by E. S. Carter
My breath hitches between hiccups and Galen stands abruptly, removing his touch and warmth.
I can't be too sure, as it's likely the blood whistling through my brain, but he looks just as affected as me.
To save face in front of his boys he smirks and demands, "Tell us, Fflur, tell us how good we are."
I swallow hard before another hiccup bursts free. My eyes lock with his, and I want to beg him to come closer. Instead, I do as he asks and say with all sincerity, "You're going to be a star." You. Not the band.
Footsteps come down the hall and moments later Rhys storms into the TV room.
"Galen, your father is downstairs in the kitchen drinking a bottle of whiskey."
"My dad doesn't drink whiskey."
"He is now." Rhys looks at me and adds, "And Mum's just locked herself in the bedroom."
"Do you know what's happened?" I ask.
Rhys shakes his head. "Mum was comforting Max about something, but he shook her off. She begged him, but he told her to leave him alone, and she ran to their room and locked the door."
Galen stands, and without looking at them tells his friends, "I need you to go."
They do so without saying a word.
That just leaves us. Three unlikely musketeers.
My mum and Max never argue, never so much as raise their voices at each other. This is unfamiliar territory for us.
Galen looks from Rhys to me before walking out without saying a word, but we hear him go down the stairs and into the kitchen.
"Should I go and see Mum," I ask.
"I'd leave her. Stay out of it."
I nod in agreement, and we both go back to our separate rooms. I lie on my buttercup yellow bedspread and wonder what Galen is saying to his dad.
I try and stay awake, hoping to hear when Galen comes up to his room, but I fall asleep.
It's morning before I see him again. He exits his bedroom just as I'm leaving mine.
"Is your dad okay?" I ask.
"He said everything is fine, and there's nothing to worry about, but I know something is up. Did you talk to Mum?"
I shake my head.
"I'm sure everything's fine," he mumbles, his eyes on his feet.
"Yeah, nothing to worry about."
He keeps his head down, and we head off in our separate ways.
Chapter Nineteen
A few weeks later, Galen buys a rusty old banger from an elderly man a few streets over. It was his dead wife’s car, he told Galen, and she’d been gone over ten years.
By the looks of it, the car hasn’t moved in all that time.
The word jalopy was invented with this machine in mind.
Galen has been saving all his wages from his weekend job at the music store in town, and doing odd jobs in the neighbourhood to pay for his new wheels.
Max offered to buy him a brand-new car, but Galen refused saying he wanted to do it on his own. He gave the excuse he didn’t want a soulless hunk of metal straight off the production line, that he wanted something with history, but I think he wanted something that would always be his, that he’d earned, that gave him a sense of adult responsibility and in the same breath, reckless freedom.
He’s called the ugly, faded red, two-door hatchback with about a million miles on the clock, Mildred—God knows why, but the name kind of fits. It runs well, has an MOT, and he passed his test a few weeks ago, so he's all set to drive wherever he wants.
He dangles the keys in front of me and I try to act unimpressed, but he can see right through me.
"Want to go to the beach in Mildred?"
I shake my head.
"C'mon, Fflur. Come for a drive with me."
My heart whispers, 'Go' but I know I should ignore it.
"Take me to the mountains instead."
Knowing what I should do and sticking to it—when it comes to Galen—is impossible.
He grins big and ushers me out of the door with a flourish.
"Most girls would be excited by the beach, but not our Fflur, she wants to go to the mountains," he mocks as he opens the car door for me to slide into the passenger seat.
We’re silent for the twenty-minute drive, and not the companionable kind of silent. Ever since that day with his dad, Galen’s not been his usual cocky, overconfident self. His mood can flip on a coin toss.
“It’s a cool car,” I say, as we pull into the visitor centre’s car park that sits at the base of the mountains.
He grunts in response.
“At least you won’t ever have to wait for a bus again.”
Silence.
Why did he ask me to go for a drive if he didn’t want company?
“C’mon,” he finally says, while opening his door. “I guess you need to go and find some flowers.”
He slams the door shut and I stare at the square section of his back that I can see through the car window as if it will give me answers. It doesn’t tell me any more than the boy himself.
Part of me wants to sit here and demand he takes me home, but the bigger part of me knows that he needs this more than I do.
Eventually, I open my door and step out into the crisp air. I close my eyes and breathe it in deep. It always smells so good here; like clarity, endless opportunities, and nature all wrapped into one. When I open them, Galen is staring at me.
“What are you looking at?”
“I don’t know,” he says. A hint of his usual smirk plays across his lips. “It doesn’t have a label.”
“Well lucky for me, what I’m looking at does.”
His previously stony face dramatically brightens. “Does it? And what does it say?”
“Sulky. Arsehole.”
“Huh.” That’s all he says.
Then he turns his back on me and heads towards the well-trodden path that slowly guides you up the mountain.
I figured I might get an annoyed response from him or maybe a payback comment. I get nothing.
“Well, you are,” I say, sounding equally sulky while rushing to catch him up. “You haven’t been yourself for ages, and I don’t know why you bothered asking me to come with you if you’re going stay all moody and silent.”
