Loverboy Butch, page 2
No one told me about the engagement. I saw the pictures on Instagram later and tried to be happy for them.
Not that it matters now, I guess.
I don’t know what I expected; maybe that things would go back to the way they were after that. Or that I’d get some recognition for stepping in and rescuing them from a terrible marriage. In my head, I was a hero, doing what needed to be done, popping that sash window wide and saving them from an impending panic attack. I still feel like a hero for that, actually.
Offering Dex another future. Like Serena had done for my mum all those years ago. It was the right thing to do.
But not everyone saw it that way. In actuality, the wedding attendees were pretty pissed. There were a lot of details I hadn’t considered, like the wasted money on the venue and the party, or the second bride who had to be told there would be no more wedding.
I took so much shit for that day and Dex never actually came back to share it. Now they jet off all over the globe, sending the parents postcards like nothing happened, and I still get death glares whenever it’s mentioned. Like I didn’t free them from potential hell.
That’s on my mind as I send the e-vite.
Dex and their stupid fucking trips. Dex and their responsibility-free life. Dex and their total lack of family loyalty.
Dex, always somewhere in the back of my brain.
I’ve been planning it for a few weeks now. Secretly scheming, a subtle revenge against them as a way to soothe myself on sleepless nights. Maybe that makes me sound bonkers, but I deserve an outlet for the resentment I’ve been holding onto. While Dex has been flown across the globe on expense-paid trips by skateboarding sponsors, I’ve been stuck here, supporting our families, working a real job, watching our parents get older and preparing for the future. Just once, I want them to feel the repercussions of their running away. I wanted people to admit that they are a coward.
So, I send an e-vite to fuck them off. So they can’t say they moved and never got it, so there is a digital trail, breadcrumbs back to their inevitable no. Just so I can point and say See, I told you they don’t care about us, when they turn down attending their own mother’s sixtieth birthday trip.
It’s all meticulously planned out, my little victory dance, the smooth way I will hand over tissues as Serena cries about her precious baby never coming home, the praise I will lap up from my parents at my generosity. Oh, the sweet, sweet feeling of vindication. They never cared about us. Soon, everyone will see it. Oh, I can’t wait to be proven right. At this point, the idea is a bright spot in my otherwise mundane month. The highlight of my sodding year.
Even as I click away from my spreadsheet and into the email, I can feel it; the oncoming waves of joy radiating over me like-
Fuck.
There, with no capitalised letters, ‘sent from my iPhone’ still attached underneath, are the words: see ya there.
Chapter Three
Dex
Do I have a plan? No. Do I know what I’ll do when I get home? Nope. Have I thought through any of the details? Nah, not really.
All of this is abundantly clear as I wheedle past the airport crowds, through slow-moving security lines, towards the bathroom. The flight was eight hours, with an added two hours taxiing on the tarmac, which means I’ve long since missed the train I was planning to get. If I’m gonna be stuck in an airport, Heathrow’s not a bad one, all things considered, but it’s eleven on a Tuesday morning, I have next-to-no money and no route home.
It was supposed to be a surprise, my arrival back at the house. I thought it might ease the blow that I returned without a physical present for Mum’s birthday, but it’s looking more like I might end up unceremoniously calling her for a lift.
Less a triumphant return and more the stumbled entrance of the family fool.
Way to stay consistent, Dexy.
I wish I could say that my ineptitude is surprising, but honestly, it’s pretty in keeping with my brain at the moment. So, as I rummage in my hand luggage for another t-shirt to wriggle into, I resign myself to a less-than-stellar plan B.
Parker picks up on the third ring, the unmistakable sound of guns and yelling in the distance telling me he’s not at work.
‘Didn’t expect to hear from you,’ is all the answer I get.
I probably deserve it, given I haven’t seen him in person since the almost-wedding and only call on special occasions. I’ve sent gifts and random mementoes that remind me of my siblings, picked up in each new city or country, and always something bigger for a birthday or holiday, but even I know that’s not exactly quality sibling behaviour.
