And now, I’m even more terrified than I was before I came here. If I thought I could just keep moving, keep my feet on the right path and not dare look back, I could pretend that our chapter was over.
That couldn’t be more of a lie.
6
Vance
Lara thought I was being hasty, that the words I told her couldn’t be trusted.
It must seem strange to her, my desire to be a family. To invite everything I told her I didn’t want into my life.
But the moment I’d seen her holding Mason, his cheek pressed to hers, everything clicked into place. Before, my world was off-kilter, but I’d glimpsed the woman I love cradling our child, and the universe righted itself.
I want to kick myself in the bollocks for being so daft two years ago. Lara and I constantly fought—fights that stemmed from my commitment issues. I was a dog, a foul git who didn’t give her the care and attention she deserved.
Here she was, a woman whose parents had divorced in her childhood, and I had unwittingly placed the same predicament on her life. She was wrong for not telling me. Christ, how my veins burned with the fury I felt for missing the first years of my son’s life. But I know that she would never have chosen this if she thought I’d stick around for her.
For our entire relationship, I had one foot out the door. I can’t imagine the mental state she had to be in finding out she was pregnant so young, and thinking that the father of her child had chosen a bigger and better path than her.
Bloody hell, I want to kick myself in the bollocks for how I treated her.
“And what did she say?” Jude asks in my ear, my mobile pressed against my shoulder.
I’ve just filled him in on what I confessed to Lara. How I want her back, how I want us to be a family.
“She was so shocked, I thought she might just throw her tea in my face. Before she could collect herself, I asked if I could see Mason. Well, pretty much bloody demanded it. It’s bad enough she hid the pregnancy from me, but I could take serious legal action now if she doesn’t let me near him.”
“You wouldn’t do that, mate,” Jude scolds me.
“Of course, I wouldn’t, but she doesn’t know that. If I can use it as leverage, I can put my plan to work.”
“I’ve never heard you so … devious. I’m afraid I might prefer this Vance better, with his masterful mission. What’s the plan?”
I shrug as if my best mate can see me. “Honestly, I don’t have one. But I know I’m not playing mister nice guy anymore. It’s gotten me nowhere, both personally and professionally. The time is up on courteousness.”
Transferring the pot of water to the stove burner, I click it on and watch as the steel cloud with steam from the fire below. When I come home, I like to cook for my family. It’s something I do well, since having taught myself while living at Rogue Academy. Sure, there is a full-service dining hall, but someone had to cook for Kingston and Jude on the late nights where too much alcohol was involved. And, there is a satisfaction I get from cooking and serving an entire meal; the steps involved, the mindless prep work, the completion and presentation that impresses even the smallest group of people. Cooking is something that takes my thoughts away from all the stress in my life.
Plus, my parents never ask much of me and have stayed out of my business when I showed up unexpectedly on their doorstep and told them I was on leave. I’ve done a lot for my family since signing my amateur contract, but I still feel I owe them more. My parents are supportive, understanding, gracious. My sister appreciates all I’ve done for her, such as sending her to uni and paying for a lot of the things my parents couldn’t afford. They’ve all done so without expectation that I should help them financially and have instead focused on building me up and helping me follow my dream.
As far as families go, I know how lucky I am. I’m not one to forget that, or not show my appreciation.
And eventually, I am going to have to tell them about the baby. About the son I have that they don’t know. How Lara had hidden the truth from me. They have to know she has a child, and it is not going to go down well when they discover that I’m the father and that she’s kept their grandchild from them.
But tonight, it’s just about a nice family meal and showing them my love through actions, such as cooking, and not words. I’ve never been particularly verbal with my affection, a fact that got me into trouble with Lara plenty of times.
“Do you mean … are you considering leaving Rogue?” Jude asks, his tone puzzled.
Of course, my football-obsessed mate would pick up on that. So, I give him the truth. “I’m not sure … I have only given it preliminary thoughts.”
I don’t continue, and I hear Jude’s annoyed huff as I begin to dice tomatoes on the chopping board.
“All right, if we’re doing away with the mister nice guy business, we also have to do away with the caveman silence. How about you just tell me what you’re thinking, instead of making me drag it out of you? I’ve already been to Clavering once, don’t think Aria and I won’t come to Brighton to beat your feelings out of you.”
That has a wry smile gracing my lips. “Fine, you don’t have to be an arse. It’s just that … I’ve given my life to Rogue. And I’m at the point where I need it to pay off. And Niles, or Darnot, or whoever it is that determines my future, they haven’t actually given me much of one. I’m wasting my paramount years of talent competing against bloody children, and I’m wound up.”
Niles Harrington and Headmaster Darnot, two of the top decision makers in both the Rogue Football Academy and Rogue Football Club, have been withholding information about my future on the pitch for as long as I can remember.
“But it’s always been the three of us,” Jude argues, sounding hurt.
As the water begins to boil, I throw in the homemade spaghetti I made this morning. “Come on, mate. It hasn’t. You and Kingston have been dominating together on the first squad for more than a year now, and I’m not even on the bench. Remus is not going anywhere, and I have to weigh my options. I want to play, that’s all I want, Jude. If it be for Rogue, then it will be an even bigger dream come true. But I just want to be out on that pitch, showing the world what I can do. If it means being sold, especially to somewhere closer to Lara and Mason, then so be it.”
