Buy Me, Sir

I give the boys a hug and tell them to pile on in to see Brutus, and Claire waits until they’re safely in the Merc before she launches into her monologue about state school being the right option for the boys, and have I thought any more about my silly position on the whole thing.

I tell her no – in no uncertain terms – and she shakes her head.

“You’re unbelievable, Alex. You need to think of the boys.”

My response is instant. I am thinking of the fucking boys.

“They are moving schools!” she blusters.

I hold my ground. They’re not moving fucking schools without my say so and she fucking knows it.

I’d strip her of her lavish lifestyle in a heartbeat, fight her through the courts with a legal prowess far more intimidating than she’ll ever have access to.

She’d be a fool to fight me head-on and she knows that, too.

“You’re a stubborn bastard,” she says, and I nod.

“Think what you want, Claire. The boys need a decent education.”

“Like you had? So they can turn out like you?!”

I don’t grace her with an answer to that one. I’m already heading back to the car, fighting to keep hold of my sunny disposition long enough to smile through crappy burgers and too much football lingo.

“Ask them what they want!” she calls after me. “At least ask the boys what they want!”

So I do.

I ask them as soon as we’ve taken a seat with our offal-based meat products.

“Your mother tells me you want to change schools,” I say. “Is that true?”

Matthew nods his head with a smile, blissfully oblivious of any potential tension.

Thomas not so much.

His eyes leave mine and stare at the table top, burger discarded.

“Well, Thomas? Is it true? Do you want to change schools?”

He shrugs.

It isn’t like him to avoid a direct question, and since he is avoiding the question this really isn’t the right place to push it, not amongst the screaming toddlers and the families out for a cheap bite to eat.

I change the topic of conversation, focusing instead on Portsmouth’s goal-scoring record this season, and that works well to lighten the mood.

“I’m going to play for Portsmouth,” Thomas tells me. “Terry says I’m really good.”

“He does, does he?” My boy nods, and even though Terry’s fucking name makes my insides grimace, I’m undeniably proud. “That’s good,” I say. “Well done.”

It’s Matthew who drops the next shitty bombshell. The poor kid has no idea.

“We’re going training!” he gushes. “Terry’s going to put us in kids’ club!”

“Excellent,” I lie. “And what does kids’ club involve?”

Thomas tells him to shut his stupid little mouth, and I’m taken aback by the venom in his tone.

“Enough of that,” I snap. “Let your brother speak.”

But Matthew doesn’t want to speak. Not now. His lip trembles as he holds back tears, and he looks so young sitting there. I’d forgotten how young he is.

Thomas folds his arms. “It’s on a Sunday. You won’t let us go anyway.”

“Won’t let you go?”

He shakes his head. “Mum said there’s no point even asking. She said you’ll never say yes.”

My throat dries. “Never say yes to you training on a Sunday afternoon?”

They both nod, and it smacks me right in the gut. I could retch my fucking French fries all over the fucking table.

“That’s what you want, is it? You want to go training?”

Thomas shrugs, but Matthew is still too young to understand etiquette. He nods so innocently, and I really do think I’m going to vomit up my fucking dinner.

“We won’t go,” Thomas says. “We see you on a Sunday afternoon.”

But they want to. I can see it all over them.

I wrap up my burger and clear my throat. “If you want to go training with Terry on a Sunday afternoon, you should go.”

Their eyes widen.

“But that’s your day…” Thomas tells me, like I’m not perfectly fucking aware of that.

Forcing a smile is so fucking hard. “We’ll make other time,” I say, even though I know it’s probably a fucking lie. “Maybe Saturdays, or holidays. Maybe even weeknights when the evenings get longer again.”

Matthew punches the air. He hollers out a YES that gets the family to our right turning their heads, and I know it’s signed and sealed already.

“What about you?” Thomas asks, and I have to pretend I’m choking on a gherkin.

“I’ll be around,” I say. “I’m your dad, right?”

They nod.

That’s right, I’m their fucking dad. Even if they have a new one now. Even if Terry steals my Sundays, and takes them out of the school I chose for them, and gives them another cool sibling to add to their dinner table.

Even if it doesn’t fucking feel like I’m their dad.

Even if it never feels like it again.

I still am.

I still am their fucking dad.

“Drink up,” I say. “We’ll take Brutus for a walk.”

They drink up.