Page 45 of Second Story

We’re so close that I feel and hear his breathing pick up. There’s no one else in the car park to see me repeat what only a willow tree and a van full of books have already witnessed. I kiss him until a wasp buzzes in my pocket. Then I leave to break my own rule by asking my brother work-related questions.

And if I use the long drive home to come up with a plan that might get me back to Cornwall without Noah as a reason?

That’s no one’s business but mine and Glynn Harber’s headmaster.

I’m still thinkingabout how to convince Luke Lawson to invite me back when Meera greets me much later with a plan of her own.

I’d expected both of them to be in bed already—had planned to slip the car keys through the letterbox and leave—but she has the front door open before I finish locking up the car.

“Thank everything holy that you’re here to tell him I don’t need babysitting. I was this close to pushing him out the window to stop his nagging.” She holds her thumb and finger millimetres apart, then shouts behind her. “This close, Joshua!” She alsogives me a tight hug and whispers, “Thanks for coming. He was worried you wouldn’t.”

I can’t help thinking that’s stretching the truth. When it comes to me, my brother’s emotional range is limited to annoyed and exasperated.

“Come in,” she urges.

I linger on the doorstep. “Maybe I don’t have time. Perhaps I have a hot midnight date.” I do. With my laptop.

“You’ve got a date?” Her delight is surprising. I’m more used to Meera taking the piss out of me like she used to when we were on the same school support team. Instead, she studies my face, then squints. “You do look better.” I’d take offence if she didn’t hug me again. “Come in.”

I still hesitate and listen out for my brother. “Where is he?”

“Upstairs packing. But wait.” She can move fast for someone with swollen ankles. She grabs one of my hands. “Feel me up first.”

“Careful. Your neighbours will talk.”

“At this time of night? And about what? Me getting physical with you on the doorstep? They’ll only assume you’re Josh. Don’t tell me you didn’t ever swap places with each other to mess with people.”

“I would have at school if Josh hadn’t insisted on sticking to the rules. Could have done with him taking my exams for me. He’s always been too law-abiding.”

She positions my hand on the swell of her stomach before wincing. “Sorry, I’m still a bit bruised there. Tripped over my own feet. Could happen to anybody, and everything was fine,” she adds, like she’s made this argument already. She repositions my hand, and, in an unexpected reminder of Isaac, she knits our fingers together. “Feel that?”

I do, and yeah, Josh spat plenty of facts and figures about my nephew-to-be, but I had no idea he’d be this active. “Hmm, seems like someone’s already in training for the ring.”

“That’s what your dad just said!”

“He’s here?” I let go in a hurry, hands safely in my pockets. “Bit late to repaint the nursery isn’t it?”

“No, he came for dinner. Josh did ask him to help out, but he said no.”

Because he heard I was on my way here?

I shouldn’t sag at that. Shouldn’t let Meera see me do it, or let her lead me upstairs instead of dropping off the car keys and leaving. I listen to her repeat to Josh that she doesn’t need watching over while he is away, all while rubbing her bruised belly, and I can’t help insisting.

“I’m coming over after work every night this week.” I replay Isaac handing tea and the TV remote to Ruth, taking care of her like I bet he learned when his own mum was pregnant. “And you’re gonna put your feet up and criticise my painting.”

She folds like the world’s worst poker player. “Oh, if I must,” she grumbles, but she also goes to grab paint samples that all look the same shade of grey to me, and I catch a glimpse of my brother in the wardrobe mirror.

For once, I don’t see da Silva frown lines, like our father’s. I’d forgotten Josh could mirror Mum’s smile too, and fuck me, I prefer it.

I also prefer coming back to their place every evening rather than heading alone to my studio flat.

We both spend evenings sewing. Not literally, although Meera does keep herself out of trouble by stitching the hems of nursery curtains while I mentally stitch together a project that could be a good reason to return to Cornwall. I do that while painting a nursery grey, and the whole time, I overthink whether it’s the best idea I ever had or my very worst one.

Those evenings are the reason I discover I can also mirror Josh—I have to watch his wife like a hawk, even while I’m in the same room as her, like he used to watch me from my hospital bedside. He wasn’t kidding about her being drawn to ladders.

The only problem with suggesting she sit down instead of touching up my painting efforts like she keeps attempting is that she gets good and comfy nosing through my love life. “You met someone.”

“I meet a lot of people.”

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