Page 78 of Falling for You

Stevie shakes his head.

‘This weekend?’ I press further. He stuffs his sandwich into his mouth as the theme tune forBargain Huntstarts 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.

‘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 ourparents?’ I snap, finally losing control. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

Stevie doesn’t answer, walking into the kitchen. But nowthe 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 inEastEnders, 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 goto 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 whereThe Holidayis 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 bitwonky 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.