“Dylan—”
Dylan?
Mack’s gaze—wide-eyed and faintly panicky—flitted between us all. For a moment it rested on me, and it seemed as though there was an unspoken plea there, in the dark, liquid depths.
Then he looked at Derek.
“Hi, Dad. I came as soon as I got your letter.”
Mum was crying.
She was crying and holding Mack’s hand. Mack looked deeply uncomfortable with the contact, but to his credit, he didn’t pull away. Twice our eyes met and twice he dropped his gaze. Neither of us mentioned the previous night.
I’d been nine when Derek and Mum first got together. I remembered him going up to Scotland occasionally back then to see his own son. Even after Mum and Derek had got married, they used to talk about Dylan coming down to visit over the summer holidays at some point. Derek had kept saying how the two of us could be friends and I could take him down to the beach with me. Show him round Porthkennack.
I’d had a secret fascination with this other boy, just a year younger than me. I used to make elaborate plans of how I’d entertain him when he came to visit. But he never did come, and as time passed, it seemed like Derek mentioned him less and less. Then, one evening—we’d been sitting round the TV, eating dinner—I’d asked, with all the diplomacy of a self-absorbed teenager, whether Dylan was ever going to visit us.
Derek had got this funny look on his face and I’d realised I’d put my foot in it. I’d thought maybe he was going to get angry with me, but he hadn’t. He’d just got up very quietly and left the room. And when I’d tried to ask Mum about it, she wouldn’t explain.
It was years later that she’d told me, one night after too many glasses of wine, that Derek and Dylan had argued on one of Derek’s visits and Dylan had told him he didn’t want to see him again. Derek had taken him at his word, and Mum had been unable to persuade Derek to go and sort things out with him.
I’d been shocked. My easygoing stepdad, the guy who drove me around and took me to football and swimming training and nagged me to do my homework, had argued with his own son badly enough that they hadn’t seen each other since?
Given the state of their relationship, I’d stopped expecting to ever meet Derek’s son. It had been easy to forget he even existed—Derek hadn’t mentioned him in years.
But now here he was.
Dylan.
Mack.
Sitting on the sofa next to my mum as she clutched his hand with one of hers and wiped away her tears with the other.
“I’m s-sorry,” she hiccoughed. “You must think I’ve gone mad. Only, it’s so good to finally meet you, Dylan love.”
Derek was standing awkwardly by the mantelpiece, his body language screeching his discomfort and adding to the strained atmosphere—certainly Mack kept sending him wary sidelong glances. Rosie sat curled up in her usual spot, silent but watchful, her eyes all but eating up this new half brother who had suddenly presented himself.
Mack offered Mum a tight smile and said, “It’s good to meet you too. I’m sorry it took me so long to get here, but I only got the letter a few days ago.”
“Letter?” Mum glanced at Derek, her eyes welling up. “I thought you didn’t know where he was?”
“I didn’t.” Christ, Derek looked awful: miserable and uncomfortable and somehow shell-shocked. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”
Mack cleared his throat. “He sent it to my grandparents, so it took a while for the letter to reach me. I don’t see much of them—I only speak to them every now and then.”
Mum pressed her lips together and blinked hard, trying to keep back another flood of tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It’s awful that we didn’t even know where you were living.”
She glanced at Derek again and he stared back, ashen-faced. Mack himself was expressionless, though there were tell-tale signs of discomfort. His jaw was clenched tight, and his throat bobbed nervously. My gut twisted in sympathy.
Mum took a deep breath and turned her attention back to Mack. “So, where do you live now?”
He shrugged. “I move around a lot. I’ve been in Manchester for the last few months, but the bar where I’ve been working is closing for renovation, so I was thinking of heading back down to Essex. Or maybe London.”
Mum nodded but her eyes looked suspiciously shiny, and I knew why. She had a big thing about family and home, and hearing that Mack—her own stepson—didn’t seem to have that would be eating her up.
Fuck, I thought, please don’t start crying again. It’s obvious he hates it.
