Page 35 of Falling for You

Nate

I’ve only seen Stevie once since the phone call from Mom as I came home from work and he completely blanked me, then went out shortly after.

I know he’s not really annoyed at me; he’s annoyed at well …

everything. Mom, her message, the panic it put us through.

But neither of us can be annoyed at Mom about it – that’s just cruel.

So, it’s easier to be annoyed with me. Whatever, I’m annoyed with him too. He’s acting like a child.

We’re brothers, we’ve fought before. But being ignored in a tiny flat which is too small for two regular adults, let alone two men who tower over six foot, is a new level of awkward. I knew he wasn’t working tonight, and since I still haven’t heard back from Annie, I had no choice but to go out.

Which is what has led me to the theatre, squashed next to Remy, who I suspect much like me is questioning the life choices he has made that have brought him to this moment.

It’s not that Aunt Tell isn’t good. I mean, she’s been a professional actor her entire adult life.

You don’t get to do that unless you’re talented.

Look at the size of her house! I think it’s more that this may be the most depressing play I’ve ever seen and Aunt Tell died in the first seven minutes.

She could have mentioned that when she offered me the tickets.

But I do feel like the universe gave me these tickets as a helping hand.

Aunt Tell clearly has no intention of speaking too deeply about Mom, so I thought if I did her a favour, saw Tell in the environment where she’s happiest, then maybe she’ll know I come in peace.

Even though really, I come with quite a stern invitation and an unwavering need to get her to agree to come back to New York. But you know, peace too.

I’m trying not to think too hard about how I’ve screwed things up with Annie.

Every time I check my phone, I hope to see a message from her, in her bright, fun voice, so that we can go back to how we were in that club in Clapham.

But there’s nothing. And who can blame her?

I’ve hardly been a stand-up guy so far, have I?

I know I could message her again, but what would I say? I don’t want to burden her with all my baggage. Not when we had so much fun together.

Remy shuffles in his seat and I hide a smile. These seats are way too small for us, and I know this is hardly Remy’s idea of a great night out. But he didn’t even flinch when I mentioned going. He’s a good guy.

I jolt to attention as the audience start to clap and I realise that the play must have come to an end. Aunt Tell takes centre stage, throwing her arms into the air before cupping them to her chest and dipping into a deep bow. She gets the loudest cheer of them all.

‘Thank you for coming with me to this,’ I say to Remy as the claps fizzle out. The lights come on and I start hearing the snaps of the theatre seats as people get to their feet.

Remy raises his eyebrows at me, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘I didn’t realise you hated squash that much.’

He groans as he stands and clicks his back.

‘I definitely owe you a pint,’ I say. ‘Do you mind if we stay behind and say hi to my aunt? It won’t take long. I said we’d meet her at the bar.’

Remy nods as we start to pick our way through the crowd. My hand throbs as it drops to my side. It’s still wrapped up in layers of bandages.

As we walk down the stairs of the theatre, I spot that the bar is practically empty as the crowd swarms towards the doors, back onto the icy, quiet streets of a Thursday night.

The bartender clocks us as we walk forward, and I can almost see his fight not to roll his eyes at the possibility that his shift won’t be finishing in the next five minutes.

‘Is the bar still open?’ Remy says, peering over the bartender’s shoulder.

‘Yes,’ the bartender says, disgruntled. ‘We close at eleven.’

‘Great,’ Remy nods, ‘I could do with a drink.’

‘We’re just meeting one of the cast members,’ I explain. ‘We won’t be long.’

‘Nathaniel!’

I look up as the excited voice of Aunt Tell pours through the room like heavy cream.

She sashays towards us, her face still thick with show make-up, wrapped in a heavy coat.

She throws her arms around my neck – nearly breaking my back as she pulls me down to her level – and gives me a huge squeeze.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to her treating me like her long-lost son when she’s been ignoring me for the past couple of months.

‘Hi Aunt Tell,’ I say as she lets me go. ‘Well done on the show – you were great. This is my friend, Remy.’

Aunt Tell turns to Remy and dips her chin. She holds out her hand and he takes it, giving a little bow.

‘You were fantastic,’ he says earnestly. ‘What would you like to drink?’

Patches of pink form on Aunt Tell’s cheeks and she shimmies her shoulders in a way I’ve never seen an adult do.

‘Ooooh! Champagne, please!’

