On Ben's daily demand, I ordered wholesale milk, fresh meat and seasonal produce from online greengrocers and local butchers to ensure customers ingested raw, organic meals rather than cheap, convenient meals. Delivery drivers conveyed brim-full crates to the cafe's side entrance, where Ben awaited to sign proof-of-delivery forms while tired, ashen-faced employees rolled everything into the kitchen for stock rotation.
Still, I visited the grocery store once a week to pick up products unrelated to my brother's business. Additional shopping was unnecessary—given the fact I could purchase almost everything I buy in-store online with our grocery hauls—but I loved nothing more than a leisurely stroll around the aisles. It allows me to think clearly, to sample strawberry laces and, well, have some alone time.
I am sure most mothers would agree that time is of the essence where kids are concerned. I only had one child to contend with, which was mentally exhausting. Imagine having to collect two children after school. Imagine having to bathe three children after dinner. Imagine having to wake up four grouchy children for breakfast in the morning? Imagine having to prepare five packed lunches for five picky eaters?
One bambino is enough.
Nine-year-old Carter Hughes was more than enough.
Chocolate coated pretzels landed in the trolley.
Smarties are my favourite.
Breaking the orange juice seal, I put the plastic rim to my lips and drank to parch thirst while eyeing the magazine rack. Carter loved anything National Geographic, and this week's edition came with an inflatable globe.
Tossing the magazine in the trolley, I meandered through aisles until I found myself lingering near the clothes department. I wanted new pyjamas, but frugal spending forbade such wastefulness. I could make do for a few more months.
Carter's desperate for new clothes, though. He's gotten taller.
After counting notes in the back of my purse, I selected three pairs of pyjamas, a pack of ankle socks, plain white T-shirts and denim jeans. His gear definitely took me over budget, but there is nothing more satisfying than decking out your kid. He preferred branded tracksuits from the sports store, but he never complained or made me feel guilty for saving more expensive items for birthdays. He's a good kid—a grateful kid. He'll appreciate the non-branded gear all the same.
I dropped the white baseball cap on the floor.
"Here." A fresh-faced male store attendant picked it up. "Looking for a boyfriend?"
My eyes narrowed.
"The clothes?" His smile was cheeky. "Are you looking for a boyfriend or buying for yourself?"
I put the cap on top of the folded pile of clothes in the trolley. "My son."
"Oh." His arms folded across his broad chest. "You should wait until tomorrow. All these," he gestured to a rack of hoodies, "will be on sale. Fifty percent off everything."
I wish I'd known about the sale before everything went into the trolley. I will not embarrass myself by putting it all back, though. "Oh, it's okay. I might as well grab it whilst I'm here."
"Makes sense." He followed me into the next aisle. "So, do you shop here often?"
"I alternate between superstores," I said, and he feigned offence. "What?"
"Lining our competitors' pockets." His brown eyes glittered in amusement. "I should kick you out for disloyalty."
I smiled, but his bizarre flirtatiousness was hardly funny.
Tousling his brown hair, he paused by the accessories. "Hey, maybe I could take you out sometime?" Beaded necklaces slipped through his fingers, scattering across the tiled floor, and when he bent over to grab them, his head clipped on the shelf, sending another batch of jewellery to the ground. "Shit. Let's pretend that didn't happen."
"Straight to the point, huh?" My eyes focused on the home section. "Actually, I don't date."
His chin elevated. "Ever?"
"Ever," I repeated, and he gave me a brooding look. "It was lovely meeting you, though."
I walked away.
"Hey," he called, and I reluctantly looked back. "I didn't get your name."
I fake-smiled. "Emma."
"Hugo," he introduced himself with a wolfish grin. "I'll see you around, Emma."
Not likely.
I wheeled to the self-service checkout, shook out a few carrier bags and hurled everything onto the conveyor belt. I scanned two items before the store intervention light flashed, and the robotic voice declared an unexpected item in the bagging area.