I called Parker because, of my three elder siblings, he’s most likely to have the time in his day to pick me up. Archer and Liam both have full-time jobs and kids, and the general responsibilities that come with life around forty. Parker, on the other hand, well, he’s a different kind of adult. He works for Archer and Dad but opts to take the evening shifts. For the best part of the last decade, Park has spent his days waking up at twelve, playing video games until four and heading to work late.
‘I kinda need a favour,’ I push on, hoping not to sound like a complete pillock.
‘If you need money, Poppy and Liam are probably better-’
‘I need a lift.’
‘A lift?’
‘From Heathrow.’
‘You’re back home?’
‘Not quite.’
‘So, how long do we have you for?’ He says, his tone needling.
‘I got stuck, missed my train, I’ve got no way to get home.’ And then I add, for good measure. ‘I don’t know how long I’m staying.’
There’s a noise on the other end of the line, a gruff hum of acknowledgement and then the unmistakable grumblings of a man over thirty turning off the TV and begrudgingly getting off the sofa.
‘You owe me the best of whatever American crap you brought home, got it?’
I say a silent prayer to a god I’ve never believed in and drop my bags on the ground. ‘First pick goes to you before any of the nieces or nephews. Pop Tarts and pickle crisps are all yours so long as you pick me up before it gets dark.’
‘Too bloody right it does.’ He mumbles. ‘Hang tight, I’ll be there in a couple of hours.’
‘You’re a fucking lifesaver.’ I smile, hoping it’s audible enough to ease the tension through the phone. Historically, I’ve always been a very good smiler; it’s gotten me out of trouble and also into it. ‘And Park, don’t tell Mum yet, okay?’
* * *
By the time my brother’s beaten-up car rolls into town, the back squealing unpleasantly with each turn, my phone is dead, and our conversation has mellowed out to basic life questions.
Neither Parker nor I have ever been the most attentive siblings, we work on the basis that we’ll tell each other something if it’s important or interesting. We’ve both respectively come out a handful of times and never bothered to tell the other person with particular haste. That said, I’ve dropped the ball in the past couple of years. His face has more wrinkles than I remember, worn in around his eyes and cheeks from smiling. He’s chipped one of his front teeth, breaking up a bar fight, he tells me somewhere along the A27 and never bothered to go to the dentist. He looks happy, his hair is longer, his general demeanour calmer, and I wonder what’s responsible for it. Is it age, is it a new partner, did he move, did his job get better, did he finally get medication for his ADHD?
I should have asked all this a long time ago. Sure, I was in other countries, but I wasn’t incapable of calling. I mean, I carry that thing on me twenty-four-seven, sleep curled up beside it, letting the ambient noise of whatever TikTok I just watched lull me to sleep. You’d think I could pick it up and do something useful with it occasionally. I’m not very capable of that, though, if the last two years are anything to go by.
I used to care intensely about every tiny minutia of things. I always wanted people to be happy with me, to feel proud of me, to think I was making the right life choices. Between the ages of seventeen and twenty-four, I fixated on being the perfect daughter, the perfect girlfriend. People pleaser extreme, to the point that I forgot how to value my wants. I had three older siblings, each one with their own life quirks and failings. When people talked about me, I was not just the golden child but the hopeful one.
When Parker dropped out of Uni, everyone swore I’d graduate, when Archer got a one-night-stand pregnant by accident at twenty, they all laughed that at least I was gay and it couldn’t happen to me. When Liam struggled to make ends meet as an artist and eventually gave up, everyone told me not to be like him, to keep pushing until I made it big. For years of my life, I lived as someone else’s failed wishes. I was so concerned about what everyone else would think and feel if I came out that I failed to put any stock in my actual happiness, my want to survive.
And now all I do is survive. I live recklessly. Value my life above everything else. I kinda feel like I’m owed it, and yet, here, faced with everything I’ve missed while I was focused on myself, it’s hard not to feel guilty about it.
