Right Number, Wrong Girl

His gaze was so warm. There was something so inherently comfortable about standing in front of him, and he hadn’t changed since I’d last seen him three months ago.

Combined with the wild emotions of the last few days, it was just too much. Tears welled in my eyes and the pain in my chest was almost unbearable from the clenching of my heart.

Concern frittered across his face. “What’s wrong, pudding?”

I lost it.

My childhood nickname triggered all the emotions, and he wrapped his arms around me before my legs gave out. The emotion exploded from me in a way that was only possible in front of my parents, and my whole body ached with it.

Every bit.

“Oh, Soph,” Dad said softly, cradling the back of my head. “What’s happened, my girl?”

“Dad.” I choked it out over a sob.

“Come on.” He guided me over the doorstep, keeping me against him. “Mandy!”

“Oh, goodness. I’m coming. This better be good or I—oh, baby girl. What are you doing here?” Mum rushed over and wrapped her arms around me, and I was passed from my father to her as I cried hard. “What on Earth has happened? Do I need to kill someone? Steve, get your shovel. We need to bury a body. Call the team. Have Jerome get his boat. We’ll dump it at sea, and nobody will know.”

I laughed through the tears. “It’s not that drastic, Mum.”

“You show up here, crying, and you think that’s drastic? Who did this to you? I will murder them with my slipper.”

“I love you.” I hugged her tightly. “I just really need you right now.”

“Oh, honey. Baby.” She rocked me side to side. “Do you have a suitcase? Steve, get her things from the car.”

Dad kissed the side of my head as he passed. “Oh, dear. I should make some tea, too.”

The universal sign for distress for British people everywhere.

Not a flag being turned upside down.

We should make tea.

It was somehow very fitting.

Mum pulled me into the cottage, shepherding me into the living room and onto the sofa where her tight hug resumed like she’d never paused it.

I was grateful for it.

There was nothing in this world that could compare to my mother’s hugs. We had our difficulties, but if a safe space were a person, it would be her.

I curled up against her side while she rocked, shh-ing me as if I were a baby, intermittently telling me it was all right and I’d be okay, that this was fine to cry, that letting it out was the best thing, that there was nothing like crying to make someone feel better.

I might have cried forever if Dad hadn’t brought a pot of tea in and poured it. That was the single action that made Mum release me, and I curled up in the corner of the sofa under an old blanket and watched as Dad made the tea exactly how I liked it.

“Here we go,” he said after a moment. “Here’s your tea, pudding.”

“Thank you,” I said softly, taking the cup from him.

“That was quite the entrance,” Mum said, taking her own. “Thank you, darling.”

Dad’s lips twitched to a smile. “I always said she got her dramatic side from you.”

“All right,” I replied, fighting a tiny smile of my own. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

Mum held up her phone. “So I don’t need to assemble the troops to hide a body?”