Sealed with a Kiss ✔

Chapter Twenty Four | Sealed with a Kiss

"Ruby, are you even listening to me?"

Dad's words, accompanied with an irritated edge, force me out of my stupor. I glance up from my coffee and shoot him a glare. It's not the first time I've been frustrated with him this week- him, Mum and Granddad. The only person I've not lost it with is Evie, and that's because she's five and oblivious to everything going on around her.

"I could ask you the same question," I mutter as I scowl down at the dark contents in my mug. I take a sip before screwing up my nose. The hot drink tastes too bitter.

Dad sighs across me and folds his arms. He looks tired. And not in that kind of way a busy day's work might leave someone. The shadows beneath his eyes are too dark and he sighs so often it's as though the only way he can breathe properly is when he's exhaling slowly. Then there's his hair, once usually tidy, is now unkempt and starting to grey. It makes my heart twinge in the same way it does when I see all the fine lines mapping Mum's hands.

What aren't they telling me?

I already know who it's about. It's Granddad. Even the nosy neighbour across the street knows something's up with him. The past few weeks he's just been shut up in his room, refusing to talk to anybody. When he does come out, he either talks about going home or apple juice.

A part of me still hopes that he needs the apple juice for his writing, to finish that book he still refuses to tell anybody about. But, for a long time now, I've realised that that's not true. Because when he has his door firmly shut locked and his windows curtained, his room is either far too quiet or barely audible with the muffled sound of crying. The latter breaks my heart.

Granddad's change of mood feels like it's come out of nowhere, to me at least. When I ask about him, I'm always given the same bloody answers: 'Don't worry about it,' or 'Everything's fine' or some form of it and it's beginning to drive me mad.

"Ruby, we've been through this," Dad says, his voice drained and quiet. "Granddad's just tired. Now answer me, when was the last time you've been out?"

I roll my eyes at his question. When Dad asks it again I take to sighing exasperatedly.

Distantly, I think of how it's funny how things can be so different. Behaviour that's universal, like sighing or blinking can be so distinct and suited to one person, it's almost as though they've crafted the action themselves. Dad's sighs are weary and long. Mine are short and sharp. Levi's are deep and make me shiver.

I stand up straighter, attempting to push all thought of him out of mind as soon as it appears.

Dad's question is one that he's also asked lots of times. He and Mum have more than a few times expressed concern over how I'm apparently working too hard and too late. And just like him, I also never give him a proper answer.

I face upwards, away from my cup, to stare at Dad right in the eye. "I have a right to know what's going with him."

"There's nothing to know!" Dad cries in frustration. This sudden burst of speech startles both me and him.

"Fine," I say through gritted teeth. It's clearly evident I'm not going to get an answer out of him any time soon. As much as I want to know, there's clearly no point.

I set my mug down on the kitchen counter, feeling frustrated tears prick my eyes. This is the last time I'm going to let Mum or Dad just sweep their secrets under the carpet and leave me in the dark. This is what it was like last time. I didn't know. I didn't know anything until I found Granddad lying on that bed, yellowed, bone-thin and so ill.

There was the simple explanation to finding him like that and there was the difficult one.  The simple on was alcohol-related liver disease. At the time, I was too young to understand the difficult answer.  I was too young to even understand the first.