be apologising here. He softened his voice to grovelling levels. “Even if you never open this door. Even if you’ve signed your image rights over to the fucking BNP. Even if you never get yourself out of the damn hole you’ve been in since your injury, I’ll fuck off everything, and everyone else, to tumble in there with you.”
Seb’s legs finally gave way and he stumbled, clutching the letterbox. “Bollocks. Shit! Baby, come on, please? I think this would be much better delivered to your face. Your beautiful, fucking, face!” He hung his head, sinking with the desperation. Don’t you dare give up, Saunders. “I love you, Champ. I fucking love you. And I’d never leave you.” He winced. “Not again…before you throw that one in my face. Which you can’t, because you won’t open the goddamn, fucking door! Jay!”
He thumped the wood, his irritation resurfacing. “It’s still technically my house, so this has to be against the law and I have a lawyer. A good one…I’ll call a locksmith.” Seb screwed up his face. “Shit, I don’t have a phone. But that won’t stop me, Jay. I’ll get in somehow. I’ll get to you, I fucking will.”
He rested his forehead on the door and lowered his voice to a resigned whisper. “Baby, I’ve come back. To you. I’ll always come back to you.”
Rocking in his crouched position, soft music played in his mind and he hummed a wistful melody. “Shit, Jay, I’ve just come up with a great idea for a song. I need my guitar! Open the fucking door!” He punched it.
A deep chuckle from behind made Seb swivel on his feet.
“Dude, I think you literally went through all the emotions in that speech.”
“Fuck off, Noah.” Seb stood. “You only know two. Hungry and horny.”
Noah stuck his middle finger up, then quickly wrapped his arm back around Ann beside him.
“What are you two doing here?” Seb picked at the fraying lid of his shoe box, which could be the only contents he now owned. What a fall from grace!
“Jay sent me a strange message.” Ann blinked a few times, concern written in her eyes. “I tried calling him back but no answer. Shit, Seb, what did you do?”
“Nothing!” Seb was close to stamping his foot. “I didn’t do anything. I swear it, Ann. I swear it on that unborn child of yours.”
“Oi!” Noah pointed a finger from around Ann’s neck. “No bringing my kid into this!”
Seb rushed forward and grabbed Ann’s hand. “I will explain all if you get me into that house. I need Jay to listen to me.”
“You should have done it earlier.”
“I know. I know. That’s me, flight before fight. Not anymore. Get me in there, Ann, please.”
“You’re lucky I have a spare key.” She stepped around Seb and unlocked the door, wedging her petite frame in the gap. “I don’t know what he’s doing in there, and I’m scared for you.”
“Why?” Seb narrowed his eyes.
“He tell you about Riley?”
“The bloke he modelled for?”
“Yeah.” Ann swallowed. “Jay sent me a text. I don’t know what to make of it.” She fished her phone out of her handbag and held it for Seb to read.
Seb could have thrown up all over it. Jay wouldn’t. Would he? Would he really have sunk that low to get a revenge blow job? Was this all because of what Seb had done in New York—falling into bed with someone else because of all the hurt and anguish and every other fucking thing? Not Jay. Not his perfect, beautiful, blue-eyed Cockney boy. And who the fuck was Riley to come onto his boyfriend? Hadn’t he been the bloke Jay had pummelled on the pitch for saying a gay-boy couldn’t play football? Seb’s head hurt and his temple pounded like Noah’s kick-drum.
Swallowing down the bile in his throat, he held out a hand to Noah. “You got your sticks?”
“What? You think I carry them around with me everywhere? And what you gonna do with them anyway? Drum lick the bloke to death?”
Nettled, Seb turned back to address Ann still blocking his entrance. “Let me by, Ann!”
“Oi!” Noah pointed a warning finger. “Yell at my pregnant girlfriend again and I’ll slam your head against the wall. Then you’ll find it difficult to go fucking solo.”
The incredulous look that Ann gave Noah signified she didn’t believe in his impulsive valour, but Noah nodded, with gumption, reconfirming in one scowl that he was a new man. Snubbing them both, Seb smashed his palm above Ann’s head, rammed the door open wider and bounded into the house, his whole body in a state of tremble.
“Jay!” He ran to each room downstairs, clutching the box to his chest—kitchen, conservatory, main reception room, spare reception room, music room. Nothing.
