Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 104138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Naturally, being fresh meat at the table, questions eventually turn to me and I answer as politely as I can. I’m unintentionally vague, and I find myself dancing around personal questions and directing the attention towards Theodore.
“Any plans for your birthday, Theo?” Tom asks, making my ears prick up.
It’s his birthday soon? I realise it’s something we’ve never talked about and it makes me feel like a shitty boyfriend.
“It’s four months away. I haven’t thought about it.”
“Twenty-eight,” Mrs Davenport cuts in. “How did my babies get so old so fast?”
Turning my head, I notice Theodore grinning and shaking his head. Game over. His mother just revealed his age. I’m still waiting for him to tell me himself, but what he doesn’t know is that Tess already told me weeks ago.
Mrs Davenport’s intense stare, which continues to unnerve me, lands on my face. “Maybe you could surprise him with a ring, James?” Her statement comes out like a question, knocking the air from my lungs, and I start to wonder if this is what anaphylactic shock feels like.
“Mum,” Theodore says, his tone low, scolding.
“Have you thought about settling down?” she continues, still looking at me. “What are your plans for the future?”
“Tess has got a girlfriend!” Theodore pipes up, and I want to kiss him until I can’t feel my lips.
The scuffle under the table when Tess very obviously kicks Theodore’s leg makes everyone, except Mrs Davenport, snicker.
“Ooo, what’s her name? When are you bringing her for dinner?”
There’s a look in Tess’ eyes that makes me think she’s plotting Theodore’s murder as she speaks, but still, she goes on to tell Mrs Davenport all about Lucy – what she looks like, the dates they’ve been on.
I listen for a while, but then my mind reverts to her comment about settling down. Suddenly, it’s all I can think about. I haven’t given much thought to my future with Theodore, my future in general. Life is easier to deal with when you take one day at a time. But what if that isn’t the way Theodore copes with life? Has he thought about settling down? Marriage? Is that what he wants? Is that what he expects from me? If it is, I’m just not sure I can give it to him.
So where does that leave us?
“…James?”
My name snaps me back into the room and I look up to Tom. “Sorry, what was that?” Feeling awkward, I feign a smile before popping my last piece of roast potato in my mouth.
“Tess was saying how she enjoys working with Lucy. Do you find Theodore working with you a good thing?”
“Theodore works for, not with me.”
When Tom’s eyes grow a little wider I realise that right there is the arsehole side of me Theodore talks about, and I immediately laugh in an attempt to brush it off as a joke. “We work in different parts of the building so we don’t spend much of our time together but, yes, I enjoy all time spent with Theodore, both in and out of the office.”
“Ugh, pass me a bucket,” Tess says, pulling a face.
Mrs Davenport presses a hand to her chest and sighs. “That’s lovely to hear, James.”
It’s the first time she’s looked at me like I haven’t been scraped off the bottom of her shoe and I smile with relief. “Your son is very important to me, Mrs Davenport.” It’s the best I have to offer.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she says, with what looks like a genuine smile plastered on her weathered face.
The rest of the afternoon passes fairly smoothly. We eat lemon meringue pie for pudding, we listen to Tom talk about some of the more unusual cases he’s had to deal with at the hospital, and somehow, I end up talking for over twenty minutes about my father and the good times we shared together.
My eyes rarely leave Theodore as he interacts with his family. The relationship between them is so natural, effortless. Everyone in the room, bar me, feels comfortable whining, laughing, or even poking fun at each other, and I find myself grieving for an atmosphere I’ve never experienced in my own life.
Being around my family has always felt forced and uneasy. I’ve always felt this need to act, pretend to be the man they expect me to be. The only exception to this was my father, and that was only during the last few years of his life. When Max and I were children, our father worked eighty-hour weeks, trying to compete with the bigger publishing houses. It was only when we became adults, the business grew and my father sought out a silent business partner and executives to share the workload, that he had time to really get to know his children.
My father understood me. He didn’t fall for my bullshit attitude and, somehow, could always tell when something troubled me, if I was struggling, even when nobody else did. One Friday night he took me away on a golfing weekend to celebrate my third novel hitting the New York Times bestseller list, an achievement I owe completely to him, to his encouragement, his faith in me. I’m sure luck played a generous part, too. Publishing was different then. Until several years ago, before indie authors found success, the market was much less saturated, giving a good story an easier chance to shine.
I can’t swing a club for shit, but I enjoyed spending time alone with him. That was the weekend I told him about my diagnosis. I expected him to be shocked, tell me I needed to tell my mother…but instead, he enveloped me in a bear-hug, patted my back, and took me straight back out onto the course.
We talked about it in more detail when we got home, but for that weekend I wasn’t a writer or a businessman, I wasn’t an actor, and I wasn’t bipolar…I was just a boy hanging out with his dad.
I miss him.
**********
Back at my house, I toss my keys into the glass bowl on the table in the long hallway. “You have a great family,” I say to Theodore, who’s making his way through to the kitchen. I overtake him and fill a glass with water at the sink. “Although I’m still not sure your mother likes me very much.”