Page 57 of Forever, Maybe

Joe waited for the sound of the living room door closing before resting a hand on Daniel’s shoulder.

“Mate, there are loads o’ couples out there where one o’ them messes up, and they still make it work.

Nell didnae even have an affair—it was a one-night thing.

I’m no’ sayin’ that’s a wee thing, but d’ye no’ think she’s put up wi’ a lot from you? All those hours you work?”

Joe’s voice was gentle, but the words struck Daniel like a blow. He swiped a hand across his damp eyes as the beer fizzed weakly in his grip. “Aye, I know. I broke so many promises over the years. But I can’t get past the baby—”

He stopped himself, words hanging in the air like an echo. A typical man thing, he supposed—bottling it up. He hadn’t told a soul about Nell’s second confession, still wrestling with his tangled feelings over it. A baby that might, or might not, have been his.

If, against all odds, Nell had kept that baby…

The thought that slid into his mind uninvited all the time.

He often found his mind veering in strange directions these days, paths lined with what-ifs and regrets.

That kid would have been almost Kylie’s age now.

Would it have been so terrible, really, for her to have had the child?

Even if it hadn’t been his, could he not have raised a son or daughter as his own?

Joe’s gaze had sharpened at the word ‘baby’ but he didn’t push it, instead exhaling a sigh that said a lot of things. Boss, mate, guvnor, you want tae go doon this path? Aye? You’re an eejit if ye do.

Daniel dropped his gaze, his mind snagging on another sharp edge: Jennifer Frazer and her graphic recounting of Nell’s betrayal. It had been too vivid, too easy to picture Nell half-naked with someone else. The image sent bile up his throat every time it crept into his thoughts.

Joe passed him a sheet of kitchen roll. Daniel pressed the rough paper to his nose, wincing as it scratched his skin, already irritated and inflamed.

To add insult to injury, his skin had flared up, teenage pimples on top of wrinkles.

If he’d been at home, Nell would’ve handed him soothing serums, nagged him to drink more water and insisted he eat more fruit and veg.

Joe took a swig of his beer before breaking the silence. “Me and Nicky hae been talking.”

Daniel’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. There was a warning there—if Joe was about to suggest playing mediator or any other nonsense, he’d walk out.

Joe waved a hand dismissively. “Dinnae look at me like that. What I mean is… I’ve been thinking about the leave I’m takin’ when the wean comes. I could cut it short—just take a month and a half, then head back tae work. What d’ye think?”

The offer blindsided Daniel. The beer must have made him softer than usual because his eyes filled again, the emotion catching him off guard. Of all the things that could have happened—short of Nell’s one-night stand being erased from history—this was the best possible outcome.

He hadn’t wanted Joe to take such a long stretch of leave. And now here Joe was, offering to give it up, to be there for the next few months, the next year, that steady, calm and reassuring presence just when Daniel needed him most.

God, he loved the man.

“You don’t have to,” Daniel mumbled, though the words lacked conviction.

Joe shook his head firmly, a small smile playing on his lips. “It’s fine. Though I’ll be looking to retire early. Wi’ a regular income fae the profits.”

“Aye, of course.”

Nicky rejoined them, her timing as impeccable as ever, brushing off Daniel’s thanks with a wave of her hand. “Ach, ye’ll be doin’ me a favour. I cannae hae him gettin’ under ma feet.”

Before he left, she insisted on packing him off with a couple of portions of the queasily creamy chicken casserole, wrapped up in mismatched Tupperware.

Daniel didn’t argue. He’d had too much beer to risk taking the car home, so set off for the train station, his mind preoccupied, and automatically boarded the service heading toward the stop closest to his and Nell’s home, rather than his mother’s house.

Only when the doors hissed shut did he realise his mistake.

The booze swirling in his system whispered treacherously. Go on, drop in on her. Ask her to explain. Tell her you understand…

Across from him, a couple in their early twenties were locked in a shameless display of affection, oblivious to the world.

An older man nearby, sporting a thick, straggly beard, tutted loudly, his disapproval almost comical.

The scene brought an unwelcome memory flooding back: the train down to London, that young couple with their nosy questions.

Tell us your secret, then! How do you stay married for that long?

And then, of course, there was the other woman.

The one who’d handed him her business card at Euston, bold as brass, not caring that he wore a wedding ring.

A flicker of vindictive temptation sparked in him.

Maybe he should look her up, have a bit of revenge sex, see if it helped.

Would it make him feel better? Or worse?

At the next station, he forced himself to regroup and switched trains, standing on the platform as the one bound for Nell rumbled away. A younger guy—buzz cut, shoulders squared like he had something to prove—barrelled into him, a sharp knock against Daniel’s shoulder.