“Anyway,” he went on. “Like I said—I got Dad’s letter a couple of days ago. It’d been at my gran’s for a few months, but I only found out when I called her a couple of weeks ago and she forwarded it to me. And . . . well, here I am.”
“Why didn’t you call me first?” Derek asked, almost desperately. “I put my number in the letter. I asked you to ring me.”
“Derek!” Mum hissed. “He’s come all this way!”
“I know,” Derek said, flushing. “All I mean is it would’ve been better if we could have spoken first. It wouldn’t have been such a—you know, such a shock.”
Another shrug from Mack—that seemed to be something he did a lot. A speaking gesture that I was beginning to interpret as It doesn’t matter.
“I was going to call,” he told Derek. “But every time I dialled the number, I ended up disconnecting before you could answer. I just . . . I dunno, I felt weird speaking to you after so long, especially after the last time. And doing it by phone?” He shook his head in swift rejection of that idea. “In the end, I decided to get on a bus so we could at least talk face-to-face.”
“When did you get here?” Mum asked, and Mack’s gaze flicked to me, making my stomach flutter, before he quickly looked away again.
“I only got to Porthkennack earlier today. I came over this afternoon actually, but no one was in, so I thought I’d come back later. Leave it late enough to make sure you’d be at home this time.”
Mum patted his hand and said warmly, “Well, we’re really glad you came, aren’t we, Derek?”
“Yes, of course. Listen, Dylan—” But before Derek could go on, Mack was speaking over him.
“Dad—let’s cut to the chase here, okay? You wrote to me for a reason. You wanted to know if I could help Rosie.” He glanced at Rosie here, offering her a small smile. She stared back, wary and fearful, like she was scared to hope.
“We’re the same blood group, you and I,” he told her. “According to Dad, that means I might be able to donate some of my liver to you.” He paused, adding more softly, “And if I can, I will.”
Rosie covered her mouth with her hand. A moment later, a sob broke out of her, a pained, raw sound that made my throat ache. Mum started crying again too, while Derek covered his face with his hands.
Mack glanced around, plainly uncomfortable with all the emotion, and the death grip Mum still had on his hand. I caught his eye and gave him a nod, mouthing Thank you at him, before going to Rosie, lifting her up right out of her chair—even at fifteen she was small and light as a child—and sitting back down with her in my lap while she sobbed her relief against my shoulder.
I wasn’t sure if my attempt at reassurance had helped Mack at all, but he didn’t get up, or try to leave, which was something. He sat quietly while Mum composed herself and found her voice again.
“Dylan, love, you . . . you can’t imagine what this means to us—we’ll never be able to thank you.” She drew in a long, quivery breath. “Of course, you’ll have to be tested before we can know for sure whether you can be a donor, but we can get that arranged straightaway.”
Mack nodded. “Yeah. I understand.” He glanced at Derek, who stood watching, tense and tight-lipped, then at Rosie, whose sobs were quieting as I rubbed slow, comforting circles on her back.
Derek cleared his throat then. “Dylan, listen, I am glad you came. I just—” He broke off, seeming lost as to what to say
. “I just wasn’t sure what you’d make of my letter, and I’ve wanted to get back in touch for so long—”
Abruptly, Mack tugged his hand free from Mum’s grasp and stood up, facing his dad. “Can we not do this? I’m not here for a reunion, Dad. I’m just here to help my sister if I can. That’s all.”
He didn’t say it harshly—if anything, he sounded desperate—but Derek went white and fell silent. Mack immediately turned his attention back to Mum, and it occurred to me that, despite how emotional she was, she was probably the easiest one of us for him to cope with. He plainly didn’t want to speak to Derek and didn’t seem to know what to make of Rosie. As for me, well, having me in the room probably wasn’t making things any easier. Not if he felt as unbalanced as I did by seeing him again.
“Look, this is a lot for me to take in,” Mack said, rubbing the back of his neck. “And not just me—all of us. Why don’t we all sleep on it, yeah? I’ll come back tomorrow and we can talk about the arrangements for me to get tested.”