As instructed, I removed the item before continuing, then apologised to the straight-faced store manager. "It happens every time," I told him, but he simply groused in response. "It's ridiculous, really. I'd hardly steal a box of eggs."
"You'd be surprised." His code overrides the transaction. "People will steal just about anything when desperate."
"Right," I said tightly. "Well, it's a good job that I am not desperate."
He waved a flippant hand. "Sure."
I packed bags and paid for groceries without any more mishaps.
Dragging the trolley outside, I trekked across the car park and, feeling vibrations in my pocket, unlocked the boot of my car.
Carter's school was calling.
"Hi," I answered the phone while juggling pears and hair products. "Yes?"
"Hello, Miss Hughes," she said, and I recognised her scratchy voice. "It's Mrs Lang calling. Carter's deputy head."
Yanking the boot's door down, I returned the trolley to the front of the store. "Is everything okay?"
"Carter is complaining about tummy pains." She sounded sceptical. "It's the fourth time this month."
Yes, I am aware of Carter's active imagination.
"Do you want us to keep an eye on him, or would you rather pick him up?"
I fell behind the steering wheel. "What do you advise? I mean, I can bring him home. That's not a problem. But I don't want this to become a bad habit." Not again, I thought. "I worry that he'll pretend to be sick often if it guarantees days off school."
"Yes," she agreed. "Perhaps you could collect him and have a chat this afternoon—find out why he doesn't want to be here."
My fingers drummed on the steering wheel. "Has he made any friends yet?"
"The children love him," she assured me. "Alas, he prefers to play alone."
My heart squeezed. "I will be there in fifteen minutes."
***
Carter is tucking into the strawberry laces I forgot to pay for—I guess I am a desperate leech, after all. Licking sugar from his fingers, he rolled down the window, letting the cold air sweep around us, and flicked through radio stations. He opted for classic rock music, Ben's preferred genre, and kicked his feet onto the dashboard.
I braked at the red traffic light. "Your stomach stopped hurting, huh?"
Carter looked at me, and I melted. I know I am biased, but my son is the most handsome little boy I have ever clapped eyes on. His facial features are perfectly shaped and flawless. He had brown, quirky hair, which fell slightly messier on the top, and cute, fused lips that often pouted when he sulked. He had a dry personality and an odd sense of humour. Except for his green eyes, he very much resembled his father.
I love him.
Even when I was mad at him for lying in school, leaving his dirty pyjamas all over the bedroom floor, or spitting toothpaste on the bathroom mirror above the sink, I loved him more than life itself.
"I think I was hungry." He shrugged. "I feel much better now."
Indicating to the right, I worked the gearstick and accelerated into the next street. "Maybe I should take you back to school then."
His face paled.
"Carter," I said with a small sigh. "You were never sick. You lied to come home early."
He never denied it.
"Why?" The steering wheel threaded through my hands. "Are you unhappy at school? Is anyone picking on you? Do I need to kick someone's arse?"
"No," he said morosely.
"Because I will," I said, and I meant it. "If people upset my boy, I will wreak havoc."
He cracked a toothy smile. "What if it's a kid?"
"I'll beat his mother instead." Not literally. I very much doubt I could fight my way through a paper bag, but he doesn't need to know that. "How does that sound?"
Carter flicked through the new magazine, reading about cheetah cubs.
I gnawed my lower lip. "Hey, so, shall we watch a movie later?"
He closed the magazine. "Mum, can I ask you something?"
"Of course." I gave his knee a reassuring squeeze. "Fire away. I am all ears."
"How come Uncle Ben never picks me up from school?"
I frowned at that. "Well, it's my job to get you. Plus, Ben is busy in the cafe all day." His gloominess triggered questions. "Why? Do you not like me picking you up?"
"No, it's just..." His tongue pushed into his cheek. "Henry's dad always picks him up."
My hands tightened around the steering wheel. "Okay."