A beat passes before he speaks. “I can’t argue with that. If this game took me away from Aria, I mean … I wouldn’t allow it to. I couldn’t have said that before I met her, but I understand it now. It will be the end of an era though, mate.”
Sorrow swamps me, just like it has the other dozen times I’ve thought about my future in the sport of football. If I’m being honest, asking for a transfer or to be sold to another club has been on my mind for a year … well before I found out about Mason. Living at the academy is a waste of my talent and time. I want to be loyal to the club that I moved up the ranks in, but they haven’t shown me the same respect. And at the end of the day, I want to get out on that pitch.
If that can bring me closer to the woman I love and the child we made, that’s two birds with one stone.
“It would be.” I shake my head as my sister, Harlow, walks into the room. “Jude, mate, I’ve got to ring off. We’ll talk soon, okay?”
“Go get what you want, brother,” he says solemnly, and then I hang up.
“Smells delicious,” Harlow says as she opens up the pot of sauce I have bubbling on the stovetop.
“Don’t you go sticking any spoons in there. It’s not ready, yet.” I wag a finger at her and go back to chopping up garlic for the bread I’m about to pop in the oven.
“He’s so picky about his prep,” she teases.
Harlow is two years younger than I am and is currently attending university in London. Yet another member of my inner circle who resides in the city I desire to make it to. She’s studying to be a nurse and is quite bright when she isn’t stumbling home pissed at three in the morning. My sister is my exact opposite; an extroverted member of the secondary sc
hool pep squad, she has always loved being the center of attention. The more eyes on her, the more she thrives. Always the kind that strangers gravitate toward, she’ll talk to absolutely anyone about anything for hours.
I admire my sister, but we’re so different that sometimes I need a break from her. It’s been a while, though, so my irritation meter is quite low at the moment.
“You didn’t have to come home. It’s just a casual drop in,” I tell her.
Mum rang her when I told my parents I’d be coming home, and Harlow jumped on the next train. She told everyone it was because she was dying to see me, but I know better. If there is something Harlow doesn’t want me or our parents to know, it’s that she’s homesick.
So I guess I can act a little kinder toward her this visit.
“And miss the Italian extravaganza? Not on your life.” My sister’s pearly white smile makes my lips imitate them on a smaller scale.
Harlow and I could be twins. We’re the type of siblings who strangers never have to guess if we’re related or not. Same almost-black hair, same inky dark eyes. Our mother’s dimple in our left cheek, and the strong will of our father.
“Well, then if you’re eating, you’re helping. Set the table, please,” I instruct her.
“You can’t tell me what to do, you’re not my dad!” She pretends to protest, but chuckles as she walks to the cabinet.
That sentence hits me square in the chest, so hard that I have to momentarily grab onto the island countertop, my knuckles going white. Thankfully, my sister is focused on the task at hand, and unaware of the major meltdown I’m trying to shake off.
Because while I’m not her father, I am someone’s father—a fact that is still sinking into my bones.
Sooner or later, I’m going to have to share that fact with Harlow. And my parents. I dread the conversation; not only do I despise talking unnecessarily, but confrontation and deep discussions are my kryptonite.
As I move back to the stove, testing a strand of spaghetti to see if it’s cooked, I resign myself to having a splendid dinner.
Life is about to become loads more complicated, my family can have one night of blissful obliviousness.
7
Lara
“Do you want blueberries in your pancake, darling?”
Louis stands in front of the stove in the Christmas pajamas I gave him last year, the ones with a snowy polar bear print. It’s only October, but I know he’s already in full holiday mode … he’s always been a sucker for Christmas.
“No, that’s all right. I’m going to have a banana instead, thanks,” I answer, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.
Mason is already in his high chair, his chubby little cheeks covered in smashed strawberries and remnants of pancakes. Bending down, I kiss his dirty face, rubbing my nose against his.
This is how most weekend mornings go, with Louis up earlier than I am, making breakfast. Mason is an early riser, and I appreciate the Saturday and Sunday break when Louis gets up with him, as I’m the one who does all the morning preparation during the week.
Our flat is a block from the ocean, and we wake to the smell of salt hanging in the air daily. It’s built in an old shipping warehouse, with the units boasting brick walls and open-beamed ceilings. I love this place and found it even before Louis and I became official. It was just in my price range as a struggling twenty-year-old mum to be, and I cut out a lot of my expenses to be able to afford it.
It’s become a home in the past two years, one that we’ve all contributed to together. I’ve done most of the decorating, everything fitting into the seaside industrial theme as I like to call it. A lot of aquas and soft whites, paired with wrought iron and some more modern pieces. I’ve kept it comfortable, with overstuffed furniture, and tried to incorporate Mason’s artwork on the fridge, or blown up in a deconstructed canvas over the sofa.
