I shrug and open the fridge.
“Did you fight with Nate?”
I sigh, looking through the fridge shelves. “No.
We’re … cool.”
She closes a folder. “Jack? There’s no chocolate milk. I wasn’t expecting you back this soon.”
And it’s that piece of news, the complete lack of chocolate milk, which pushes me over the edge. I can feel my bottom lip start to wobble. “I need to lie down,” I mutter. “Tired.”
And I hurry out of the kitchen, up the stairs and straight to my bedroom.
I can’t do this.
I can’t be this.
I thought I was strong, but I guess, in the end, I’m not.
Eventually…
I sleep.
Relentless hammering at my front door wakes me up.
Jesus.
If it’s another recipe box firm asking if they can “speak to my mum or dad”, I swear I’ll ram one of their organic root vegetables where the sun don’t shine.
I stumble downstairs, groggy, angry, empty, hungry, with sore eyes, open the door, and see Nate standing there, looking utterly wrecked, drenched from head to toe, with a carton of chocolate milk in his hands.
“Hey,” he says.
And I’m so happy to see him, so overwhelmed he would come all this way, so full of love for him, I burst into tears.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
NATE
You know those comedy movie chases where fruit carts suddenly push out in front of the hero, and old people with walking sticks cross the road right in front of them? Well, that was my journey back home from London. The world must see you are in a massive rush and get a real thrill from throwing everything in your way to thwart you.
London Underground was full of tourists, clogging up the tunnels and standing on both sides of the escalators so I couldn’t hurry past. A broken-down train at Acton had caused severe delays. Somewhere else, a passenger had been “taken ill”. I made my train from St Pancras with two minutes to spare, gasping and puffing into a crowded carriage where I was forced to sit on the floor because there were no seats. We departed slightly late, and that meant we got stuck behind some random freight train, so we limped on, only getting as far as Bedford before grinding to a total stop. Twenty minutes later we were told the freight train had managed to derail itself, the whole line was now suspended, and we had to await a rail replacement bus service. An entire hour later and this thing turned up, like this double-decker relic from the Second World War, chugging along, blowing out vast plumes of noxious black smoke. I didn’t even care by this point, I was just happy we were moving again as we bounced and lurched around the roundabouts of Bedford, making our way to a main road. Somewhere near Market Harborough, the bus had had enough, the engine overheated, and it refused to budge. Lots of adults with clipboards and fluorescent tabards made a big show of telling everyone this was “not their fault” and they were “doing their best”. It was at this point an elderly woman sitting next to me called her daughter, and lo, said daughter agreed to drive from Market Harborough to Nottingham. There were three other places available in the car, and I was prepared to offer them a kidney at this point (if the old lady needed one) but I had to be in that car.
There were a number of businessmen and women making a lot of noise about an important meeting, and I could see my plight might not be considered grave enough so I did the only sensible thing – I lied about my age. I made out I was fourteen, therefore implying they had to help me because I’m a real live kid, and although it kills me to admit it, they all bought it, and while that’s great, I also really hope I start to get a bit of facial hair soon.
By the time I finally arrived in our suburb of Nottingham I was exhausted, hungry, cold, but I was here, I’d reached where Jack would be. I even managed to buy him some chocolate milk from the shop. But fate had decreed a water main would have burst along the high street, with torrents of water flowing down the road. All it took was one ill-timed car, driving a little fast as I passed one particular huge puddle, and I was covered, head to toe in muddy, sludgy, water.
And so, there I am, complete drowned rat, stinking and tired, as I hammer on Jack’s door.
Jack looks wrecked too.
Also crying.
“Oh my god, it’s just chocolate milk!” I tell him.
“Shut up,” he says, pulling me in through the door and slamming it shut behind. “You came.”
I nod slowly. “I did. Here I am. Ta-da.”
He stares at me, his eyes wet and questioning. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Well, I’m covered in shit, basically. Possibly literally. Can I have a shower?”
He nods.
“And then we should … talk?” I suggest. Whatever it is Dylan said to him obviously hit him hard. Maybe he liked him more than he was letting on. Maybe he’s more cut up about all this that I thought. Whatever the reason, I want to make it better. I want to be for Jack what he is for me. I want to be strong for him, so he can feel strong too.
He nods again.
“I’ll need some clothes,” I say. “It doesn’t have to be any of your best pieces.”
That makes him smile. “It’ll probably just be a Jack Wills hoodie and joggers, is that OK?”
“I think I’ll cope.”
Jack has one of those amazing rainfall showers in his huge bathroom, and I could have stayed in there all day, but I’m the quickest I’ve ever been. I change into the soft navy-blue hoodie and grey sweatpants he’s left folded up for me and pad out on to the landing, where I find Jack, in a grey onesie, beckoning me towards his bedroom. “Mum’s in,” he
