Page 36 of Falling for You

‘Well, it’s Thanksgiving,’ I say, trying to keep my voice light.

‘They don’t celebrate Thanksgiving here.’

I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to take a deep breath.

‘Yeah, but we do,’ I say slowly. ‘I could cook us up a Thanksgiving dinner. I can try and make us some yams?’ Stevie doesn’t say anything, but just cocks his head to the side non-committally.

‘We could call Mom and Dad,’ I continue.

‘We could try and time it so that we eat at the same time and FaceTime them or something. Pretend we’re all together. ’

Stevie swallows his mouthful. ‘What’s the point?’

I can’t help it now; the hot anger I’ve been trying to keep at bay bubbles up inside me. ‘What’s the point in having dinner?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘No,’ I say flatly. ‘I don’t.’

He glares at me, leaning forward on his elbows. The only light is from the TV, which is flickering madly as the adverts pop through the living room. ‘Forget it,’ he says, getting to his feet.

‘It’s nice to call Mom and Dad on Thanksgiving because they’re our parents ?’ I snap, finally losing control. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

Stevie doesn’t answer, walking into the kitchen. But now the anger is out I can’t control it; it’s like everything I’ve kept in my bubbling, angry jar for the past month is now free. It’s exploding through my body, making the blood under my skin hot and my heart race.

‘No,’ I say, getting to my feet and following him. ‘Don’t walk away from me, Stevie. You have something to say. Say it. What’s wrong? Why don’t you want to speak to Mom?’

‘Because she’s not there!’ he cries, spinning round to face me. ‘You saw her the other day! She put us through hell and then couldn’t even remember. There is no point in talking to her.’

I stare at him, anger buzzing through me. ‘No point?’ I repeat. ‘No point in speaking to your own mom?’

He looks at me squarely in the face and although his jaw is tight and jutted forward, I can see the glimmer of fear behind his eyes.

‘No,’ he says eventually, dropping his plate on the side with a clatter. ‘There is no point.’

‘Stevie,’ I say. ‘You don’t mean that. You—’

‘I’m not doing it, Nate,’ he says, going into his room. ‘I’m just not.’

I open my mouth to reply but it’s too late. He’s slammed the door.

I spend the rest of the evening sitting on the sofa, watching garbage on TV. Two people scream at each other in EastEnders , a stand-up comedian promotes their new show on a red couch and finally the sombre ten o’clock news rolls around before I pull myself up off the sofa and into bed.

Stevie stays locked in his room, not even coming out to go to the bathroom.

I debate knocking on the door and forcing him to talk to me, but I’m worried what I might say.

The red mist of anger still hasn’t fully faded from behind my eyes; one wrong thing said or a look thrown in my direction and who knows what we might end up yelling at each other.

As I lie in bed, the weekend stretches before me like an ominous blank page. Stevie will be in, and I’ll end up spending half the time locked inside my room waiting for him to go out so I can relax in peace, and the other half sat on the sofa wondering if he’s secretly hoping the same.

In the end, I message Remy, hoping that he might be at a loose end or wanting some company to watch another football game, but he’s up in Leicester for the weekend visiting his parents.

I even debate messaging Aunt Tell, but decide against it.

I don’t want to spend the weekend around her weird, buzzing energy.

It’s hardly the way I usually spend Thanksgiving.

After a few hours of wallowing in my own pit of worry and self-doubt, I pull out my phone and do the one thing that Mom and I spoke about doing when I came to London. I google where The Holiday is set and book a return train ticket for the next day.

My hand stings and I look down at the bandage still tightly woven around my hand, although a little frayed and peeling away at the edges.

I take a sip of my pint. I thought I’d try a Guinness this time.

It’s not bad, but hardly as delicious as it looks when it’s poured and you’re made to believe you’re about to drink something like thick, creamy hot chocolate.

So, here I am, sitting in a cosy country pub.

It’s all a bit wonky and looks as if a child has given it a big squeeze when all the bricks were still wet.

There are flickering yellow lamps and lots of thin bar towels.

A gaggle of people are huddled around a dartboard in the corner of the room, cheering every couple of minutes and slapping each other on the back, and there’s a glossy black Lab stretched out in front of the roaring fire which is feeding a warm, smoky smell throughout the pub.

It only took two hours on the train, and as I stared out of the window and watched the world around me slowly get less grey, I felt the chains around my chest loosen too.

At one point, I felt so far away from my problems that I nearly let myself message Annie.

This time last week, we were about to have our first date together.

Well, first if you don’t count the ten minutes of chat at the Halloween ball.

I can’t message her now. I mean, what would I say?

Sorry I sent such a weird message; I thought my mom was in danger so I didn’t really have any working brain cells to send you a proper message, and then I spent the rest of the week either yelling at my brother or preparing to sell my organs if it meant I could go back home and make sure she’s okay?

Annie was so fun and carefree last week, and so was I. That Nate was fun. Nobody wants to hang out with this Nate. Even I don’t want to hang out with him.

I sigh, taking another sip of the Guinness.

My train arrived at midday, and I’ve spent the afternoon wandering around the cobbled streets and going into quaint, tiny tea rooms and along paths by flowing rivers.

The Cotswolds is not too dissimilar to London, but it’s like a version of London with a layer pulled back.

Everyone walks a bit slower and smiles at each other.

The bartender at this pub asked how I was and seemed quite happy to chat to me when he picked up my New York accent, and even gave me tips on what to see in the area.

By this point, it was only a few hours until my train back to London, but I still lapped it all up.

Maybe I’ll come here again, for a proper weekend.

I took a crossword from the bar and set myself up by the fire, being careful not to disturb the black Lab, whose name I learnt was Bessie, and I’ve been sat here ever since.

It feels quite easy to hide from all your problems when you’re sitting in a place like this, where the only thing you have to think about is what six down is, nine letters: ARCHETYPE.

I take out my phone and send a picture to Mom, being sure to capture the roaring fire in the background and the framed black and white photo of the local cricket team, all proudly resting on one knee and smiling up at the camera. She’d love it here. I’ll bring her one day.

As I click ‘send’, I notice the weather app on the home screen and I start, quickly getting to my feet.

Shit. I’d forgotten about the snow.

‘Sorry,’ I say to the bartender. ‘It says it’s meant to snow tonight, is that right?’

He blinks at me as we both silently question why I’m asking him, as if he’s the weatherman.

‘Think so,’ he says after a pause. ‘Are you staying here tonight?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m going back to London.’

‘How?’

‘By train.’

He picks up a glass and starts cleaning it with a rag, looking doubtful. ‘Good luck, fella.’