Page 105 of Crescendo

“Definitely not like Clara.”

She laughed and we kept moving. The curious, confused, slightly sad look in her eyes played in my mind, tangling with the complicated feelings of being back here. The week stay I’d had right before starting Crescendo had helped, but, after four years of avoiding this place as much as possible, it still felt weird. Maybe it always would. This had been our home. Every place I saw was filled with Callum. It helped having Lydia here, even if the energy between us was complicated and avoidant.

Maybe four years of avoiding everything just made me that kind of person.

We made it to the door—familiar, always—and I knocked, which was an interesting choice, but I was all over the place so it was what it was. Lydia shot me a questioning look, perhaps wondering whether we weren’t heading to my dads’ house after all. I couldn’t blame her.

The pale, cottage-style door swung open and I watched the questioning smile on Papa’s face morph into delighted surprise. “Ella! What are you doing here, darling? Why did you knock?”

I laughed, shrugging. “Just… felt like the thing to do.”

“At your own house? Get in here.” He stepped aside, flinging the door open and flourishing his arm. “And you must be Lydia?”

Dad emerged from the kitchen as we stepped through the door and into the small living room. “Ay up, trouble’s here.” He grinned, but I could see the concern in his eyes before they flitted to Lydia too.

She laughed. “You… aren’t what I expected.”

Dad raised his eyebrows. “What were you expecting?”

“A posher accent.” She turned to Papa. “Shorter. More gnome-like. The sequins are a great look, though.”

Papa’s eyes lit up and he placed a hand on Lydia’s back. “Oh, goodness. Come see our little collection,” he said, sweeping her off towards the back door.

I waved my hands. “Thanks, Papa, nice to see you and meet the gnomes.”

Dad laughed and came over to give me a hug—comforting, bone-crushing, and exactly what I needed. “How are you doing, baby girl?”

I sighed into his chest. “Okay. Things feel… complicated at the minute, but that’s okay.”

“Honestly, I’m just glad they feelsomething.” He said, and I breathed him in, concentrating on the soft Yorkshire parts of his accent that he’d never lost. “Even if you brought an American home who thinks I’m not posh enough. I don’t know if my ego will ever recover.”

I laughed, hugging him tighter. Neither of my dads had ever been the first to let go and I’d never appreciated it more. “Somehow, I think you’ll be okay.” I paused, thinking of Eliza. “Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Was it hard? Keeping your accent?”

He chuckled—a properdadchuckle that felt safe and warm and like home. It made my eyes burn with the flash of a memory of Callum on his knee in this very room as Dad laughed like that. “A bit. People tend to adapt to the accents they hear every day—and, let’s be honest, mine has changed over the years, so, yeah.”

“Did you…” I sighed and finally stepped back, looking up at him. “Did you ever feel like you had to change it?”

He studied me. “To fit in?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm. Sometimes. People have expectations of certain accents. Not all of them are nice. That was part of what made me more eager to keep hold of mine, though.” He smiled. “But I wasn’t too upset when you and Cal lost the bits you’d picked up from me as you aged.”

“Water,” I breathed, eyes filling with tears. “Callum said it like he was from Yorkshire until he was about twenty.”

He laughed. “A huge source of regional pride for me.” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you worried about Lydia’s accent? Has somebody said something?”

I shook my head. “No, no. Another friend—” I guessed we were friends now “—is Liverpudlian and we were talking the other day, is all.”

“Ah,” he sighed, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and leading us to the kitchen. “Yeah, it can be rough sometimes. I guess I’m not surprised it wasn’t Lydia. From everything you’ve said, she seems like a firecracker.”

I laughed, the sound a little sadder than I was aiming for. “She really is.”

We stepped into the small kitchen, and the sight of Lydia, leaning against the soft green cabinets, talking animatedly with Papa was doing things to my mind and my heart. Nothing about her wastiny English cottage, and yet, she felt perfect here.

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