That gets a reaction, and he spins on his heels to face me. The movement is so abrupt and unexpected that I stumble backwards a step.
"You haven't got a clue. You've got no bloody idea."
His words are angry, and nothing like the cocky, confident teasing I expect from him.
"Then tell me, Galen. Make me understand."
His mouth opens then snaps shut, and his shoulders stiffen before he spins back around and heads towards the mountain path.
I follow him because what else am I going to do. He may not want to speak to me right now, but the least I can do is be there if he ever does.
The next hour we spend in silence.
I pay very little attention to our surroundings, ignoring all the flowers that line our way, disregarding the ones that beckon me off the beaten path and onto the grassy slopes.
My mind is on Galen. On what is eating him up so bad.
We reach the top of the mountain without a word shared, and this silence between us clangs against my ribs, causing every intake of breath to hurt more than the one before.
The sun is bright today, quickly burning away the low-lying clouds. From up here, you can see for miles. It always makes me feel small and insignificant. I'm just one speck in an infinite universe filled with far bigger, far more important things. And yet, I still love the sense of freedom I get when looking at the vast expanse of land all around me, knowing that there's so much out there for me to explore.
Galen finds a rock to sit on. It's big enough for two, so after I drink my fill of the view, I walk over and sit next to him.
More minutes pass by in silence.
"I've just got a lot on my mind, Fflur. I didn't mean to take it out on you. You're the last person I ever want to upset."
I accept his apology with a single nod. If he wants to say more, he
will.
A few moments later he jumps down from the rock and turns to me with his hand outstretched.
"Come on. Pick some flowers with me?"
I look from his face to his offered hand, and back up again. The green grass of the mountain backdrop is a direct contrast to the emerald green of his eyes. The grass up here is wilder than their perfect lawn, maybe even a little yellow. It has nothing on Galen's stare.
I can see him wondering if I'll refuse his offer, and his hand wavers slightly, dropping a fraction in the air between us.
He smiles wide when I slip my fingers between his, and he tightens his grip. The stiffness in his shoulders and back loosens immediately, and with my hand in his he allows a fraction of whatever weight he carries, to float off on the mountain breeze.
No further words are spoken between us we make our descent, each of us collecting flowers on the way.
By the time we get back to the car, Galen's free hand is full of blooms, and he passes them to me before opening the car door and ushering me inside.
He leans in through the open door with the solemn look back in his eyes.
"I lied," he says, his voice carrying the heaviness of hurt. "You do have a label."
"What is it?"
"It’s Latin."
"And?"
"It says, Illicitus."
Chapter Twenty
It's the week before Galen's eighteenth birthday, and Gareth is throwing a party.
I'm not invited. Why would I be? I'm sure all his friends see me as is the annoying younger sister.
I spend the evening alone with Mum and Max as Rhys is also out, likely at the same party, but who knows with him. He doesn't seem to answer to anyone about anything.
Halfway through the film of Max's choice—some war epic that requires more concentration than I am capable of tonight—I excuse myself and go to bed.
After a long shower, I slide myself into my crisp, new sheets, and glide my legs over the clean cotton, relishing in the freshly made bed feeling.
With a heavy sigh, I pick up my paperback of Flowers in the Attic and read until almost midnight. I remember the day that Dad handed this to me, he assumed it had something to do with flowers and therefore would be a book that would interest me. Yeah, not quite what he had in mind, but still, I could appreciate the story and even somewhat identified with the children and their lives, even if mine was charmed in comparison. I dog-ear the page where Cathy is practicing her ballet moves in the attic, and flick off my lamp.
My head barely grazes my pillow before my phone vibrates on the bedside table. With a cursed groan, I fumble around in the dark to grab it, knock it off the nightstand, and cringe as it bounces on the carpeted floor. Awkwardly, I lean over the side the bed, hit my head on the lamp, and curse once more as my fingers scramble across the floor searching for the still vibrating phone. Galen’s name leaves my lips even before I know it’s him.
Garbled words muffled by the pounding base of music burst into my eardrum.
"Galen, is that you?"
He groans.
"Are you pissed?"
He hiccups. "Can you come and get me?"
"Don't be stupid, Gal. I can't drive," I mutter in annoyance.
"Please? You can get a taxi and come get me?"
"I don't have any money."
"Go into bedroom, b—bottom, bottt—tom drawer, rolled up in the red s—socks is some cash."
"It's midnight. Why not call a taxi yourself?"
"Only got phone. Didn't bring wallet."
I grumble in annoyance, yet my feet are already kicking off my covers.
"I'll go and get Mum and Max to collect you."
"No! Don't want them to see me like this,” he begs, a hint of worry in his voice.
"Fine," I concede, far too easily, but it is Galen and I can never say no to him. "I'm on my way."
I drag on some jogging bottoms over my short pyjamas and hastily pile my hair on top of my head in a scruffy bun.
I heard Mum and Max go up to their bedroom around an hour ago, so it's easy enough to tiptoe down the stairs and out onto the front lawn.