"Arthur's dad gets him, too." He turned in the seat to face me fully. "And Caleb's dad. And Abbie's dad. And even Kaleem's dad."
"Ben's your uncle, Carter." A knot formed in my throat. "He's not your dad."
"I know." His dark eyebrows drew in. "But, maybe, Ben could pretend to be my dad sometimes? We have to play football next week, and he could be there..."
Steering into the tight alleyway, I slowed down to pass community service workers and parked behind the yellow skip, the tyres mounting on the curbside. Turning off the engine with shaky fingers, I eased back in the seat. "Ben wouldn't be anywhere else, Carter." His hopeful eyes met mine. "He's the best uncle, right?"
He nodded.
"But I don't think he should pretend to be someone he's not," I said carefully, and he slumped in the seat. "It's not cool to lie."
"That's easy for you to say." His voice raised. "You see your dad all the time."
"Carter, that's not true, and you know it." When I reached for his hand, he jerked away from me. "Baby, I haven't seen my dad in over ten years."
He scoffed. "Yeah, because of me."
Panic seized my heart. "No, my relationship with him has nothing to do with you—"
"I heard you," he argued, kicking the passenger side door open. "You told Uncle Ben that he'll never visit because of me."
Scurrying out of the car, he slammed the door in my face.
"No—wait." Stumbling out of the driver's side, I locked the door and chased him towards the cafe. "Carter, let me explain."
"I don't care, mum." His bag dragged on the floor as his feet stomped across puddles. "You'll keep lying anyway."
Gripping him by the shoulder, I spun him around to face me. "Do not raise your voice to me." Blinking back tears, I crouched down to put us eye-level. "You are upset, and I want to talk about that. But I am still your mother."
When a tear fell down his cheek, he broke eye contact.
"My father is a jerk," I told him, and he snivelled. "There is so much you don't understand, baby. I don't lie to hurt you. I choose not to say something that'll upset you."
"I am not a baby anymore, mum." He huffed out a breath. "I am old enough to understand."
My palm touched his cheek. "Knowing is not understanding."
He pulled a face. "Says you."
Words died on my tongue.
"You know where I come from?" His deep voice came from behind, and Carter peered over my head. "Ignorance is bliss."
Interlacing our fingers, I slapped on a brave face and turned to look at Brad. He had tucked his white t-shirt into the waistband of his grey jogging bottoms and thrown his blond hair into a messy knot. I might not like the guy very much, but I appreciated his efforts with Carter—and his glorious washboard abs.
"Brad." I ruffled my son's hair. "This is Carter and..." He released my hand, shot Brad a dirty look and stormed into the cafe. "He is not my friend right now."
Brad knotted two black sacks. "What did you do to him?"
"I don't know..." Picking up one of the rubbish bags, I walked alongside him to the next skip. "I think Carter wants to know about his dad, but he doesn't know how to ask me."
Brad hurled bins into the skip. "Make it easier for him."
I handed over the black sack. "What do you mean?"
"Why wait for him to ask?" He closed the steel lid once all the sacks were inside. "You're his mother. Sit him down and tell him what he wants to hear."
If only life were that simple. "I cannot."
He pulled off black gloves. "Why?"
"No good will come from such conversations. Carter's father..." I will not burden my son with that knowledge. "You never came back for free coffee." As I walked back to the car to unload the boot, he lingered by my side, hiding from the new female supervisor, it would seem. "Do we not meet your standards?"
"What's the deal there, anyway?" He glanced at the cafe. "It's got the whole hippy vibe going on."
"Hippy vibe?" Overloading my arms with bags, I reached in for another when he began to slip carrier straps over his own arms. "You don't like bohemian decor?"
His lips pressed into a thin line. "Is that what you call it?"
My eyes rolled. "Look, do you want free coffee or not?"
