That One Moment (Lost in London #2)(29)
“You were a little sod, weren’t you?” Vi asks, swatting at my shoulder playfully.
I nod and my chest puffs out with pride. “I really was. Still am, mostly.” My hand finds its way to Vi’s face to wipe at some stray tears still lingering. “This feels good.”
She nods, obviously pleased. “I’m glad.”
“I didn’t think it would feel this good to talk about it with someone like you.”
“What do you mean someone like me?” She looks mock offended and a flicker of confusion streaks across her face.
“I just mean someone I don’t know all that well. It feels enlightening to see a stranger’s reaction to my story I guess. It’s all…surprising.”
Her brows lift. “A stranger?”
I shrug, feeling a bit disconcerted. “Mostly.”
Seemingly unaffected, she throws me a smile. “So, what’s your next day? What was day three?”
I shake my head. “I’ll get to it. But frankly, I’m shattered. Maybe we can get together another time?”
“You sure you want to hang out with me again, Hayden Clarke?” She wiggles her eyebrows and then quickly drops all playfulness and watches me warily. Affection and warmth radiate from her in a way that draws me in so acutely that it takes all the strength in my body to not cup her face in my hands and take her mouth with mine.
Her voice and smile are soft. “I have revealed my truth that I am an emotional ninny, after all.”
My eyes twinkle at her confession. “It might be my new favourite thing about you.”
THE BROTHERS HARRIS
Sunday nights are set aside for family dinners at the Harris’ during the off-season. Since our father’s home is so large and close to the field, Booker, Tanner, and Camden still live with him full-time, though the twins have been murmuring about flat-hunting for a few months now. Gareth has some swanky place in Manchester he lives in during the season since he plays for Manchester United; but in the off-season, he’s back at Dad’s too. Such is this, Sunday dinner has become a sacred tradition. Should anyone try to mess with it, my brothers would thump them into submission.
Fortunately, the cooking for said tea rests on my shoulders and not theirs. If we relied on them, we’d probably be eating day-old takeaway fish n’ chips every week.
Growing up, I learned how to cook rather quickly once we realised all our father could properly prepare was beans and toast. It became a bit of an obsession for me in my teens after I found a box full of my mother’s old cookbooks. I was determined to make my way through every single recipe as some adolescent tribute to her memory. As a result of my obsessive hobby, our kitchen became the hub for all things Harris. It’s where I spent loads of time. Consequently, it’s where my dad and brothers would talk football, watch games, go over plays, and squeak in schoolwork as time allowed. The only time playbooks and condiments serving as footballers in various field positions weren’t spread out over our high-top table was when the cleaning people had just been in.
Bruce and I cab it out to Chigwell, along with all the groceries I picked up for today’s meal. To rely on my dad’s grocery supply is a fate I shall never attempt. I let myself and Bruce into the cast iron gate by punching in the code. Striding down the long wrap around driveway, I sigh when our home comes into view. It’s considered a mansion by many people’s standards. But the way it’s nestled back here amongst a sea of Japanese cherry trees makes it feel idyllic and in no way imposing. The large brown brick home is anchored by two grand, white pillars and a welcoming yellow double entry door. Having it painted yellow was my idea when I was eight and Dad didn’t have the heart to tell me no. Some days I truly do miss living here.
Upon entering the house, a striking pale, wooden staircase curves up to the second floor where there are two wings of bedrooms. It’s a six-bed with en suite facilities attached to every room. The community rooms are sparsely furnished as most of our mother’s design choices were boxed up shortly after her death. Since my dad and brothers do so much traveling for football, I suppose furnishings were never a bother.
I wish I could remember what it looked like here when our mother was alive. How it smelled, what kind of music she listened to. I often wonder what her style was like, both in clothing and in home décor. Am I like her in more ways than just my first name and birthday?
Our mother’s maiden name was Nystr?m. She was a full-blooded Swede whom our father met at a pub while playing champion league soccer, just before he signed with Manchester United. She was attending University in London and from what little I’ve heard, it sounded like a pretty exciting love affair that resulted in Gareth. Gareth is really the only one who remembers much of Mum and the immediate years following her death. He’s never been very forthcoming about those times and he’s not one to push for answers. He’s got a short fuse and we all learned quickly that Gareth gets his way and that’s that. I remember bits and pieces of her, but it feels more like I’m remembering photographs rather than actual times.
I unclip Bruce’s leash. His paws clack loudly on the white marble as we walk down the hallway and turn left through the double doors into the kitchen.
“My sous chef, ready and waiting!” I announce proudly, finding Booker reading a hardcover at the large wooden island that sits parallel to the galley style kitchen. “Where is everybody else?”