From there, I call a taxi, and it takes a little under ten minutes to arrive. I give the driver the address, and in another ten minutes, I'm standing outside Gareth's house at the end of a short cul-de-sac.
"That's eight pounds," the driver says, turning off his metre. I thrust a tenner in his hand and jump outside.
The place is packed with drunken teenagers.
I push my way through scantily clad girls and couples groping in corners, all the while searching for Galen.
A girl pushes past me, and whatever drink she has in her hand ends up down my back. I squeal, and a drunk boy wearing a rugby jersey snorts with laughter at my misfortune.
Where the hell is Galen?
Then I see him.
He's propped up on an uncomfortable looking wooden chair in the corner of the room. His head is tilted back, his body slumped, and his arms hang uselessly at his sides. The closer I get, the more I think the wetness than shines on his chin is either drool or leftover vomit.
I tap his shin with my foot. He stirs but doesn't open his eyes.
I kick it harder.
It seems to take all his strength to lift his head, open his eyes, and look at me. But when he does, a burst of renewed energy seems to zap through his body, and he stands on wobbly legs.
"Fflur."
The same guy that snorted when I got covered in drink appears from nowhere, looks from me to Galen and thunders over the sound of the music, "Your little sister's here to rescue you, hey?"
"He's not my brother," I bite out too quickly, but the drunken idiot doesn't hear me.
"I told him not to drink so much," he continues, nodding his head towards Galen as if he's so much less inebriated than him. "But he needed some Dutch courage." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and then jerks his head towards a group of girls in the opposite corner. I think one of them is Laurie. She looks exactly like Galen described.
"Come on, Galen. Let's get out of here."
"Stay, have another drink," says the drunk boy, and Galen smiles hazily at him through his stupor.
He mumbles something in reply, but the deep base swallows it, and he topples slightly to the right.
I rush to wrap my arm around his waist and guide him towards the exit. It's slow going, between dragging his drunken arse and manoeuvring our way through the crowd.
Once we're outside in the fresh air, he seems to get even more inebriated, if possible, and I'm forced to lean him up against a lamppost so I can call for another taxi. While we wait, I watch as it takes all Galen's concentration to stay upright.
His glazed eyes meet mine. "What's up, Fflur?" he mumbles.
I shake my head in annoyance and breathe a sigh of relief when our taxi pulls up.
"Is he drunk? the driver asks.
I look from him to Galen and shrug.
"If he's sick in the car, it's an extra hundred on top of the fare."
I have no choice but to nod, and I guide Galen into the back where he sprawls across the entire seat, leaving me no option but to get into the front.
The car smells like someone's just eaten something spicy and it's enough to make me want to open the window, so it's no surprise to hear Galen moaning and making heaving noises in the back, but luckily he isn't sick.
When we get back to his house, I almost have to drag him out of the car.
"You saved me again, Fflur," he garbles.
I lean him against the outside of the car, pluck a twenty out of my pocket, and pass it to the driver. It's double his fare, but I'm just glad he didn't leave us stranded.
He doesn't acknowledge the extra payment, but at least he waits until I get Galen upright before driving away.
We stumble like a comedy duo up the garden path, and as Galen leans into me something in his jeans digs into my side. When I prop him against the wall outside the front door, I can see his wallet bulging in
his pocket, the corner of brown leather peeking out. The stupid idiot was probably too drunk to realise he had it on him all along.
I slide my key quietly into the lock and whisper to Galen, "If you don't want Mum or Max to see the state you're in, you need to be quiet."
He nods, his eyes half closed.
Somehow, I manage to get him upstairs and into the bathroom we share. Having done my duty, I leave him, assuming he’s capable enough to sort himself out from here.
Ten minutes later, my bedroom door opens, and Galen plops onto the bed beside me before I even have time to turn on the lamp.
"You're in the wrong room."
"Nope," he says, dragging out the word and popping the P. "It's not."
When I flick on the light, I can see that all he's wearing is his boxers. They are tight, black, and surprisingly covered in little red roses.
"Can I stay your room with you?" he mumbles face down on the bed.
"Nope. But you can hang out for a while then go back to yours."
He grumbles something about this, but it's muffled by the bedclothes under his face. I push myself up to sit against the headboard.
"Did you have a good time at the party?"
"It was okay."
"What did you do?"
"Talked, drank, talked, drank some more, then they all started playing stupid drinking games."
"What kind of games?"
He flops onto his back before flinging his arm over his face.
"The childish kind. Anybody would swear we’re thirteen, not eighteen."
"Sounds fun. Not."
He mumbles in agreement.
"Was that Laurie I saw there?"
"Yeah. She was with her friends."
"Did she play the drinking games with you?" God, I sound like an idiot. A childish idiot.
"I didn't want to play with her."
"But I thought you liked her?"
"Yeah, I do. But I'm not interested in getting off with her in front of a party full of people. That's not who I am."
"What, you’re not a typical boy keen to get into a girl’s knickers?" I snort in disbelief.
He doesn’t bite. He stays irritatingly calm and replies, "I want to get to know a girl before I get physical, not have a drunk fumble while everyone else cheers us on."