Ann and Noah stood awkwardly in the hallway, but Seb didn’t give them a second glance and leapt past, up the staircase two at a time. He checked every room on the first floor, leaving their bedroom until last. Because if Jay was in there with someone, he wanted to give him a chance to stop whatever it was he was doing as Seb wouldn’t be able to hold down his non-existent dinner if he walked in mid-action.
Revealing the bedroom to be empty, Seb didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned that Jay clearly wasn’t home. He could be anywhere. With anyone. Slumping back down the stairs to the hallway, he faced Ann with a sullen frown.
“Remember, this is Jay.” She squeezed his arm. “He wouldn’t ever.”
“Really?” Seb hung his head. “Not even if he thought I had? Or that I might be leaving him?”
“Any of those true?”
“No.” Seb met with Noah’s dubious look. “No, the American tour was never an excuse to leave people behind. I’d planned on asking him to come with me, if his leg wasn’t fixed. If it was, well, then we’d work it out. Trips home, he could fly out on the off season. But I get the baby thing. I do. I’m sorry I was an arsehole about it.”
Noah nodded. “Yeah, you were a bit.”
“Don’t lay it on. I already spoke to Martin. We’ll talk all this over. All three of us.”
“So you’re not walking out on the band?”
“No. Although, if Jay really is sat on the casting couch with his dick in the mouth of some homophobic, image-obsessed closet Queen, I may consider touring outer Mongolia. Indefinitely.” Seb staggered back, the very thought squishing in his empty stomach. Grabbing the stair rail, he slid down to the first step, dropped the box at his feet and buried his face in his hands. “Shit. This is all my fucking fault. I deserve this. For leaving him in the first place. For that one nighter in New York. For being a mouthy gobshite and not listening to Jay. I’ve lost him.”
Seb heard the kafuffle above him but ignored it to scratch his fingers through his hair.
“I am not qualified for this!” Noah’s voice waded through the darkness. “Martin does this shit.”
After a moment, Ann perched on the step beside Seb and slid a hand on his knee. “Do you want us to wait with you? Until he gets home?”
Seb shook his head. “No. It’s fine. Let’s face it, he might not even come back.” He attempted a smile but didn’t feel it.
Flinging an arm around him, Ann rested her head on his shoulder and Seb kissed her hair, accepting the comfort for what it was. He knew she belonged to Jay, but he wasn’t too low to admit he needed her affection right then.
Seb nodded to Noah. “Take care of her. She’s a diamond.”
“I will. Call you in the morning.”
After kissing Seb’s temple, Ann stood and took Noah’s outstretched hand. The door slamming shut behind their departure shunted the house in to a reproachful silence Seb couldn’t accept. Nor could he muster any strength to lift himself up off the step. He stared at the door, willing it to open. For Jay to materialise and fall back into his arms. But this wasn’t a fucking love song, or the music video to accompany it.
Hitting the shoe box with his trainer reminded him that he’d brought it along. Rather pointless now. He picked it up, placed it on his lap and lifted the lid. A bunch of envelopes sat on the top, wrapped together in an elastic band with his name and address scribed on the front in elegant blue fountain pen. He held the bundle and flicked through. Eleven in total. One for every year of his life that Sylvia had been missing. These were the birthday cards that his father had hidden, returning a cheque to her each year to keep her away. Seb shook his head. His father had ruined so many relationships in his life, and it had all started with mother and son.
He dropped the envelopes back into the box and plucked out Yulia’s picture postcard of a farm in Poland—the one she had visited since her daughter had married and returned to their motherland. Seb flipped it over and smiled. At least Yulia now had a home to retire to. Good for her. Rummaging deeper, he found an old rolled-up excise book. He chuckled as it unfurled and revealed his messy handwriting defacing the front. He hadn’t given Yulia the credit she deserved. He flicked through the pages, sending a welcome breeze over his flushed skin. Lyrics, songs, guitar chords: none were lost to the back of a wardrobe anymore. He dumped it back in and his fingertips brushed a loose circular piece of metal at the bottom. He closed his eyes and sniffed. Can I break down and cry now?
The scratching of a key in the lock of the front door prevented that next fall from grace. Seb dropped the box to the floor, spilling much of the contents and his heart hammered so hard against his rib cage he thought he’d pass out before whoever it was made their entrance.
Jay walked in, closed the door, then stopped in alarm.
Grabbing the banister, Seb grappled to yank himself up. “Jay.” He breathed the name off his tongue like a pleading call.
“Seb.”
Seb swallowed, his throat so dry the task became difficult. “We should talk.”
“Yeah.” Jay nodded. “Yeah, we should.”