Page 99 of Second Story

First, we wave off Lenny and Emma, who leave for the beach in the school minibus.

Then I have to fight off Josh to keep hold of the keys to our car. Finally, I have to put up with his backseat driving along the coast road.

He only shuts up quoting the speed limit when Isaac shouts, “Stop!”

He isn’t talking to Josh, and I had already slowed down—was applying the brakes to pull into the same lay-by where my brother once buzzed like a wasp in my ear. That’s where Isaac shouts again.

“That’s my van!”

He’s out of the car before it’s fully stopped, which I’m sure Josh would have opinions about if I had the headspace to listen.

I don’t. I’m too busy watching Dad pretend he has no idea how come an old rust bucket now gleams like polished silver. He also pretends he doesn’t have a key to unlock a vehicle ithas taken months of London visits for three da Silvas to repair together.

I could pop those locks, no problem. Instead, I pull Isaac’s old set from my pocket to pass them over. Every minute of the last frantic week of welding was worth it when he slides that side door open to find my sister-in-law complete with my nephew, who chews on a book designed for babies.

“Happy birthday, Isaac!”

More gifts fill the shelves Dad has crafted so not a single one of these new books can fall when Isaac drives to Cornish children missing a parent. He tells Isaac all about these renovations. It’s the most I’ve heard Dad say since I told him that Isaac’s van was a goner and he sprang into action to stage a scrapyard intervention.

Now it’s Isaac who goes quiet after investigating every nook and cranny, and my family gets that silent message. They leave to join the rest of the school, and we’ll join them on that beach just as soon as I finish what I started.

Isaac sits in the driver’s seat, and I shouldn’t be this nervous to slide in beside him. I can’t help asking an anxious question. “Want to start her up and let me know what you think?”

“I’ll tell you exactly what I think.” He clasps the keyring I carried back from London after visiting a jeweller’s, then meets my gaze instead of starting the engine. “I think I want you to be it for me forever.”

He digs into his own pocket, and I only grasp what he pulls out when a gold band gleams on my ring finger as brightly as his van’s new paintwork. “What do you say, Joe? Marry me?”

I could say plenty.

Like there’s a gold ring for him too on the keyring he holds so tightly.

Or that he’s stolen my thunder by proposing before I could pop the question the way I had planned.

For now, I settle for telling him, “Yes,” while seagulls soar and our families—both school and blood relations—party on the beach below us.

That’s okay.

This black sheep is sure our good news will be welcome.

The End.

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