Mum got to her feet slowly. “You’re going?” she said, her dismay palpable. “But . . . aren’t you staying with us?”
Mack shook his head. “I’ve got a B&B.”
“Oh, but there’s no need for that,” Mum protested. “We’ve got a spare room.”
“Um, no offence,” Mack said, taking a step backwards, “but I kind of need some space right now. You probably do too.”
“Okay,” Mum said reluctantly. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, love. But maybe we could have your number? I’ll write down ours for you.” She scurried off to fetch paper and a pen and was soon back with a list of numbers. “That’s the landline,” she said, pointing to the top one, as though Mack wouldn’t be able to tell a landline from a mobile number. “Plus mine and Derek’s mobiles. And Jonathan’s too. If you can’t get hold of either of us, call Jonathan. He always knows where we are—better than we do ourselves usually!” She gave a strained laugh and looked at me. “Isn’t that right, love?”
“Jonathan,” Mack repeated and glanced at me.
“Most people call me Nathan,” I explained, my gaze firm on him. “Mum’s the only one who insists on calling me by my Sunday name.”
He nodded, meeting my eyes. “Most people call me Mack.”
I didn’t know if that exchange meant anything to Mack, but to me, it meant something. It meant that the honesty I’d felt between us last night hadn’t been fake. And somehow, it settled me, knowing that. That Dylan was still Mack.
In that moment, I knew he’d always be Mack to me.
Mack dropped his gaze first, tucking the list of numbers into his pocket and rattling his own number off for Mum.
“So,” he said, once she had it down, “I’ll head off now. Give you some peace.”
Mum grimaced at that remark, though she managed to salvage a weak smile at the last moment. “I’ll give you a lift to your B&B if you like, love, which one is it?”
“You don’t need to do that,” Mack said quickly. “It’s just ten minutes from here on the seafront, and I could do with the fresh air, to be honest.”
“Okay,” Mum said. She was wearing her brave face, but she was plainly anxious and I knew why. She was worried Mack was going to go back to his B&B and change his mind. Decide he wasn’t inclined to help his estranged dad’s other family after all. And really, why should he? What had Derek ever done for him? What had any of us?
Gently, I shifted, murmuring in Rosie’s ear, “I need to take care of something for Mum, okay?” She nodded and stood, letting me up, her gaze fixed on Mack.
“I’ll walk you down to your B&B,” I told Mack. “I’m heading off now too anyway.”
Mum glanced me, her gaze relieved. “That’s a good idea, love,” she approved, clearly liking the idea of at least knowing where Mack was staying. Mack was less easy to read, his only reaction a brief nod.
We headed out into the hall to fetch our jackets, Mum talking Mack’s ear off about the next day’s arrangements. She finally, reluctantly, let us go a few minutes later. As we called our good nights to each other, she stood there, framed in the light of the doorway, a fragile, hopeful figure.
“I didn’t know who you were,” Mack said, as we strolled towards the seafront. He didn’t seem to object to me walking with him, which was a relief.
“I figured,” I said. “Same here.”
“It’s kinda weird.”
I glanced at him. “How so?”
He met my gaze just as we passed under a streetlight. Those eyes. So dark and melty. Making my stomach turn over with helpless lust.
“Technically, we’re stepbrothers.”
I gave a strained laugh. “Right, I see what you mean. But it’s not like we met before we hooked up.”
“True,” he murmured, looking away, eyes fixed forward.
An awkward silence grew between us. I searched my mind for something innocuous to say to break it, but found myself blurting out, “Why did you leave the hotel without waking me this morning?”
His turned back to face me. Carefully he said, “You said you only wanted to blow off some steam.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Even so. You could’ve, you know, said goodbye.”
He shrugged. It doesn’t matter.
But it mattered to me.
At last he said, “Don’t get me wrong, last night was great, but I knew I was coming here today, and that afterwards, I’d either be heading straight back to Manchester or going into hospital to have half my liver cut out. I wasn’t in the market for anything more than a hookup.”