I led the guy to the side entrance to avoid Quinn's inquisitiveness. Ben was in the kitchen with friends and employees, Wyatt and Ethan. "What happened?" Flinging a tea towel over one shoulder, Ben slid a judgmental glance in Brad's direction. "Who's this geezer?"
I shot him a warning glare. "Ben, this is Brad. He's one of the community workers."
Brad placed carrier bags on the empty workstation. "Emma's big brother, right?"
"Big?" I laughed. "He's younger than me."
"By eight seconds." Ben shook Brad's hand. "Twins."
"No shit?" Brad looked between us. "You look nothing alike."
"I am the better-looking twin," I joked, and Ben grunted in disagreement. "What? It's true."
Ben's head tilted as he scrutinised our guest. "I recognise you from somewhere."
"Yeah?" Brad's merriment morphed into guarded expressionlessness. "Well, you walk past me every morning to take the bike out for a spin."
Ben loved his motorbike.
My brother harrumphed. "What's your surname?"
"Ben." My eyes were murderous. "Do not interrogate my friend."
He tsked. "It's hardly an interrogation, Em."
My hands slid to my hips. "It's rude, though."
"Hey, it's no biggie." Brad tapped Ben's shoulder. "You're just looking out for your sister, right?"
Ben's uncharacteristically unapproachable. "Something like that."
Brad gave me a two-finger salute and slipped through the fire door, returning to his duties outside. At this rate, he'll never get free coffee.
"Ben." My shoulders sagged. "What the hell was that about?"
"You know who that is, right?" His cheeks were flushed. "That's Brad Jones."
"Yes, I am aware of his name."
Ethan and Wyatt shared concerned looks.
Ben ran a hand down his face. "Then you know he's close friends with Warren."
Liam Warren was recently sentenced to life imprisonment at a maximum-security prison for unspeakable crimes. It was all over the news and in every newspaper. "Okay..."
"He's not someone you want to welcome into our lives, Em." Ben returned to his station to chop red onions. "Think about Carter."
Yes, I suppose he does make a valid point. "It's unfair to judge someone based on the fact they were once associated with a criminal."
"Once associated. What, you think because his friend is locked up, he no longer has a relationship with him?" He chuckled, and his male employees joined in, all three chortling at my expense. "My sister is so naive."
"Hey," I scolded, but his attention never wavered from the chopping board. "I am not naive. He's a nice guy." When he's not acting like a spoiled brat. "Mostly."
Ben paced the kitchen. "Until he's not."
"Jesus, Ben." I eyed the snickering duo entertained by their boss' spats. "I am not dating him."
"Good. Keep it that way." He cracked two eggs into the frying pan. "What's up with Carter, anyway? He's in a foul mood."
Wyatt extracted baked baguettes out of the oven. "Shouldn't he be in school?"
Nodding, I poured coffee into a mug. "They asked me to bring him home."
Ethan emptied chips into the fryer. "Why?"
"Bad tummy," I said, and everyone grunted. "Yes, I know he is lying. I got it handled."
The kitchen door flew open.
Quinn, the customer's favourite redhead and my best friend, began to reel off a long order. "Okay, can we get two Keesy Chins, three filthy fries, beaten-up onion rings, Caesar's salad for gods, four Cish and Fips."
"Quinn, for fuck's sake." Ben speared a hand through his hair. "Just give us the proper order. I don't understand that jargon."
She winked at me. "Bacun and Cado butty."
Uncapping the sugar pot, I spooned two heaps into the mug. "Not even I understood that one."
"Avocado?" Ethan mused, and she nodded. "In a bacon bap?"
"Yes." She slapped the papered note on Ben's chest. "Get cooking, chef. It's wild out there." With a sharp head tilt, she asked me to go outside. "Cigarette break."
I was more than happy to get away from hawk-eyed Ben.
Quinn sparked a cigarette in the alley. "What's up with our kid?"
Sipping hot coffee, I leaned against the brick wall. "Where is he?"
