stalkerish. After all, he’d told Fergus the truth in the end.
Yet he’d lied first, as if by instinct. Besides, if Fergus had been more vigilant with Evan, he’d have known about the other man months sooner. He could’ve avoided the humiliation atop his heartbreak.
With a ding, the lift doors opened onto the ground floor. Fergus hit Save.
Once bitten, forever shy.
C HAPTER E IGHT
“P ERHAPS YOU COULD wait outside while I tidy up a wee bit?” John asked his mother when they pulled up to his house. “I just need an hour or…six.”
“It can’t be in that bad a state,” she said, turning off the engine.
“Remember how it got when you went away to that teacher’s conference for a week?”
“Oh.” She paused in the middle of opening the car door. “Oh, dear.”
“Aye.” He hoped the stack of dirty dishes in the sink didn’t reach higher than the edge of the worktop, and that no washing, clean or otherwise, was draped over the back of the sofa. He’d surely get it in the neck when Mum saw the weeds choking her flower garden.
But they were no longer her flowers. This home wasn’t hers to criticize.
Still, it was worse than he’d feared, he realized the moment they entered the foyer. A pile of mail teetered on the floor inside the door—and yes, there was washing, tossed over the banister of the fucking stairs, no less.
Mum sniffed the air and raised an eyebrow, but made no comment.
“I suppose you’ll stay in Keith’s room,” John said. “It should be clean. Relatively.” He quickly took her bag upstairs, along with the shirt and trousers from the banister. When he returned, he found his mother still in the foyer, eyeing the living room with the detached interest of a home buyer hoping to haggle down the price.
“I’ll make us dinner.” John brushed past his mother to go to the kitchen, but she caught his arm.
“Please, let me,” she said. “You’ve been doing so much.”
He shrugged and moved away. “I manage.” He had no right to self-pity after what he’d done to his father—and especially not after what he’d done out of guilt for what he’d done to his father. The thought of that nauseated him.
His mum followed him into the kitchen, where thankfully, the sink held no dirty dishes, only a few dried-on bits of food. Dad had either tidied up last night or left his plate and glass elsewhere in the house.
She examined the surface of the table before placing her purse upon it, then put the kettle on for tea, “just to feel useful.”
John rummaged through the refrigerator, frowning at the selection of vegetables. He wanted to show Mum how he’d learned to cook healthy foods, but a pair of limp carrots and a rapidly browning head of cabbage wouldn’t help that cause. “I hope soup’s all right. Chicken with veggies and whatever starch we’ve got?”
“Sounds lovely.” She opened the cupboard where they used to keep the tea.
“It’s not there now.” He pointed to the deep drawer beside the cooker. “In there.” As John chopped an onion to start the soup, his mother filled the kettle at the sink. “Must feel strange,” he said, “being in this house again.”
“It’s all so familiar, and yet different. Oh no!” She stared out the window into the rear garden. John braced for a chiding about the state of her perennials, but instead she collected herself, smoothing back her dark fringe and adjusting her red-silk hairband. “What if I were to stay here while your father recovers from surgery?”
“It’s not necessary. I probably won’t be around much while he’s in hospital.”
“No, I mean after he comes home.”
He nearly chopped off his fingertip with the kitchen knife. “You’d live here? In the same house as Dad? For weeks?”
“I’d be doing it for you, not for him. No twenty-one-year-old should spend his summer waiting hand and foot on a crotchety old man.”
“What about you? You’d uproot your life for him?”
“For you .
Yet he’d lied first, as if by instinct. Besides, if Fergus had been more vigilant with Evan, he’d have known about the other man months sooner. He could’ve avoided the humiliation atop his heartbreak.
With a ding, the lift doors opened onto the ground floor. Fergus hit Save.
Once bitten, forever shy.
C HAPTER E IGHT
“P ERHAPS YOU COULD wait outside while I tidy up a wee bit?” John asked his mother when they pulled up to his house. “I just need an hour or…six.”
“It can’t be in that bad a state,” she said, turning off the engine.
“Remember how it got when you went away to that teacher’s conference for a week?”
“Oh.” She paused in the middle of opening the car door. “Oh, dear.”
“Aye.” He hoped the stack of dirty dishes in the sink didn’t reach higher than the edge of the worktop, and that no washing, clean or otherwise, was draped over the back of the sofa. He’d surely get it in the neck when Mum saw the weeds choking her flower garden.
But they were no longer her flowers. This home wasn’t hers to criticize.
Still, it was worse than he’d feared, he realized the moment they entered the foyer. A pile of mail teetered on the floor inside the door—and yes, there was washing, tossed over the banister of the fucking stairs, no less.
Mum sniffed the air and raised an eyebrow, but made no comment.
“I suppose you’ll stay in Keith’s room,” John said. “It should be clean. Relatively.” He quickly took her bag upstairs, along with the shirt and trousers from the banister. When he returned, he found his mother still in the foyer, eyeing the living room with the detached interest of a home buyer hoping to haggle down the price.
“I’ll make us dinner.” John brushed past his mother to go to the kitchen, but she caught his arm.
“Please, let me,” she said. “You’ve been doing so much.”
He shrugged and moved away. “I manage.” He had no right to self-pity after what he’d done to his father—and especially not after what he’d done out of guilt for what he’d done to his father. The thought of that nauseated him.
His mum followed him into the kitchen, where thankfully, the sink held no dirty dishes, only a few dried-on bits of food. Dad had either tidied up last night or left his plate and glass elsewhere in the house.
She examined the surface of the table before placing her purse upon it, then put the kettle on for tea, “just to feel useful.”
John rummaged through the refrigerator, frowning at the selection of vegetables. He wanted to show Mum how he’d learned to cook healthy foods, but a pair of limp carrots and a rapidly browning head of cabbage wouldn’t help that cause. “I hope soup’s all right. Chicken with veggies and whatever starch we’ve got?”
“Sounds lovely.” She opened the cupboard where they used to keep the tea.
“It’s not there now.” He pointed to the deep drawer beside the cooker. “In there.” As John chopped an onion to start the soup, his mother filled the kettle at the sink. “Must feel strange,” he said, “being in this house again.”
“It’s all so familiar, and yet different. Oh no!” She stared out the window into the rear garden. John braced for a chiding about the state of her perennials, but instead she collected herself, smoothing back her dark fringe and adjusting her red-silk hairband. “What if I were to stay here while your father recovers from surgery?”
“It’s not necessary. I probably won’t be around much while he’s in hospital.”
“No, I mean after he comes home.”
He nearly chopped off his fingertip with the kitchen knife. “You’d live here? In the same house as Dad? For weeks?”
“I’d be doing it for you, not for him. No twenty-one-year-old should spend his summer waiting hand and foot on a crotchety old man.”
“What about you? You’d uproot your life for him?”
“For you .
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