I want to embrace her because words are not enough to express my gratitude and love for her. But what I don’t say is this hasn’t been my first try, and I’m tired of trying. "I’m sorry," I tell her instead.
"Come home," she says.
They’re the words I need to hear. A lifeline to hold onto even if I’m uncertain whether or not I’m allowed back home. I’ll figure it out once I’m there.
I ask how everyone is. She gives me a quick update how Tamara’s made it to the top of her class, Timmy’s joined the football league, and Dad’s been more swamped at work than ever. She doesn’t tell me how they’re getting on, but I suspect it’s to lift the mood of our call. Before she puts down our call, she tells me she’s transferred money to my account, so I can go home. I swallow down my guilt and promise to pay her back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I knock hard on the door, unsure of what lies behind it.
Thanks to Mum, I’m back in Beverley. Dad would have gotten mad at me if I asked him, but we aren’t on speaking terms. I don’t know if I’m still banned from home, but I risk it anyway because I miss my family.
This is the biggest foul-up I’ve had with my mates since College and it’s all my fault. I couldn’t stand staying there what with an unspoken riff between us. I’m not certain if Cassie’s "don’t even bother coming to the music festival" meant Manchester. If she meant don’t come to the culminating music festival, then I really have made a mess for The Fortunate Only.
What will Cassie tell Callum or his mates from the Willowfields Music Festival if they ask about us? And what will she say about Ear for Music?
I don’t even know if my mates still want to be in a band with me. Everything I risked leaving home has gotten me nowhere. I’m left with a dented friendship with my best mates, Cassie not speaking to me—I’m not sure where we stand anymore—and zero cash. Correct that, I’m in debt after getting a loan from Mum.
I knock once again, louder.
Part of me is terrified to find out how Dad is going to react to me coming home like this since we haven’t spoken in months.
I almost pound a fist at Mum as she opens the door. "Oh, darling," she yells, pulling me into a tight hug. She smells of coffee and freshly baked bread. "Welcome home."
"Am I allowed inside?"
"Don’t you fuss about that! We haven’t seen you in months. Jim has to let that issue go. You’re home now—that’s what matters." Once she lets go of me, she straightens my washed-out, wrinkled grey shirt and pats my cheeks with both hands. "We’ve missed you so." Her cheeks are roses and she looks happier than she has been in the past couple of months. Have she and Dad stopped their daily rows and made up?
I crack a grin and almost ask with a playful tone when Dad appears in the hallway. His jaw is tight.
Is he going to yell at me to get out of the house?
Go off in a row?
But what he does isn’t any of the above. He pulls me into a swift hug. Not bone-crushing or oozing with maternal instinct like mum’s, but it catches me off guard.
"Son." He says it like it’s the final note and then turns around to walk to the kitchen. I’m left at the door, face-to-face with Mum.
I look at Mum, whose eyes are glassy. Her chest puffs out in pride. "Talk to him. He really misses you." She pats my cheek and I nod.
I search for him in the kitchen, but he’s not there. I find Dad in his office. He is seated in his lazy boy reading a book about finance. He’s seen me, but doesn’t look up from what he’s reading.
I sit down on the couch and wait.
The silence bothers me, so I start drumming with my fingers on the nearest piece of furniture, which so happens to be the bookshelf.
"Are we still not talking, then? Am I still not allowed home?" I ask. "‘Son’ was a step up from the months of silence."
Finally, Dad puts down the book. I expect him to respond with irritation or disappointment, but what surprises me is the look of guilt.
Guilt!
Of all things.
I don’t understand where it’s coming from, but it’s like a switch inside of me has snapped. The weight of the rejection, disappointment, and hurt oozes out of me. I’ve tried to ignore it the last twenty-four hours, but now, looking at Dad’s broken face, I crack open. "I’m sorry," I say.
For wasting time and money.
For constantly messing up and aggravating them further when they have their rows.
For risking everything for nothing.
For being a failure.
I say sorry to him, but mean it to everyone I hurt in the last couple of months.
"You can say I told you so," I continue. "I had it coming. You told me not to choose music, but I did, and look where it’s gotten me." I was homeless for a day. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to be hungry for days…to be so cold from not having a place to stay during the winter.
"No need for I-told-you-so’s," he says, surprising me even more. "I’m sorry, too. I was critical of you. Of course you’re welcome back home. That was me trying to prove a point to you. I should have known that you’d do music no matter what. Once you set your mind to something, nothing gets in your way."
Not entirely true. The kraken unleashed itself yesterday and it was horrible.
"It’s how I was—err, still am," he continues. "It took your mum moving out of the house to make me realise how set I am in my ways."
My jaw drops.
