Go ahead and call me a careless sister, or an abysmal decision-maker... because I choose to let Bailey go.
Well, technically, I just don't stop her when she decides to go. For some reason, it feels like there's a pretty important distinction between the two.
When Bailey starts to get all snippy about what a total C-word I'm being – and, yes, she really does use that word – I simply stay silent. She rants out her anger until she's practically blue in the face and, eventually, it's actually Alex who jumps to my defence. He joins us in the hallway to talk the metaphorical knife from her hands, his own personal crisis momentarily on hold for the sake of my shredded honour.
It's kind of sweet, actually.
Alex agrees with me. He says he knows it was wrong of him to come to our house, reckless as hell and all kinds of stupid. He apologises for taking that risk upon himself, says his head wasn't in the right place when he came knocking at two in the morning – and understandably so, I guess. Then, he agrees that he needs to leave before anyone else gets back.
Disgruntled by her friend's maturity, Bailey's temper soon simmers down. In a tense voice that tells me she's one disagreement away from another shouting spree, she announces that she's going with him. Then, she and Alex wait with bated breath, both fully expecting my refusal.
I don't say no; I don't say anything.
In fact, in all the time it takes them to don their shoes and pass me on their way to the stairs, there's only one thing that I actually do say.
"Just this one last time, guys."
But, after they leave, I start to think I should've said more. For starters, I should've told them to steer clear of his house, too.
Because who knows what other illegal weapons that family have stashed away there, hidden from view of those who don't think to look? The brothers could have their own artillery, for all I know. They could have a gun for every day of the week, a knife for every month of the year. Who knows?
I sure as shit don't, but I do know that I want Bailey nowhere near it.
They're dangerous, Jade, I remind myself – again – because somewhere along the way I had somehow forgotten. Yesterday had been a cold, hard reminder.
And yet, you still let her leave with him...
The thought sends a prickle of anxiety directly to my heart, twisting it uncomfortably as I stand in the hallway, second-guessing my decision.
The Coleman's are dangerous, they have always been dangerous – even before their parents went missing, back when it had been them running the show and the brothers were all mere boys. Stella went to school with their dad – I've heard the stories. The Coleman's have always been a rather large blot on the towns less than pristine reputation – like a blob of shit clinging to the side of an already stained toilet bowl.
But... then you get moments like this. Poor Alex, about ready to bawl his eyes out over a secret boyfriend he's too scared to be seen with, probably terrified of all the things that could go wrong when he does decide to come out. His brothers' opinions, other people's opinions – I mean, sure, it's 2024 but assholes still exist. And, with a reputation like Alex's, coming from a family like Alex's... those assholes could crawl out from their butt cracks, more menacing than most. It's no wonder he's so scared to be himself.
The Coleman's might be dangerous... but they're human, too.
I try my best to ignore the unwanted thought, and the conflicting feelings currently swirling up a storm behind my sternum. It's turning out to be a very difficult balance, impossible to think so black and white when you're close enough to see the silvery grey line that merges between.
The realisation that things aren't always so clear cut is absolutely terrifying. I wish everything could go back to how it was before, that I could just hit a rewind button and find myself back in a time when the Coleman's weren't a part of my life. I don't even understand how I got here in the first place.
And the stress of it all might just be killing me. My heart feels like its dying.
They won't go back to his place, stop stressing, I try to convince myself. They won't risk his brothers overhearing. It'll be fine.
"We've got the all clear," Owen's voice suddenly yells from downstairs, shortly followed by the bang of the front door closing. "Our pearly whites shall live to see another day!"
I hear his footsteps as he walks for the kitchen. Then, only a second later, George's voice calls out after him.
"That does not mean you can stuff your face with sweets!"
The only response is the clang of cupboards as Owen raids the snacks, probably searching for whatever he can find with the highest sugar content.
Realising that I'm still stood in the hallway outside Bailey's bedroom, I start in the direction of all the commotion. My phone buzzes in my back pocket as I reach the bottom of the stairs – a text from Ellie, obviously rushed.
'Hi, yoi free tp work tofay? Crazy bust! X'
I chuckle at the typos, a little surprised. Usually, Sunday's are in no way 'crazy' or 'busy'. Saturday's are typically the killer.
Still, I'm not complaining. Grateful for the distraction that's just been handed to me on a glass-screened platter, I type out a reply.