I care about these people, though I might have forgotten how to show it. It’s not their fault that their hopes were handed down to me.
‘So,’ Parker says, throwing a rescue rope down into my pit of guilt. ‘What kind of board are you riding these days?’
Ah, the common ground. The one universal safe place between my brothers and me: skateboarding. It’s hard to remember a time before skateboards ruled my life. Seriously, one of my very first memories is Archer holding my hands as my chubby legs shook on a penny board, Liam behind me pushing away furiously because I was too small to push myself along. It’s all on film somewhere. Park behind the camera, laughing maniacally in only the way an eight-year-old can. It might not be my memory if I’m being honest; there’s a very good chance that I’ve pieced every part of it together from other people’s recollections, but there’s a hell of a lot more like it.
I remember butt-scooting on a board when the others got tired of pushing me and went off to do their own thing. The way they all grimaced as I screamed when Mum tried to return that little penny board to Liam and how happy I was when he just shrugged and said I could keep it.
Liam was always unphased.
I was small, he was big. The ever-cool middle teen brother, ready to ditch you or drag you along for the ride. It didn’t make any difference to him. I still think of him like that, but now he’s laden down with kids that he lets climb all over him and a beard thicker than a sailor’s.
A quick huff escapes me before I can control it. I know the reaction. I’m about to get over my skateboard. I’m fully prepared to have the shit ripped out of me when my brothers spy the sparkly pink deck and the image underneath. ‘It’s a collab between Welcome and Britney Spears.’
‘Nice. The pink or the purple one?’ My brother responds instead.
My legs halt their restless jiggling and fail to curtail the shock in my voice. ‘The pink.’
Parker rolls his eyes as if to say well, duh and suddenly I am ten years old again, trying to show him something cool that he’s already learnt how to do. Telling him about Paramore like they saved my life, only to find they saved his first.
‘We might not be LA or Toronto, or wherever the hell you’ve been, but it’s not exactly like Portsmouth’s skate shop is stuck in the 90s Dexy. We do get new shit.’
And there comes that wave of guilt again, ready to wipe me out. Of course, they do. Of course, he’s seen it. And of course, he knows exactly which deck would appeal to me.
Board Now is a beacon to Portsmouth kids. I’ve been staring at shit on their walls that I can’t afford since before I could talk. I should have known Parker would see the collection. Honestly, I’m pretty sure my first Britney Spears tape was an old one of his that I stole.
‘I thought of you when it came. Wondered if you were gonna get it wherever you were.’
I think back to how hard it was to get it delivered to a stranger’s house in the Hamptons and how weird I felt asking to receive post at home I barely stayed more than three weeks in and curse myself for not checking all my options. But then again, there was no guarantee I would be returning home any time soon. I wasn’t even sure myself until two weeks ago.
‘It was a bit of a bitch to get the board shipped here, honestly. If I’d known Board Now had it, I probably wouldn’t have used all my luggage space on it.’
‘Christ, Dex, what else did you even get in there?’ he jerks his head back at the boot, where my suitcase is tipped on its side.’
‘Not much if I’m being honest.’
For the last two years, I’ve lived every day of my life out of that battered old suitcase. It’s blue, with black piping, and it might have been my grandmother’s from the 90s when she went on one of her big retirement trips to stay with her cousins in Auckland. It comes up to mid-thigh and houses a surprising amount of crap. Namely, all my worldly possessions.
I’ve made do with two pairs of trousers, one pair of shorts, a six-pack of men’s tank tops, three cut-up work shirts and whatever weird t-shirts I picked up along the way. I have exactly two pairs of shoes, one pair of Chucks and black and blue Vans that I’ve taped together more than once, and never any more than seven pairs of socks or pants at any one time.
I am good at keeping my life small and making shit fit in a space it shouldn’t. It’s a strange life, but it’s mine, which is not something I can say about the way I lived before.
‘You got room for all your fancy pants books?’ Park asks with a wide grin.
