Anger shreds me and I doubt even Cora can obliterate these emotions completely. That doesn’t mean I don’t want her to try though.
‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘I’ve had a front row seat to this for a year now. Don’t speak to me as though I don’t know...’
‘You don’t know anything.’ The words are torn from me. I stride across to the windows, my breath heavy in my lungs. ‘You don’t know a damned thing.’
‘I—’
‘Listen—’ I interrupt, searching for words to make sense of this ‘—you guys are trying to help me. I get it. You think you can say something that will make this better, but you can’t. You don’t have to keep calling me, checking on me, trying to fix this. He was your dad, but you’re not responsible for his fucked-up choices. You don’t need to worry about me any more; I’m not your problem.’
‘You think you’re my problem? That that’s why I’m checking up on you? You’re our brother.’
I hate this. Fighting with my brother—with Theo—is like poison. ‘Just because you say that doesn’t make it true. I’m not biologically and I’m not legally. The truth is, Theo, I have no idea who I am.’
He’s quiet, absorbing that. Finally, he sighs. ‘I’m not an idiot. I get how hard that would be. I’m not expecting you to just let it go. But just let me say this: I’m here for you. So’s Jagger.’
I close my eyes for a second, nodding stiffly. ‘I know that.’ I disconnect the call, jam the phone into my pocket, staring at the trees and the way they shift in the afternoon breeze, but all I can think of is the man I thought was my father.
Ryan Hart.
Why did he take me in? Why did he raise me? My presence ruined his marriage to Jagger’s mom—we’re only three months apart in age, so it was obvious I was the product of an affair.
Jagger’s mom, as it turns out, is now a raging alcoholic and from time to time I’ve had to go to LA to help her out, to get her into rehab or out of prison if her disorderly behaviour gets too extreme—for Jagger’s sake. And only then, when blind drunk and off her face, does she tell me what she really felt about me.
‘Who was your mother anyway? A whore. A stupid young whore.’
I don’t know if that’s true. My mother had a lot of boyfriends. I was young when I went to live with Ryan Hart but not so young that I don’t remember all the men who came to visit before that. Still, I don’t think she was a prostitute—she slept with rich men and benefited from that. There’s a fine line between, but Jagger’s mother will never see it that way.
And I get it.
Who wouldn’t hate the kid that’s very existence ruined your marriage?
I wasn’t conceived as a result of their affair, but he did sleep with my mother. I don’t know how long it went on for, I don’t know if it meant anything to him, or her. But now I know I’m not his son.
My gut clenches and I turn my back on the view.
There are two reliable ways to forget. One is sex, and right now the idea of sex with anyone other than Cora is less than appealing, and I have the self-awareness to appreciate that I’m not in the right headspace to call her.
The second is alcohol. I grab my jacket, pulling it on and barging out of the office. There’s a bar around the corner, and I intend to go there and not leave again until I’m falling-down drunk.
* * *
I stare at the back of the camera, zooming in on the picture I’ve taken. It’s okay, but not much better than that. Sure, it captures the geometric shapes of the Opera House, but none of the drama. It’s just like any other photo of this well-known landmark.
I flick through the camera, scrolling past the dozen or so images I’ve taken today, to the last time I used it. New York. I was practising portraits. There’s a shot of a little boy, about six or seven, his eyes heavy with things he’s seen, his mother beside him, her hands outstretched. He’s grubby and yet there’s a spirit in his eyes that I’ve captured in the photo.
I move my finger over the buttons again, scrolling forward until I reach a young woman who’d just stepped out of the subway. The lights of Times Square shimmer in the background, but in the foreground it’s just her. She’s looking up, as if for directions, and a rucksack is hooked over one shoulder. There’s such optimism in her expression, such naïve hope, as though in New York she’ll find everything she’s ever wanted.
On a small breath of exasperation I switch the camera off and sit down on a park bench. Tourists mill around me, unmistakable with their loud voices and selfie sticks. Seagulls flap at their feet, looking for morsels to eat.
And a sense of dissatisfaction grips me because I’m thinking of Holden way more often than I’d like. How often wouldn’t bother me?
Not at all?
That’s not possible. Not after what we shared, what we did. But I have a sense of dissatisfaction at the way things finished between us the other night—two nigh
ts ago.