Page 103 of Forever, Maybe
And then, of course, there was the other woman. The one who’d handed him her business card at Euston, bold as brass, not caring that he wore a wedding ring. A flicker of vindictive temptation sparked in him. Maybe he should look her up, have a bit of revenge sex, see if it helped. Would it make him feel better? Or worse?
At the next station, he forced himself to regroup and switched trains, standing on the platform as the one bound for Nell rumbled away. A younger guy—buzz cut, shoulders squared like he had something to prove—barrelled into him, a sharp knock against Daniel’s shoulder.
Daniel’s apology was automatic. “Sorry.”
The guy’s lip curled. “Aye, you will be, pal.”
He spat on the ground before swaggering off.
Brilliant. A timely reminder of everything hedidn’tmiss about Saturday nights in Glasgow.
By the time he reached the house on Paisley Road West, darkness greeted him. Trish was out at a friend’s birthday party, and his father would be at the Celtic Club. Not having to spend what remained of the evening making stilted small talk with them and deflecting his mother’s pointed questions was a blessed relief.
“All right?” Mark called out, traipsing up the road toward him, a blue plastic bag swinging in one hand. He was grinning, as usual, and wearing nothing but a white T-shirt and jeans despite the evening chill. The tail of a dragon—blue, green, and silver—curled out from under his left sleeve.
“What you got there?” he asked, nodding at the Tupperware containers Daniel carried.
“Nicky made chicken casserole. These are the leftovers.”
“Brilliant. I’m Hank Marvin.”
Mark fell into step beside him at the front door, waiting as Daniel slid his key into the lock.
“Shouldn’t you be in some club, off your tits?” Daniel asked dryly.
Mark smirked, unbothered. “Nah. Trish telt me your face is tripping you. She ordered me to come cheer you up. So, here I am—brother o’ the year.”
The altruism, of course, wasn’t entirely selfless. Later, as they stood in the kitchen of their childhood home, waiting for the microwave to ping while Daniel reheated the casserole, Mark admitted the truth. He was skint and his latest girlfriend had decided on a night out with her mates.
Typical. Trish, oblivious as ever to her youngest’s antics, still doted on him. He’d only moved out eighteen months ago, and as Daniel himself had witnessed, he still brought his laundry home for Mum to deal with and popped by regularly to scrounge a meal.
Daniel cracked open one of the beers Mark had brought along.
“You dinnae drink,” Mark said, screwing his face into a comically exaggerated look of Victorian disapproval. This, from the same man who hoovered up enough marching powder on weekends to stay wired for days.
“Temporary thing,” Daniel replied.
“Ah, cause o’ Nell? Stupid bitch.” Mark took a swig of beer. “You and me’ll start hittin’ the town every weekend. I’ll be your wingman. Lassies love a sob story. Before you know it, you’ll be knee-deep in pussy.”
Daniel stirred the casserole in silence, watching the globules of fat rise to the surface. Just as well it was Mark, and not their father with his high blood pressure and cholesterol, who would be eating it. Sometimes, Daniel wondered where he’d come from. His mother, father and siblings… all so alien. If not for their shared physical resemblance, he might’ve doubted he shared genes with any of them.
They sat down at Trish’s spotless kitchen table. Mark demolished both portions of the casserole, drank most of the beer, and launched into a running commentary about his life. His job. Football.Call of Duty: Infinite Warfare.A Netflix series calledStranger Thingsthat he’d binge-watched in two days.
Daniel half-listened, the words washing over him like white noise, as he nursed his beer. Mark’s phone rang just as he was spinning the fantastical plot of the show. Daniel caught a glimpse of the screen—no name, just a number.
“Hello?”
Mark’s expression shifted rapidly—puzzlement, then alarm, then anger. From the faint voice on the other end, Daniel guessed the caller was male and probably young. Mark shot up from his chair, his tone sharp as he demanded to know how they’d gotten his number. Without another word, he stormed out of the room.
He returned a few minutes later, his face drawn.
“Everything okay?” Daniel asked.
Mark grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, avoiding eye contact. Whatever had rattled him had settled into something more subdued—almost haunted. “Aye. Wrong number. I’m off. See you around.”
He paused at the front door, as if remembering something at the last minute. “Hope you’re no’ feeling too shite. Plenty more fish in the sea, eh?” And with that, he was gone.
Daniel sat back, frowning. A wrong number? Not likely. But he didn’t have the energy to untangle whatever mess Mark had landed himself in. Tonight had only reinforced the gulf between his brothers. Compared to Joe, whose steady support had been a lifeline, Mark was little more than a self-absorbed storm blowing through.