We have the same smile, different faces, but the same smile. I’ve always been weirdly proud of it. Big teeth, small mouth, smile lines on the side.
‘Nah, man. I’m a Kindle person now. Got about forty different library cards though.’
His eyebrows pop up, but he doesn’t say anything, a sure sign he’s thinking something, though.
I don’t care what. For the first time in years, I’m home. I can see his expressions. I don’t care if they’re good, bad or a little judgmental. I get to see them with my eyeballs.
It’s fucking brilliant.
Chapter Four
Dean
The girls are practically buzzing when they get home.
Apparently, Parker called Liam, and Liam called Mum. Mum didn’t answer, but Dad did, and Dad called the girls. They were like, ‘Oh my days, Dex is coming home.’
These are direct quotes, by the way. Or at least, that’s how it was relayed to me.
Priti and Pomona enter in their usual whirlwind. A storm of fast speech and squeals as they sit beside me at the kitchen table, Pom reaching her hand out and slamming my laptop closed as if I’m not currently in the middle of work. Sure, it’s a remote day, but I still have to bend backwards to ensure these reports go out without a hitch.
‘Excuse you.’ The eyebrow arch I give them would have scared my sisters once upon a time, but now it doesn’t even cause hesitation. ‘I was in the middle of something.’
‘I know,’ the cheeky bugger replies. ‘And we were in the middle of telling you some breaking news.’
Dragging my palm across my forehead to hide the rolling of my eyes, I let them go on.
‘Dex is coming home.’ They say in unison. It’s never a good sign when the twin speech kicks in; it means their over-excited.
I blink, unsure what they expect of me.
‘And?’
‘Ugh, come on, that’s like piping family tea, and you know it.’ Priti watches my face intently, examining me for signs of intrigue or upset. ‘They haven’t been home in like-’
Two years, two months, and about eight days—Not that I’ve been keeping track.
Seriously, I haven’t. I’m just good with numbers and dates.
‘I already know.’
‘You already know?’
‘They replied yes to the e-vite I sent about Serena’s birthday.’
‘Bitch, when?’ Pom smacks my arm, her perfectly manicured nails stinging my skin as they make contact.
‘First of all, don’t call me bitch. Secondly, they replied two weeks ago, so I assumed they’d get themself here sometime before Friday.’
If I’m a bit surprised by Dex arriving a week early, I don’t let it show. Sure, it would have been nice for them to miss their flight or come late and make an example of themself, but I guess this version of events is nicer for Serena.
‘Way to hold out on us. You’ve known for a fortnight and didn’t say anything.’
‘I didn’t think it would matter.’ That’s bullshit and we all know it. Dex is as much a sibling to the twins as I am. While the boys were that bit older and cooler, Dex was right there with us, walking to school, playing the floor is lava with us and the cousins during Durga Puja or begging for penny sweets when we went to the local shop.
For years when we were kids they both acted as though the sun shone out of Dex’s arse and Dex adored them back. It would have bothered me, I’m not great at sharing despite how much practice I have, but Dex always came back to me. That meant something. And if it made the girls like me better, well then, who was I to sniff at it? ‘They’ve been gone two years, it’s not like any of us are close any more.’
More lies. Pom and Pri talk about Dex’s hijinks constantly. When they stopped going by their birth name, the girls were the first to tell me. They correct everyone’s pronouns constantly and somehow found a way to get a postcard from almost every sodding country that prick has been to over the last couple of years. It would almost be cute if I didn’t resent Dex Carpenter-Brown so much.
‘Speak for yourself.’ Priti sniffs, the faintest glint of hurt shimmering in her eyes as she turns her back to me.
I shift in my chair, trying to ignore the inevitable guilt I’m going to feel about upsetting my younger sister. It’s always been this way. I’m brash and sharp. I’m too busy trying to protect them to show them love, and one or all of us end up hurting. Whoever it is, I end up feeling like even more of an arse than I usually do.
