Trust (London Love #5)

“I’m going to go grab a shower.” My voice sounded weird, and my hands were shaking. Fuck. What was I doing?

“Fine,” he said. Headphones into his rucksack, papers, laptop. He tapped something out on his phone, waiting. Then looking at me.

“I understand what you’re going through. Trust me. I do.”

“No, you don’t,” I hissed. “You don’t know shit.” Unnecessarily rude, but my chest was heaving with every breath.

I turned around, no idea what I needed. No idea what to do. I went into my room and grabbed my pills. Downed them dry. Went and brushed my teeth. Totally irrational.

Breathed. Tried to calm down.

The front door opened. Then it closed again.

Perhaps it helped. Or perhaps that was what made me start to cry.

I sobbed, standing there in the bathroom still holding my stupid toothbrush. I sobbed like a bloody child. No wonder. I hadn’t grown up. Not at all.

“Kiddo,” Dad said, taking the toothbrush out of my hand and folding me into a hug.

We rarely hugged.

I ugly snorted into his shirt.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It’s a lot to deal with, a relationship.”

“It’s not a relationship, Dad.”

“It is, Reuben. Your first. And it’s a bloody good one with a decent human being who really cares for you. You know how nice that is to see? He adores you. Can’t even look at you without smiling. He’s a stable young man who’s holding down a tough job—”

“Dad.” I snorted. “He’s so fucked in the head it’s not even funny.”

“As I said,” my dad continued, undaunted by my interruption. “He’s a decent young man, very put together, with a bright future. And he really likes you. You could do a lot worse.”

“Like you did?”

It may have been on the nose, but Dad laughed and kissed the top of my head.

“You can’t learn to live out of a textbook, son. Life doesn’t work like that. There may have been a time when I wanted all that stuff. All that perfection, a loving wife, lots of kids, a couple of dogs. But happiness looks different to everyone. Turns out my kind of happiness is living in this crappy little flat with you. See? Not textbook at all. But does it matter? Nope. I’m happy. Really happy, kid. And I want you to find your happy too. Just don’t think it has to look like everyone else’s.”

“He’s not everyone else.”

“No, he’s not. But as I said. Nice bloke. Not a dickhead. Likes you. All good starter qualities.”

“Also, Dad. A bloke.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, I’d say it matters!”

Here I was, shouting, and my dad just stroked the hair out of my face, smacked a kiss on my forehead.

“Trust me,” he said.

“Oh, fuck off, Dad.”