Louis was the one who fixed up the kitchen, buying us the appliances he claimed all good home chefs should use. He’s the person who unclogs the shower drain and picks out the candles. I thought it was odd at first, a man wanting to fill our flat with candles, but he’s so silly about it that it’s become endearing.
“Hi, Mummy!” Mason coos in that sweet little voice of his, waving from his high chair.
I love that he is starting to speak, to tell me the things he wants or needs. Sometimes, I’ll wake up to him on the baby monitor, singing in his crib. It jolts me every time, that this angelic little boy who I’ve raised from a tiny baby, is growing into a real human being with feelings and emotions.
“Hi, bub. How did you sleep?” I ask him, trying to speak to him like an adult.
I’m obsessed with those lousy parenting articles you find all over the Internet, from how to sleep train your child to preparing them for Mensa. Most of them are total rubbish, but I’m addicted. My latest opinionated find was how all mums should talk to their toddlers as if they were conversing with a thirty-year-old.
“Good!” Mason answers, smiling up at me with all of his baby teeth.
“And what are you eating here?” I ask, pointing to his tray, trying to get him to recall words from his memory.
“Straws and cakes!” my boy answers, shoving another piece of pancake in his mouth.
I ruffle his jet-black hair, and it makes me think of Vance. “Very good, love!”
Louis walks to the table, setting down my plate of pancake and bananas, and a cup of strong, inky tea. I can see where he’s poured the milk, a cloud forming in the liquid. In a second he’s back, with his own plate piled high with a mountain of pancakes and syrup.
I’m about to thank him, when the words that, without fail, send rage through my veins come out of his mouth.
“Just have to go have a smoke, yeah?” Louis is shrugging into his jacket, the one he wears on the balcony in the winter when he’s lighting up.
We don’t have many points of contention, but this is one of them. “Do you really need to do that now? We’re sitting down to breakfast.”
Louis’s eyes grow irritated. “Breakfast that I cooked. Just give me a minute, Lar? Christ.”
The door doesn’t shut gently as he goes out to inhale that rubbish. As if smoking one of those electronic cigarettes won’t likely give him cancer in the exact same way the old-fashioned ones do.
We’ve gotten in row after row about this. How unhealthy it is for him, for me, but especially for Mason. Why he can’t just quit, since I ask very little of him. He, conversely, comes back swinging, throwing the fact that he has been here for me through a pregnancy that wasn’t his.
Louis is a good man, but he, just like all people in the world, has his thorns. His temper when it comes to subjects he’s pigheaded about can cut deeper than a knife.
When he finally comes back in, I don’t feel an ounce guilty about lying to him.
“I have to take Mason out this morning.” My heart ticks up a notch, because pulling the wool over someone’s eyes will do that to you.
Louis cuts into his pancakes, the entire kitchen now reeking of smoke. “That’s fine. I was going to log on and do some work anyway.”
Another sticking point between us, I loathe that he brings his work home. Louis is an architect, actually a brilliant one, but it means late hours in the flat living room and random assignments that take him away from us. Part of me wants to pick a fight about this, but I’m getting off pretty easily while lying about bringing my son to meet his biological father.
Seemingly glazing over that situation, Louis speaks again. “I thought that caterer the other day was a good option. Have you started calling florists? What do you think you want for your bouquet?”
That gnawing feeling of dread is back, eating at my intestines. How can I sit here and have an honest conversation with him about wedding details, when the whole ordeal makes me want to throw up the pancake I just ate?
I have no idea what I think about that caterer, or what kind of flowers I want in my bouquet. Half the time, there is an alien sensation com
ing from my ring finger, because it’s so wonky that a diamond ring is sitting on it.
Trying to inhale deeply without appearing as if I’ve just gone into a full-blown panic attack, I shrug. “We’ll get to it.”
Louis seems to take this answer in stride because there are no sidelong glances or questioning stares. He just stabs another piece of his breakfast, in a world oblivious to my doubts.
While on the other side of the table, I’m in a landslide of second thoughts.
* * *
The wind kicks up as I carry Mason into the park, the cold chafing his nose and turning it red.
I pull his hat down farther over his ears, and he tries to squirm away. “Walk! Mommy, walking!”
This is his demand for me to put him down, to let him stumble over the grass all by himself. When I agreed to the meeting, Vance had given me directions to a park just outside of Brighton. I know for a fact that it’s for privacy, so no one in the area would see us together, or Vance meeting his son for the first time. I’m just not sure if it’s for his sake or mine.
When Vance and I had been together, I’d been in my final year of secondary school. As a teenage girl going through her final year of school, I’d wanted to bring my boyfriend around my friends, hold hands on the front steps of school, bring him to dances, and the odd sports game.
He allowed none of that. When he came to Brighton, we spent the majority of our time together alone, either in his car, down on the beach, or in one of our separate houses. The brute hadn’t wanted to share me, or at least that’s the excuse he used most of the time. I’d been generally okay with that, seeing as I got limited time with him, but after a while, it got old. Having a relationship with someone who’s as elusive and secretive as Vance was a job, not an enjoyment. Being with someone is supposed to enrich your life, not complicate it.
The Mighty Anchor: Rogue Academy, Book Three Page 4