It was a fair point, but I was still faintly hurt by his blunt words. Despite what I’d said to him, it hadn’t felt like a casual fuck to me.
I sighed and shoved my hands deeper into my pockets, saying nothing, and for a while, we walked along in silence.
When we turned off Cockle Lane onto the seafront, it occurred to me that we were getting close to his B&B—and that I wasn’t quite ready for this to end.
Whatever this was.
Before I could think better of it, I said, “Look, do you want to get a beer?”
He turned to look at me and his expression was wary—wary but with a hint of interest.
I added softly, “Just to talk. It’s been a hell of an evening.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. It was an oddly vulnerable gesture—another one I already recognised from him. It was the weirdest thing, but seeing him do that made me want to step right up to him and wrap my arms round him. Give him a reassuring hug.
Instead, I waited.
Honestly, I expected rejection. Another I need some space, but when he finally spoke, he said, “Yeah, okay, why not. One beer can’t hurt.”
On reflection, the Sea Bell probably wasn’t the best place to take Mack. I was so used to the place, I’d forgotten how unwelcoming it could be to newcomers. A dozen heads turned when we entered, and whilst I got the usual grunts and nods, Mack garnered assessing stares, even though he was with me.
Not that he seemed too troubled.
“There be a stranger in town,” he murmured in a comedy Cornish accent as we headed for one of the tiny tables.
I grinned. “Yeah, it is a bit like that. Sorry.”
Mack shrugged, though this time with a hint of smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“What do you fancy?” I asked as I hooked my jacket over the back of the wooden chair. “Pint of the local brew?”
“What’s that, then?”
“Chough’s Nest.”
He looked dubious. “I think I’ll just take a pint of lager, thanks.”
“Coward,” I chuckled. “Okay, gimme a minute.”
Jago was already pulling my pint when I reached the bar. “Who’s your friend then?” he asked darkly, eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Evening, Nathan, what can I get you?” I replied cheerfully.
“I’m already getting yours,” Jago pointed out. “So who is he?”
“Um . . . family friend
,” I improvised. “And he’s having a pint of lager, thanks.”
Jago huffed, a sound that somehow managed to convey agreement and contempt in one. “Is he from round here then?”
I shook my head. The accent would give Mack away soon enough, so I added briefly, “Scotland.”
“Oh right. One of Derek’s side, is he?”
“Yeah,” I said, my tone vague. “You got anyone playing tonight?”
The Sea Bell held a proper folk night once a week but a lot of musicians hung out here who might play a few songs ad hoc, if they were in the mood.
“Andy’s in,” Jago said tipping his head at a scruffy bloke at the end of the bar, greying hair held back in a ponytail. “He might get his guitar out later, I s’pose.”
I didn’t much care, but it seemed to have worked as a change of subject. Jago put the two pints up on the bar, and I paid, then headed back to the table where Mack waited.
As I approached him, I wondered what it was about Mack that struck me as odd. It was only as I reached the table that I realised—he wasn’t fiddling with a phone like most people did when they were left on their own in a pub. He was just sitting there quiet, thinking.
“One pint of pissy, generic lager,” I said, setting his glass down in front of him. I sat down opposite, lifting my own glass to my lips to take a swig, giving an appreciative sigh after. “And one pint of fine, locally brewed Cornish ale.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll stick with the pissy lager, thanks,” Mack replied dryly. “At least I’ve got a fair idea what’s in it.”
He took a drink, and I watched him, reminded, inevitably, of the night before when he’d stood opposite me in Club Indigo, tipping up his beer bottle, slim throat bobbing as he swallowed, dark gaze full of promise.
It wasn’t full of promise now. More wary.
“So,” I said. “It’s been quite a day for you.”
He gave a short laugh. “You could say that.” Then he sighed. “I should have called first. It wasn’t cool, turning up without warning.”
I felt oddly aggrieved on his behalf. “Hey, he’s your dad. You get to turn up whenever you like.”
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