Remy doffs his flat cap and turns back to the bartender, who now looks thoroughly pissed at the realisation that he’ll be working right up until 10:59 p.m.

‘You enjoyed it, then?’ Aunt Tell coos, putting a hand on my arm. ‘You really liked it?’

‘Yes,’ I say at once. ‘You were great.’ That bit isn’t a lie, at least.

‘You are too kind.’ She cups her chest, turning to gaze at Remy, who gives her a wink over his shoulder.

‘Listen,’ I say, keen to steer the conversation before Aunt Tell is completely swept away by Remy. ‘I spoke to Mom today. She—’

‘Your darling mom!’ Aunt Tell cries, her hands back at her heart. ‘How is she?’

I pause. She’s fine … considering she’s dealing with early onset dementia.

‘She was asking about you,’ I say, avoiding the question in order to keep things light. ‘I was thinking maybe you could come back with us at Christmas to visit.’

‘Sounds wonderful,’ she says, but as Remy turns back with her champagne, I can tell she isn’t listening.

‘Really?’ I press on. ‘Shall I book us some flights, then? I’ll just need your passport details.’

‘Sure, honey,’ she says absent-mindedly, her glittering eyes fixed on Remy. ‘So, tell me, what did you think of the show?’

I hop from one foot to the other as the subway rockets around the corner, snaking through the underground passages.

Mom called earlier this afternoon, and we ended up chatting my entire lunch break.

Everything has slipped back into normal conversation.

How are you? How was your day? Was work okay?

How’s Stevie? I debated messaging Dad, telling him about the message from Mom, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

If he didn’t already know, then why would I tell him?

All it would do is scare him, and he’s scared enough as it is.

I know that. I’ve just run away from it.

Guilt hammers under my chest and I close my eyes for a moment.

The train pulls up at Camden and my eyes open as I knock into the man next to me.

I mumble an apology, squeezing my way off the tube to start the quick walk back to the flat.

The air is cold, whizzing past my face and leaving speckles of ice behind, ready to nip and pinch at the tips of my ears and the tops of my cheeks.

The Londoners are fully buried in their scarves now, with only their narrowed eyes poking out at the top, scanning the sidewalks for any gaps in the crowds that they can skirt through.

I weave my way through the throng of commuters, pulling my coat tight to my body.

Sure, it’s cold, but it has nothing on New York winters.

Brian and Helen were chatting excitedly with a few others today about how it might snow at the weekend, but that’s one part of England that I haven’t been swept away by.

You don’t know snow until you’ve been to America.

I hop up the final steps of the building and push my key into the lock, giving the door a swift kick to force it open. ‘Hello?’ I call out, pushing the door shut and unravelling my scarf.

‘Hi.’ Stevie’s voice comes from the kitchen, carried by the splats and crackles of something in the frying pan.

Okay, so he is talking to me now. That’s something.

I drop my bag and walk into the kitchen. Stevie is frying an egg.

He looks up from the hob. ‘Want one?’

I shake my head. ‘Nah man, I’m good.’

I don’t know if it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but Stevie looks thinner than he did a week ago.

His eyes are circled by deep, dark rings and his cheekbones are jutting out under his greyish skin.

His mouth is pressed together in a line, like he’s fighting desperately not to let out all the angry words that are buzzing inside his mouth.

He nods, flipping his egg onto a piece of bread and following me into the living room.

‘I saw Aunt Tell the other day,’ I say, watching closely for a reaction.

He scowls, dropping down onto the sofa. ‘Why?’

‘Mom talks about her a lot.’ I shrug. ‘I was hoping I might be able to persuade her to visit her back home.’

He scrunches up his face, his eyes fixed on the TV. ‘She won’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s too selfish.’

I focus on the TV as two cheery presenters sit on a sofa and interview a sad-looking elderly man.

He glances at me. ‘What have you done to your hand?’

‘Ah,’ I say, looking at my bandage. ‘I punched your light. I’ll get you a new one.’

He frowns. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, fine.’ We fall back into silence and I sit down next to him. ‘Are you working tonight?’ I ask.

Stevie shakes his head.

‘This weekend?’ I press further. He stuffs his sandwich into his mouth as the theme tune for Bargain Hunt starts up and shakes his head again.

‘Did you want to do something?’

‘What do you mean?’ he asks, his mouth full of congealed bread and his eyebrows still scrunched together angrily. I feel myself bristle.

Why does he have to be so angry all the time? And with me? I’m just asking if he wants to spend time together.