His eyes search mine.
“Get your things,” I tell him as I regain some composure.
“Why?”
“You’re coming with me.”
“To where?”
“London.”
“What do you mean?” He frowns.
“I came to take you home.”
“I am home.”
“This is not your fucking home,” I spit. “You belong with me . . . at least until you’re older.”
“Where’s Hazen?”
My nostrils flare, and the lump in my throat hurts as I admit my failure. “We broke up.” I hang my head in shame.
“Oh . . .” He steps forward and puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says softly. He pats my shoulder. “It will work out.”
It just makes me more unstable. How is he comforting me at a time like this?
Because he’s Eddie . . .
“Come on, buddy, let’s get the hell out of here,” I blurt out in a rush.
He stares at me, completely confused.
“I’m asking you to come and live with me. Do you want to do that? I’ll look after you . . . keep you safe.”
He opens his mouth to say something and then shuts it as if stopping himself.
“Say it,” I tell him.
“What would someone like you want me to live with them for?”
His silhouette blurs. “Because . . . I missed you.”
His eyes widen. “You did?”
“Yes, fucker, I do,” I snap. “You better have missed me.”
He bites his bottom lip to hide his smile.
“Come on, get your things.”
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know. We’ll work it out.” I throw up my hands in defeat. “Do you want these postcards?” I unpin one.
He stares at me, and I see the fear in his eyes. How many times has he been let down in his life?
“You can come back to Barcelona anytime you want . . . I promise. I’ll bring you myself.”
He stands still and looks around the room. “Could I bring my sleeping bag?”
The lump in my throat nearly closes it over, and I nod.
I have no words.
“Do you want these postcards?” I ask him.
“Yes, please.”
I get to work in unpinning them.
“Can I bring my gas cooker?” he asks timidly.
With my back to him, I screw up my face. The tears won’t stop. “Yep.”
“And my flashlight?”
“Uh-huh . . . bring whatever you want.”
He’s killing me.
I wait as he meticulously packs up his life. Things that I would think are junk he treats like priceless treasures. I wait patiently, and fuck . . .
Plot twist of all plot twists. How is this happening?
With a few plastic bags, a little gas camping cooker, and a sleeping bag rolled into a ball, we walk toward the doors, and Eddie stops and looks around.
I wait, unsure what to say to make this moment less dramatic, but there is nothing to say.
It is fucking dramatic.
My tears . . . also dramatic, but I couldn’t stop them if I tried.
The last few weeks, my emotions have come to a head, and I feel completely overwhelmed and out of control.
Eddie looks up at me. “Why are you crying?” he asks.
“I got something in my eye.” I shrug, embarrassed. “You ready?”
He nods, and we walk out front, and while I order an Uber, he sits down on the concrete with all his things to wait.
“I have to book a hotel,” I mutter to myself as I quickly go through the booking website.
“Aren’t you staying in the hostel?”
“You aren’t staying at the frigging hostel,” I gasp. “No way.”
“But I have to work tonight.”
“No.” I keep scrolling through the website. “You’re never going there again.”
“Christo, I have to work tonight. I’m not letting them down.”
“I said no.”
“I’m fucking working,” he spits.
I look up, annoyed by his tone. “That’s the first and last time you swear at me, do you understand?”
He hangs his head, and we fall silent for a while.
What do I do here? I’m completely out of my depth. If I push him before he trusts me, he’s going to take off.
Fuck’s sake . . . damn this kid and his good work ethic. “Fine. We will stay at the hostel so you can work. But we are getting private rooms, and if they don’t have any, we are staying in a hotel.”
“Fine.” He sits there in a huff for a while.
“I’m going to call the hostel to get us some rooms, okay?”
He shrugs, full of attitude.
I call the hostel, and luckily, they have two deluxe en suite rooms available. We make our way around there, and I pick up the keys. We walk up the stairs to the top floor.
“This is us,” I tell him as I open the door to his room.
His eyes widen. “We’re staying here?”
“Uh-huh.”
He quietly stands beside me, looking at every last detail in awe. “That must be some fancy school you teach at.”
“Oh . . . yeah.” I wince. “About that. I’m not a teacher.”
He cuts me off. “I know.”
“What do you know?”
“You’re a cleaner.”
Unbelievable.
“My family owns a company that makes newspapers.”
He frowns.
“I’m kind of . . .” I shrug. “Well off.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t have to worry about money.”
He stares at me blankly, unable to comprehend the concept.
“You’ll see.” I smile. “You can sleep in this bedroom.”
His eyes flick to me in question. “Where will you sleep?”
“In the room down the hall.”
“Oh.” He twists his fingers, and I can tell that he’s completely overwhelmed.
“Do you have a passport?” I ask him.
He shakes his head.
“Do you have a birth certificate?”
“What’s that?”
Fuck.
“That’s okay. We’ll work it out.” I glance at my watch. “You should get ready for work. You start in an hour.”
He nods.
I walk into his bedroom and turn the shower on. “This is your bathroom.”
“Are you sure we’re allowed to use it? We’re not going to get into trouble, are we?”
I fucking love this kid.
I smile. “Yeah, buddy, I’m sure. I paid for the rooms. It’s okay.”
“Okay.” He twists his fingers as he looks around, completely lost.
“There’s a towel here.” I pass him the towel. “You can have a shower before you go down to work if you want.”
“All right.”
“You just use the soaps and shampoo in the little bottles. I’ll wait outside.” I walk toward the door.
“Christo,” he calls.
I turn back.
“You don’t have to look after me. I’m okay. Just because we’re friends, you don’t have to take me with you. That’s not how things work.”
“I know.” I sit on the bed, unsure what to say, and I tap the bed beside me. He slowly sits down. “I know you’d be completely fine here. You’re very brave and strong on your own.” I look around the room as I try to think of the right way to put this. “But I kind of feel like we belong together . . . you know?”
His eyes hold mine.
“And . . . who knows?” I shrug. “Maybe your mom organized for us to meet.”
His eyes well with tears as he stares at me.
“And I don’t actually know what the hell I’m doing with a kid . . . so be patient with me, okay?”
He stays silent.
I put my hand on his knee. “We’ll work this shit out together . . . you and me.”
He looks down at my hand on his knee and slowly puts his hand over mine.
The first time we’ve touched.
The moment is tender and emotional and a turning point in both of our lives.
The lump in my throat is back, and he wipes his eyes, embarrassed.
“Anyway.” I stand. “You have to go and serve those fuckers at the bar while I work out how to get you out of the country.”
“How come you’re allowed to say fuck and I’m not?”
“Because I’m the parent and you’re the kid.”
His eyes search mine as my words echo between us . . .
I’m the parent and you’re the kid.
My heart free-falls from my chest, and in this moment, I know that life will never be the same.
For either of us.
