Page 31 of The Deviation
I can’t help but grin at her protectiveness. “That’s sweet, but I don’t think it would be very professional to have my little sister fight my battles for me.”
Spinning around, she holds her spoon against my throat. “I’m not so little anymore.”
“Forgive me,” I say, raising my hands in mock defence. “You are indeed an elderly lady.”
“That’s better.” Pushing her bowl over to the far side of the counter, she plops onto a stool and begins eating while I throw my own breakfast together.
“Where are you today? Uni or work?” I wish there were more potential options, but the university campus and the grocery store where she works part-time are the only two places she tends to frequent.
“Ugh, uni.” She cringes. “I have a Managerial Economics lecture and then, like, three different assignments to work on. They’re all boring as bat shit.”
“You could always switch to a degree in something you’re actually interested in,” I suggest carefully, ignoring the roll of her eyes. “Or you could take a break from uni and focus on something else for a while… like, say, your music.”
“A business degree will get me a corporate job. A corporate job will get me money,” she snaps before shovelling more food into her mouth.
I shrug, as if we haven’t already had this conversation a dozen times. “There’s more than one way to make money.”
Her spoon drops into the bowl with a clatter, splashing milk over the sides. “What kind of brother encourages their little sis—” she stops to correct herself, “theiryounger siblingto quit studying and chase a career in music?”
She has a point, but so do I. “The kind who recognises your potential and would be at your side every step of the way. The kind who hates seeing how miserable you are in this degree and knows how happy you are with a guitar and a microphone.”
A flash of longing clouds her features. It’s gone just as fast. “Happiness is fleeting,” she mutters, curling a fist around the end of her spoon.
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Her gaze drags its way up to mine, all dewy with sadness. “How would you know?”
I don’t. Of course, I don’t. But in that moment, it doesn’t matter how many birthdays she’s had, all I can see is the terrified thirteen-year-old girl I promised to take care of when we found ourselves all alone in the world. So, I lie, because I can’t bear not to.
“I hope, Hannah. I hope for a happy ending to all this. You should, too.”
Whatever argument springs to her lips is cut off by the sound of my phone ringing.
My first thought is of Johnny. We haven’t spoken since I left his place three days ago. Maybe he has news. My heart pounds as I pull the device from my back pocket, but it’s an unknown number. Pushing away inappropriate levels of disappointment, I force myself to answer with a professional flourish. “Calum Ellis speaking.”
A heavy silence ends with a deep inhale before, “Hey. It’s, um, it’s Ned Corbyn.” There’s a short pause before he adds, “From Fifth Circle?”
I rush to pick my jaw up off the floor and reattach it to my face. “Good morning, Mr Corbyn.” I look meaningfully at Hannah as I speak. Her eyes spring wide and she smacks a hand over her mouth. “I know exactly who you are. I’m just surprised to hear from you.”
He chuckles softly. “You and me both.”
“What can I do for you, Mr Corbyn?”Anything. I’ll do anything to keep my job.I clamp my lips shut to stop the desperation leaking out.
“You can start by calling me Ned.”
I smile on a rushed exhale. “Done. What next?”
There’s another pause and my thoughts are a jumbled mess. Did Johnny do this? Did he convince Ned to give me a chance? Am I going to get my promotion after all?
“I was wondering if we could meet up for a chat.”
My fist punches the air, and Hannah bounces around with a silent clap. “Name the time and place. I’ll be there.”
* * *
The pub is quiet when I arrive. After the brightness of the winter sun, the interior seems almost gloomy, but at least it’s warm. I pause near the entrance, giving my eyes time to adjust. The tables crowding the main room are mostly vacant. Unsurprising, given it’s almost four on a Tuesday afternoon. The lunch crowd has long since filed back to their desks, the relief of post-work drinks is yet to come.
An old Crowded House song permeates the air as I make my way across the polished wooden floor. Restless fingers tug at my suit jacket, half doing up the button before falling away again. My gaze darts from table to table, searching for the man who will decide my future.