Filthy English

I recall the moment you first saw the beach on holiday in Italy. You took my hand and we walked out as far as we could. You played for hours, and when the sun finally set on the horizon, you reached for my hand. “It’s like a painting, Mum,” you whispered, and I knew then your heart was special. You saw that we are but particles of dust on this earth and there are things bigger than us.

As a baby, you rarely cried and I often worried why, but as you grew into a headstrong yet kind lad, I realized God had sent me a child much like myself. Impulsive and fun. Full of joy. He knew I needed you. Your mischievous nature and giggles get me through my weepy days—even though you may not realize it.

“Your wings already exist . . . all you have to do is soar.”

My little darling, I didn’t write that quote, but I’ve said it to you since you were in my tummy. It’s our mantra, and every time you say it back to me, I have the assurance of knowing that, if anything, I will leave you with hope and a belief that you can be and do anything you want.

I Love You.

Margaret (Mum)

Emotion rode me like it always did when I read her words.

She believed I could do anything.

I was like her, she’d said.

I swallowed. God, I wanted to be good for her. I wanted to succeed at something.

A glass shattered from the kitchen. What the hell?

I bolted from the room. Spider might be all cocky smiles, but underneath I sensed the darkness he harbored. He’d never shown any signs of hurting himself, but I was a worrier, and dammit I’d gotten used to the bloke.

Wearing a pair of Union Jack boxers and nothing else, his lean frame was bent over with a dustpan sweeping up broken glass.

“What’s going on?”

“Ah, so the princess has risen,” he said, standing to face me. He nudged his head toward the stove. “I made bacon. Eggs should be done in a minute.” He indicated the bowl of yellow liquid he had sitting by the stove. “Doesn’t that sound like a jolly time?”

As long as I’d lived here, he’d never turned on the stove.

“Uh, yeah.” I paused, scratching my jaw as I assessed him. “You doing okay today? Feeling any cravings?”

“Bite me.” His eyes veered toward me then bounced back to the pan he stirred. “Just got the shakes. Too much vodka last night.”

I ruffled his crazy sticking-up-everywhere blue hair. “Alright then, Chef Spider. I’ll make the coffee.”

He busied himself scrambling the eggs while I finished the coffee and scrounged around in the fridge until I found orange juice, jam, and butter.

“Want some toast?” I asked, eyeing the bread I’d picked up at the bakery a few days ago.

“Sure.” He shrugged, his shoulders still thin but more filled out than when I’d first picked him up three months ago. He’d also gained some muscle, about twenty pounds of it. It was a hell of a good start, and helping him figure out which sets and reps to do for the optimal results had been good for both of us. Of course, at first, he’d dragged his feet and said he would never be a gym rat, but I’d laid down an ultimatum: if he wanted to continue wagering with me, he had to show some incentive in taking care of his body.

A few minutes later, we sat down to eat. His eggs were a little over-scrambled, the bacon greasy, and the toast barely warm, but we wolfed it down.

“Spider?”

“Yes, princess?”

“I’ve been thinking . . .” I said, trailing off, trying to wrap my head around exactly what was in my gut.

“Uh-oh, your face is pale. Should I pour us a drink first?”

“No,” I smirked. “What do you think about me buying a house?”

Bacon fell out of his mouth. He blinked. “You’re asking me for advice?”

“Why not? You’re a homeowner. Why wouldn’t I ask you?”

“I’m flattered. Here? You mean I’d have some family in London?”

“No, man. Back home where I have to finish school.”

A shadow crossed his face and I sensed disappointment, but he grinned, albeit a crooked one. “Oh. Yeah. That makes sense. I mean, you do have a life, and you don’t need to be taking care of me all the time.”

“Dude. You’ve been clean of the heavy stuff for three months, and it doesn’t have anything to do with me being here. You’ll be fine once I’m gone and you get back on tour.”

He nodded, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I know. I know. It’s just, Mum is who-knows-where with some Italian playboy and Dad’s in New York—shit, you and Declan are the only family I see.”

“You can always pop in and see me in Raleigh.”

“Yeah.” His fork poked at his eggs.

“You know I have to leave soon, right?” I said the words casually, but watched his reaction carefully.

He shrugged.

I changed the direction of the convo. “Look, you’re older than me. I’d love your advice. Do you think buying a house is a good investment?”

He rubbed his hand across the black widow on his neck. “I listen to my gut when I can’t decide the big stuff. What does yours say?”

I exhaled. “I’d honestly never thought about it until Declan brought it up this morning. I suck in the classroom, but I love working with my hands—and the idea of taking care of my own place, like you do here, gives me a rush.”

“Sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.”