Daniel’s apology was automatic. “Sorry.”

The guy’s lip curled. “Aye, you will be, pal.”

He spat on the ground before swaggering off.

Brilliant. A timely reminder of everything he didn’t miss about Saturday nights in Glasgow.

By the time he reached the house on Paisley Road West, darkness greeted him.

Trish was out at a friend’s birthday party, and his father would be at the Celtic Club.

Not having to spend what remained of the evening making stilted small talk with them and deflecting his mother’s pointed questions was a blessed relief.

“All right?” Mark called out, traipsing up the road toward him, a blue plastic bag swinging in one hand. He was grinning, as usual, and wearing nothing but a white T-shirt and jeans despite the evening chill. The tail of a dragon—blue, green, and silver—curled out from under his left sleeve.

“What you got there?” he asked, nodding at the Tupperware containers Daniel carried.

“Nicky made chicken casserole. These are the leftovers.”

“Brilliant. I’m Hank Marvin.”

Mark fell into step beside him at the front door, waiting as Daniel slid his key into the lock.

“Shouldn’t you be in some club, off your tits?” Daniel asked dryly.

Mark smirked, unbothered. “Nah. Trish telt me your face is tripping you. She ordered me to come cheer you up. So, here I am—brother o’ the year.”

The altruism, of course, wasn’t entirely selfless. Later, as they stood in the kitchen of their childhood home, waiting for the microwave to ping while Daniel reheated the casserole, Mark admitted the truth. He was skint and his latest girlfriend had decided on a night out with her mates.

Typical. Trish, oblivious as ever to her youngest’s antics, still doted on him. He’d only moved out eighteen months ago, and as Daniel himself had witnessed, he still brought his laundry home for Mum to deal with and popped by regularly to scrounge a meal.

Daniel cracked open one of the beers Mark had brought along.

“You dinnae drink,” Mark said, screwing his face into a comically exaggerated look of Victorian disapproval. This, from the same man who hoovered up enough marching powder on weekends to stay wired for days.

“Temporary thing,” Daniel replied.

“Ah, cause o’ Nell? Stupid bitch.” Mark took a swig of beer. “You and me’ll start hittin’ the town every weekend. I’ll be your wingman. Lassies love a sob story. Before you know it, you’ll be knee-deep in pussy.”

Daniel stirred the casserole in silence, watching the globules of fat rise to the surface.

Just as well it was Mark, and not their father with his high blood pressure and cholesterol, who would be eating it.

Sometimes, Daniel wondered where he’d come from.

His mother, father and siblings… all so alien.

If not for their shared physical resemblance, he might’ve doubted he shared genes with any of them.

They sat down at Trish’s spotless kitchen table.

Mark demolished both portions of the casserole, drank most of the beer, and launched into a running commentary about his life.

His job. Football. Call of Duty: Infinite Warfare.

A Netflix series called Stranger Things that he’d binge-watched in two days.

Daniel half-listened, the words washing over him like white noise, as he nursed his beer. Mark’s phone rang just as he was spinning the fantastical plot of the show. Daniel caught a glimpse of the screen—no name, just a number.

“Hello?”

Mark’s expression shifted rapidly—puzzlement, then alarm, then anger.

From the faint voice on the other end, Daniel guessed the caller was male and probably young.

Mark shot up from his chair, his tone sharp as he demanded to know how they’d gotten his number.

Without another word, he stormed out of the room.

He returned a few minutes later, his face drawn.

“Everything okay?” Daniel asked.

Mark grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, avoiding eye contact. Whatever had rattled him had settled into something more subdued—almost haunted. “Aye. Wrong number. I’m off. See you around.”

He paused at the front door, as if remembering something at the last minute. “Hope you’re no’ feeling too shite. Plenty more fish in the sea, eh?” And with that, he was gone.

Daniel sat back, frowning. A wrong number?

Not likely. But he didn’t have the energy to untangle whatever mess Mark had landed himself in.

Tonight had only reinforced the gulf between his brothers.

Compared to Joe, whose steady support had been a lifeline, Mark was little more than a self-absorbed storm blowing through.

One beer remained. Daniel twisted off the red-and-white cap and glanced at his own phone lying faceup on the table. Nell had flooded him with messages after he’d left, but they’d stopped two weeks ago. Still, what if there was a new one now? If she’d sent one tonight, he’d…

He’d go to the house. The beer buzzing through him made it feel like a good idea. Maybe he should apologise. People made mistakes. God knows he had, even if the details of what he’d done—or hadn’t done—were hazy at best.

But when he checked, the notifications told him everything: nothing from Nell. Not a missed call, not a text, not a WhatsApp.

Setting the phone facedown, Daniel drained the last beer in record time and dragged himself to bed.