'Your thumbs having a stroke? No stress. Cavalry's on route! X'
Then, glancing down at the black jeans and white hoodie I'm wearing, I decide to head back to my room and switch out the top half for something more work-appropriate. I settle for a short-sleeved, grey blouse and quickly wrestle my hair into a ponytail.
As I head back for the stairs, I can't help the way my eyes dart in the direction of Bailey's door. I sigh when I realise that I'm now going to be worried about her all day, counting down the hours until I know she's back home and safe.
Trying to quell some of my worry, I send her a quick message, too.
'I'll be at work if you need me. Be safe.'
Surprisingly, her reply comes pretty fast – and it actually consists of more than a single word.
'Only thing I'm in danger of here is brain-freeze. I've taken Alex for ice cream. Took a twenty from your purse.'
Of course she did – and I can pretty much guarantee that she won't be paying it back.
I grumble to myself as I start down the stairs. Looking towards the coat rack by the door when I hit the bottom, I scowl at my bag as it hangs there – now unzipped – like it in any way had a choice in betraying me. Sure enough, when I check, the cash is gone.
On the upside, at least it's given them something to do, so they don't go back to his house. A missing twenty quid is worth that, in my opinion.
Even so, she could've at least asked.
After stuffing my feet into my pair of white trainers by the door, I venture to the living room to say bye to the boys before I leave. I find George sitting on the sofa, watching Owen and Oscar as they fight over the TV remote, and can't help but raise an amused eyebrow from where I stand in the doorway. There's a smirk of exasperation on George's face as he watches on, muttering the odd, "careful, lads," when they get too close to the coffee table.
He doesn't stop the fight. Secretly, I think he's trying to figure out who's going to win.
"Hey," I greet, earning a second of his eye contact before he returns his gaze to the chaos. "Bailey's gone to hang out with Katie for a while. She asked me to tell you."
It's shameful how fast the lie leaves my lips, and the guilt that follows in its wake creates a nasty feeling in my gut.
"Did she say where they're going?" George asks distractedly, wincing as Oscars knee smacks into the leg of the coffee table, "I said careful, lads."
The boys carry on, muttering out insults to one another as they roll around on the floor like a pair of head-butting goats.
"To get ice cream," I reply, relieved to have something to tell him that's not a lie. Then, to ruin it, I add, "I let her borrow a twenty."
Lies, lies, lies...
"Okay," George says, unaware of my inner turmoil as Oscar knocks the remote from Owen's hand, then scrambles to get it before his brother can. Owen is hot on his heels and the battle soon resumes. "Thanks, Jade."
I open my mouth to explain my new work plans, but George beats me to it.
"Oh, and I've parked close to the house for you, so there shouldn't be any problem with the hose not reaching."
Huh? Oh... right. Shit.
Luckily, George's attention doesn't waver from the world-war-one remake taking place in front of him, so he doesn't see the dawn of realisation cross my face. My smile slips when I understand what he's talking about.
I'm supposed to wash the car today.
It was entirely my idea, too – and George had been so grateful the other day when I offered.
With the way my brain has been these past few weeks, reflecting on thoughts I'd rather reject, I've been looking for every excuse under the sun to keep it occupied. I do things so I don't have to think things, finding ways to use up every inch of spare time that I have.
Unhealthy? Probably. But it's turning out to be a very productive means of coping.
I don't want to dwell on things – not my past, my feelings, or my fears. And I really don't want to sit and worry about the way my nightmares have returned with a vengeance... or that I don't know how to make them stop.
Over the past week or so, especially, my sleepless nights have become yet another problem to add to the ever-growing pile. And one I refuse to burden anyone else with. Much like the gun I saw, I'm keeping the information carefully under wraps.
Whatever wire has suddenly slipped loose in the deep, dark crevices of my psyche, I'm sure I can solder it back into place on my own. I don't want to worry Charlotte, or cause Stella and George any more unnecessary stress.
It's nothing.
It's fine.
I'm fine.
What's not fine, however, is that I now have to break it to George about the car – and, for some strange reason, I can't seem to find the words to tell him.
I stand rooted in the doorway, watching him watch the boys, and try not to panic at the familiar feeling of nausea that settles in my stomach. It starts small a first, expanding at an alarming rate as I try to ignore the small voice in the back of my head that I haven't heard for years. The one that says, "Don't make him angry!"