"Upstairs, watching television." My friend had a great relationship with my son. "Carter said he was sick, so I got him a blanket. But he doesn't have a temperature or anything."
"Carter's not sick," I said, but she was not surprised. "I don't know, Quinn. He's been playing up lately."
She blew out smoke halos. "Carter mentioned his grandpa."
"Grandpa?" My body shivered. "The man is not worthy of such honorary titles."
Watching two community workers stroll past, she squatted to flick ash on the concrete.
"What do I tell him?" I asked, and she let out a long sigh. "Should I make something up?"
She picked red polish off her fingernails. "Are we talking about poppa Hughes or poppa O'Shea?"
Both men made my skin crawl. "I am talking about his father."
Quinn winced. "Just tell him that his father was a hero. He lost his life in battle."
Strands of hair blew over my face. "He sounds like someone to be proud of."
"It beats the truth," she said quietly, and I nodded. "Just go and make friends with him already. I hate seeing you both so sad."
I mustered courage and faced my son. Carter is on the sofa in the living room, curled up in a blue chequered duvet, bingeing daytime television and eating his weight in smarties.
Wrangling my fingers, I eased onto the seat beside him and held out an upward-facing palm.
Carter put two green smarties in my hand.
"I think you like school. I think you like the kids in your class. But three o'clock ruins your day. It's when you see their dads and not yours."
He continued to watch the movie.
"You want to ask me about your daddy, but you are scared it might upset me." Tears filled my eyes, so I turned to the window, not wanting him to witness my discomfort. "Am I right?"
The blankets rustled as he came to me. Wrapping his arms around my waist, he buried his head on my thigh, and I lowered my hand to his hair, combing through dark strands. "What's his name?" he asked as silent tears spilt down my cheeks. "Did you love him?"
"Killian," I whispered, swallowing a strangled moan. "And I loved him very much."
Wiping his nose, he rested his cheek on my thigh. "He's dead, isn't he?"
Unable to speak, I nodded.
Carter peered up at me. "How did he die?"
Killian yanked a noose around his neck and jumped. "Your father was a hero," I lied, and his teary eyes brightened. "He lost his life in battle."
"Really?" He moved on to his haunches. "My daddy knew how to fire a gun."
"Oh, yes." Drying my eyes, I popped a smarty in my mouth. "He was one of the bravest soldiers in the British army."
My son was awe-inspired. "Do you have any pictures?"
I stored a few childhood photos of us, knowing that Carter might appreciate them someday.
Kissing his cheek, I went to the old dresser, unlocked the glass door and pulled out the faded shoe box. "For you."
Carter took the box.
"Baby," I said, but he was too engrossed in the black and white polaroid images. "Your daddy had a big family, so that's something we need to discuss."
He was admiring the photo of us as teenagers. "Who is that guy?"
When perceiving the guy's face underneath his pointer finger, I released a shuddered breath. "That's Tommy. Killian's older brother."
"I have another uncle?" He was bouncing with excitement. "Where is he? Can I meet him?"
Ben appeared in the doorway. He studied the box in Carter's hands and looked to the ceiling in momentary distress.
"And who is that woman?" Carter pointed to Brigid, Killian's mother. "She looks like my dad."
My eyes pleaded with Ben to intervene.
"Hey, Buddy." In six strides, Ben was across the room and joining Carter on the sofa. "What are you looking at?"
"Mum told me about my dad." He was hurling photos at Ben. "Look! That's him! He was a hero, Uncle Ben! He could fire a gun—just like you on grand theft auto!"
"Yeah." Ben's jaw ticked when forced to praise Killian. "He was something."
"So, can we meet them?" My son's eyes darted between us. "Please, Uncle Ben! It would be the best birthday present ever!"
"It's not your birthday yet." Ben placed the photos back in the box. "Carter, I have to tell you something, and you might not like it."
Carter's excitement plummeted. "What is it?"
"Your dad's family..." Ben rubbed his eyes. "They are not good people, Buddy."
