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Kier

Devon, July 2018

Three facts about my mother:

She used to stand on one leg while she was brushing her teeth because she’d read somewhere that it would help her live a longer and happier life.

She pretended to like coffee cake. Penn and I made it once at school and were so pleased by her rapturous reception that we made it every year for her birthday. It was only when we saw her shovelling it into the bin that we realised she was just humouring us.

She gave Dad multiple chances. These weren’t fake-it-until-you-make-it shots, they were the real deal. She wanted to believe in the dream. Wanted us to be a family.

This last fact is weighing on my mind. Every time I speak to Zeph or message him, it’s all I can think about: if Mum gave Dad multiple chances, even after what he’d done, then surely I can give Zeph one too ?

Last night, when we were talking, he asked if we could meet up. Skimming over the question, I didn’t give a proper reply, but deep down I know what the answer should be.

What we have, what we’ve built, could build – I can’t leave it unexplored, not while I’m still unsure about things.

But first, I need to scratch an itch:

Romy.

There’s no way of us moving on until I pull that thorn from my side.

After the wedding, I’m going to Portugal to try to find her. Once I know she’s okay, properly understand what happened between them, then Zeph and I can move on.

He said it again to me last night: We’re going to fly, Kier. You and me, we’re going to fly.

I lay a hand on my stomach.

I want to believe it this time. More than anything, I want it to be true.