But that's ridiculous, completely and utterly irrational, because it's just George.
George, who I've never had to be afraid of, ever – not even once – in my entire life. George, the kind and patient, good-natured man who has taken me in under his wing for years, caring for me in ways I'd never thought possible. George, whose feathers are far too flat to ever be ruffled over something as mundane as a dirty car.
Uneasy by my own unease, I force the words from my lips before that stupid, irrational little voice can say any more. "Sorry, George. I completely forgot I was supposed to do the car today. I've just been called into work."
I hate the way my breath halts, and the tension that stiffens my shoulders as I wait for his response. For some reason, my brain and body are doing things they're not supposed to, now. It makes me feel so out of control that I almost start to cry – be it out of frustration, confusion, or a complicated mix of the two.
I don't understand what's happening to me.
"Not to worry, these things happen," George replies, completely unaware of my internalised distress. Laid back as ever, he continues to watch the boys with that same, exasperated smile, without so much as a frown crossing his features.
See? No ruffled feathers. It's fine. Stop being such a baby.
I need to chill the fuck out.
I need to move my fucking legs.
I need to get to work.
Only, I can't seem to do any of those things, right now. I can't do anything but focus on my breathing as my ribcage starts to crush my lungs like a trash compactor, one painful inch at a time.
Frozen in place and desperate to hide my struggle, I watch the boys as they tumble around on the carpet, pretending to be engrossed in their battle so that nobody notices mine.
Breathe. It's fine; you're fine. Just breathe.
It's a horrible feeling, having to struggle for air when you're surrounded by oxygen. It makes no logical sense, turns irrationality into plausibility within the capacity of your own mind, even though you know it's completely absurd.
The panic attack hits hard and I'm hopeless to stop it, rendering me at the mercy of my body's own volition.
By the time it finally passes – after mere minutes that feel eternal – I realise that George is watching me. Actually, he was watching the boys... he is studying me.
I'm fast to plaster on a smile as I see his brow dipped with concern, covering the cracks so he can't see the crumbling foundations.
A blip: that all that was. There's nothing to be concerned about.
As a welcome distraction, Oscar suddenly yells out something that Stella would definitely not let slide. Unfortunately, George still looks at me.
"Shouldn't you stop them?" I ask, forcing my voice to sound normal.
After a second of silent contemplation, George finally looks back towards the boys. Then, he clears his throat and shrugs, settling back against the sofa cushions in an attempt at nonchalance that fools nobody.
He's acting too calm to not be suspicious.
"They'll stop in a minute," he assures me. "When I tell them they've got a car to clean."
And, as if by magic, the boys' argument stops. They sit up fast, glares of disbelief identical on their faces as they stare at George, suddenly united by a common enemy.
"You have got to be joking," Oscar says, right before Owen chips in with, "That's called child labour. I'm telling Karen."
George sends Owen a dry stare, unamused by the joke. Then, he swiftly tilts his head in a clear, 'get out of here,' sort of gesture.
With eyes that never seem to miss a thing, Owen frowns in confusion, suddenly realising that something's going on. His eyes dart from George, to me, and back again. Then, he sighs and looks over at a still-fuming, completely oblivious Oscar.
"Water fight?" Owen suggests, raising an eyebrow.
Oscar can't seem to scuttle from the room fast enough and, after one more curious glance at the both of us, Owen follows to leave George and I alone in the living room.
"I'm going to be late for work," I say, the words sounding defensive, even to me.
George raises an eyebrow, leaning forward to rest his forearms against his thighs. He clasps his hands together in front of him and returns to his unnerving stare, searching my face for secrets I'd rather keep hidden.
"You alright, kid?"
It's a simple question, really.
"Me?" I ask with a smile. "Absolutely."
Lies, lies, lies...
Unsure of what else to say, and not wanting to incriminate myself any further, I turn to follow after the boys.
Thankfully, George doesn't stop me from going – although that's not to say that he lets me leave.
There's a pretty important distinction, remember?
From the look on his face, he isn't planning on letting this go. This won't be the last of this conversation.
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(Oof - this was a difficult one to write, I won't lie. It took me three rewrites to finally be happy with it. What do y'all think and, more importantly, what do you reckon happens next? Would love to hear your thoughts!
Also, I've realised that this will be thirteen weeks of regular updates, on the trot. How mad is that? It seems to have gone so fast!)
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