"What?" Carter's voice broke. "Why? What did they do?"
Ben's sympathetic eyes briefly locked with mine. "Well, they don't like your mum very much."
"Why?" Carter's face fell. "Mum is not a bad person."
"We know that." Ben's arm slid across the back of the sofa. "It's complicated. Maybe when you're older, we can talk about this properly. But you're still so young, Buddy."
My son's hand crushed the photo of Killian. "I want to know now."
"They don't know where we live, Carter." I inhaled a deep breath. "We must keep it that way."
He looked stunned. "Why?"
To my knees, I went. "Do you trust us?"
"Yes," he whispered.
"Then, trust me, baby." Smoothing out his father's photo, I placed it in his hands. "We are better off without them."
"Okay." Carter's thumb brushed over his father's face. "But you promise to tell me someday, right?"
"Absolutely." Ben kissed Carter's cheek after a few seconds of silence, then delved in for a tickle attack. "Now," he growled as his nephew withered beneath him. "Let's put a smile back on his face!"
"No!" Carter bucked under the onslaught of his uncle's fingers, his legs kicking out and thrashing in breath-snatching hysteria. "Uncle Ben—stop!"
His giggled ebullience was like music to my ears.
Carter rolled off the sofa, landing disjointedly on the floor, and Ben gave him a five seconds head start to run.
"Quick, Emma!" Ben chased a squealing Carter down the hall. "Get him! It's time for Carter soup!"
"Mum!" Carter bellowed, but I was rooted to the floor. "Help me, mum! He's going to eat me!"
I picked up the photo of Tommy. His boyish smile, dazzling eyes and manly physique still pulled on my heartstrings, even after years of pretending to hate him.
In the next photo, I sat between the O'Shea brothers. It was a trip to the pier, an evening at the beach, a campfire by the ocean and memories I never quite forgot.
I loved both boys in different ways.
Killian was my best friend.
Tommy was my childhood crush.
And I was the ruination of their entire family.
Returning the polaroid images to the box, I put everything back on the shelf and locked the door.
The Canon beckoned attention.
Pulling the strap over my head, I took a seat on the window ledge and, adjusting the lens, zoomed in on two females in the alley whilst they scrubbed graffiti off the wall.
I captured six shots, examined the pictures, deleted them, and searched for another. I tried multiple angles, but nothing about their expressions told me anything.
Eyes squinting, I searched for someone else, a different community worker, and saw a familiar pair of tan boots. Touring the length of his body, I paused on his face and watched him watching the birds gyrate above. Although brief, I captured his microexpression, his rugged jaw and sad, hopeless eyes in time to look at the image closely.
My breath caught.
His haunted whiskey-coloured eyes stirred so many questions.
Re-adjusting the lens, I homed in on his beautiful face. Horizontal lines gathered above knitted brows. His eyelids are open, but his stare is lost to the world.
Putting his back to the brick wall, he glimpsed at the window and caught me spying on him. He gave me the middle finger.
Smiling to myself, I snapped two shots, then burst out laughing when his arms and pecs alternately flexed. "Show off," I yelled through the ajar window, and he shrugged one shoulder. "What's your story?"
His intense stare held mine for a moment. "You're the photographer." He kicked away from the wall. "You tell me."
Challenge accepted, Big Guy.
"You need to help the girls." Ben's accusatory voice came from the doorway, and I flinched. "It's manic downstairs."
"Sure." Drawing back the net, I climbed down from the window. "Give me two minutes to change."
Ben returned to the kitchen.
I had an overwhelming urge to haul myself in the basement and develop light-sensitive photos. Instead, I left the camera on the sideboard and waited tables until the cafe closed.
———————————————————————-
I'll be back for typos. ❤️
Thoughts on the chapter?
Emma?
Ben?
Carter?
Quinn?
Wyatt?
Ethan?
Brad?
Tommy & Killian... 👀
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