Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
I can’t help but frown, offended. “I didn’t last time.” Not that pronouns came up in conversation. If memory serves me correctly, it went something like, “Hey, Jordan,” and then they disappeared with Ben upstairs for the rest of the night. The end.
“I know, I know but just…don’t be weird or anything.”
“I’m not a bloody dinosaur, Ben. I know what nonbinary means and I’m quite capable of respecting your friend.” Honestly, I truly do respect them. I respect the hell out of them. My son, too, for being their friend. My teenage era was the late nineties, a time where history has people thinking being different was okay. Times had changed. It wasn’t like the old days anymore. We’d had Boy George for a while, after all. George Michael. Simon and Tony actually kissed on Eastenders. You could drop the shame.
It’s not true, though. There was one gay kid in my year, one out kid at least, in a year of two-hundred or so, and everyone knew who he was. Everyone knew who to point at. To laugh at. To make fun of. All while singing along to Stephen Gately in Boyzone and rooting for Jack McPhee in Dawson’s Creek like they were super progressive.
I’m enjoying getting to know the world through my kids’ eyes. Unlike those who recoil each time an unfamiliar term or identity is discussed in the news or on social media, I welcome the education. If anything, I grieve the lack of knowledge and support we had as youngsters. I often wonder if it would’ve made a difference to my life, but I quickly force the thought away again. I’m happy as I am. I don’t need anything else.
“You’re my dad,” Ben replies. “You’re old. Old people can’t help being weird.”
Rolling my head to the side, I stare him right in the eyes. “I’m starting to think your mum and I should’ve gone with smacking as punishment for you kids.”
Ben chuckles, and then he raises up his empty beer can. “Another?” he asks.
“Don’t push it. I’m old, remember? Last thing I’d do is something cool like let you get drunk.”
“Worth a try,” he says, crumpling the can in his fist. “Right, I’m going upstairs. When Lucy gets in, tell her I’m borrowing her AirPods.”
“Why don’t you tell her?”
He’s by the door now, holding the handle. “Because she’ll kick me in the balls.”
I go to reply but close my mouth just as quickly, letting Ben leave without me officially agreeing. I’m not getting involved and risking any harm coming to my own balls. My daughter was born with an attitude and only a fool would willingly get on the wrong side of it.
My mind drifts to Becca again when I hear the slam of Ben’s bedroom door. She’d have yelled at that had she been here. I start to wonder why I still haven’t heard from her. Then, not a moment later, as if she can sense my thoughts, her personalised text message tone sounds through my pocket.
Becca:
SO sorry for not getting back to you. Just seen your call. I’m in actual hell today. One thing after another. Ended up having to go to Sheffield branch, left my phone in the office. I swear the manager over there couldn’t organise an orgy in a brothel. RAGING. Anyway, not calling in case you’re in bed. Setting off now then I’m ALL YOURS. Sorry again. Love you x
Any other day, I would be in bed by now. I won’t be able to sleep until I’ve spoken to her tonight, though. Still, I don’t reply or hit call. I don’t want to hit her with bad news while she’s driving, especially when she’s already ‘raging’. I do decide to wait upstairs, though, hauling my sorry arse off the couch and taking myself up to the shower before getting into bed. Might as well wait in comfort.
I’ve only been in bed fifteen minutes when I hear the grumble of the front door. I don’t expect Becca right away, assuming she’ll eat first, maybe wind down with some TV and a glass of wine after reheating the meal I left for her in the microwave, but she appears in the bedroom doorway a minute later. She leans against it, lips melting into the smile I love. “Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
She unbuttons her shirt as she walks towards the bed before sliding it down her arms. Stopping by the mattress, she shimmies out of her skirt and tights, and tosses them all in the washing basket behind the door. When she perches on the edge of the bed, wearing only her bra and knickers, and takes my hand, I know what she’s about to ask. The words are written in her expression. “Well? Did you hear about your job?”
I’m pretty sure my own expression is doing a good job of speaking for me, too. “It’s gone, Bec. After Friday, that’s it.”