IN THE HOURS BETWEEN • TC

Returning

—

The taxi drops him off five minutes from his house. Before starting the walk back, Timmy sits down on a bench, knowing he'll stick out like a sore thumb with his great big suitcase.

For a moment, he wants to pretend that he's on the bench on the common, Milo laying down over his feet, feeling the sun on his face. There were months ahead of him, then. He hadn't made any mistakes yet.

(If only he'd told her. If only he'd explained all that time ago, the day Una had found him and Frank in the dark, months ago. If only Timmy could have explained, told her that it was Frank who kissed him, Frank who initiated everything, every time.

He's not sure how much of it she knows. Not sure if she knows about the long hours they would spend in Frank's room, doing nothing, laying next to each other and holding hands. It had felt so pure, having a friend he could be so open with. They told each other so much, talked about things they never would have felt comfortable telling their other friends. Maybe it was because there was a time limit, because they knew it wasn't forever, that they were so close.

And then there was Una.

She was separate from everything else. She didn't smile as much as Frank, or go out with friends, or laugh at his jokes. She made him jealous of the people who were able to make her smile, and he was fascinated.

Una was like an unexploded bomb, buried for half a century in a field, an inconspicuous threat. It took time for him to dig through the layers of grit, of gravel and mud. He doesn't regret it.

He regrets other things, though.

He regrets letting Frank kiss him in the utility room. He regrets letting himself become something to be argued over, something to be fought over. He regrets the self-denial, the time spent trying to convince himself he thought nothing. He regrets choosing actions over words, regrets kissing her, touching her, letting her give her body to him, instead of talking. Instead of asking her about herself, what she liked and didn't. Now he's here, at home, he wonders if he knew her or if he simply settled for the Una she wanted him to know.

Most of all, he regrets all the things he should have said, to Frank, especially. He should have been clearer, should have let it stop at holding hands. He wishes he hadn't been speaking to Frank in the shadows at the end of the garden, wishes Frank hadn't kissed him, wishes he hadn't kissed back, wishes Una hadn't seen it and wishes he hadn't shouted at her, wishes he could have explained.

What he wouldn't give to be in Una's room, still, his head against her chest. He would speak to her, properly, tell her how scared he was to go home, to be a proper adult, to have responsibility, instead of what he actually did. Instead of entering silently, begging for affection he didn't deserve, knowing he was leaving in the morning, wishing for more time to explain, and doing nothing about it.

Wishing is no use now.)

—

The wheels of his suitcase rumble against the cobbles. Timmy stops outside the bakery, and there is a man behind the counter who isn't his dad. It'll take a while to get used to that, he thinks.

But since there is another mouth to feed now, Timmy's dad is spending less time in the kitchen, less time baking and selling and chatting with the locals. It was already like that in summer, when Timmy was leaving. Now, he guesses his dad will be spending more time in the shop, doing what he loves, and Timmy will be the one to look after their mess.

The lights are warm in the bakery. It's late afternoon and the man is packing slices of gateau into a box. It'll be closing time soon.

Timothée looks away and rings the doorbell of the door next to the shop. Stands there, his hand slightly clammy on the handle of his suitcase, and waits for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

Large, rhythmic thuds of large feet. That's the sound of his dad. But there is a gurgling, a wail that Timmy hasn't heard in six months; the cry of a baby he barely knows. He swallows and waits for the sight of his Dad's face, imagining it before the tired eyes, the grey hairs peeking through, the constant frown.

Reality exists - he knows this, and knows he can't escape - but it has always been easier, happier, for him to pretend.

---

I was reading through old comments and posts on my message board the other day and it made me feel so grateful. This story still has a way to go, and I just wanted to thank everyone who is reading it, whether you've been here since the good old days or you've only just found it. 

It's really inspiring having people cheering you on, especially when, like me, you update at most once a month LMAO

What I really want to say is that I'm grateful for everyone reading my writing. Take It Easy is almost at 100k which is ... absurd. I read bits of it now and I cringe, as I'm sure I'll do with this story in a couple of years. But thank you all for sticking around! I hope you're enjoying it. <3