Page 5 of Omega's Forbidden Heat
He ignores her and walks back down the hallway towards the kitchen. He needs a strong coffee and something to eat. He’s not interested in a lecture. He’s not a teenager anymore. The door closes and her light footsteps follow behind him and then there’s a thud on the table as he fills the kettle.
“Did you forget I was coming?” she asks, sliding her glasses up the bridge of her nose. It’s a gesture his mum used to make, just the same, they had always been very alike; his aunt a little skinnier, her cheeks more hollow and her skin paler. If you’d had to guess which of the two would get sick, it wouldn’t have been his mum. He glances away from her to the floor, not wanting the reminder, not now, when his head pounds.
“No, I didn’t forget. I overslept.” The kettle rumbles behind him and steam rises into the air, streaming over his head and into the space between them. He turns; waiting for the switch to flick off. “Do you want a tea or a coffee?” he asks her.
“Jack, sit,” she says, with what sounds oddly like sympathy. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”
He hesitates then does as she says, pulling out a chair and massaging his temples. She busies herself at the cupboards and then slides a mug of black coffee onto the table in front of him as well as two paracetamol.
“Thanks,” he mutters.
“I’ll make you some eggs,” she says, heading back to the fridge.
He sips his coffee as she cooks and after a while she flips on the radio to fill the silence. It’s some Saturday kitchen show and he allows his attention to get tangled in the banal commentary, the caffeine working its magic on the pressure in his head.
His aunt sits beside him and pushes a plate of buttered toast and fried eggs his way.
“Do you know what you want to do first?”
No, he doesn’t. He should have formulated a plan, made a list — it’s what his mum would have done. He hasn’t had the energy.
He shakes his head.
“I’ll start in her bedroom then, Jack.”
“I think I’d rather do it.”
“No, love,” she says, patting his hand. “She wouldn’t have wanted her son going through her most private possessions. Let me do it, please.”
He stares at her and she gives him a hard look. He nods and tucks into his breakfast, slicing through the rubbery yolk with his knife and watching as the warm yellow liquid spills out, running over the toast. The smell of the butter and eggs turns his stomach despite his hunger.
She lifts her own mug with both hands and sips at her fruit tea, her glasses steaming momentarily. “Are you okay?” she asks him.
“Fine,” he grunts. “I drank too much last night.”
“You were out?”
“No.” He can feel her hot gaze assessing him and he fixes his eyes on his plate, willing her silently not to quiz him more. He’s doing fine and he doesn’t need the sympathy and interference of others, even his aunt’s.
“I’m going to get started then. I’ve got a load of boxes in my car. I’ll go fetch them.” She hesitates. “Are you sure you want to do this right now, Jack? We only buried her a fortnight ago. Wouldn’t it be better to wait awhile? Ensure you really want to do this?”
“I’m sure,” he says. “I want to sell the house.” What’s the point of sticking around? Not that he knows what or where he’ll go. He could return to London. Go stay with his cousin. All he knows for certain is he doesn’t want to stay here. In this house, surrounded by memories.
His aunt examines his face, her eyes dancing over his features and then goes to fetch the boxes.
He’s just got out of the shower when the buzzer blares again. He wraps a baby blue towel around his waist and steps out onto the landing, water still running down his face and his chest. His aunt emerges from his mum’s bedroom and peers over the banister, her arms full of clothes hangers.
“It’s okay, I’ll get it.”
She raises an eyebrow at his half dressed state but doesn’t argue and disappears inside the bedroom.
The caller presses on the buzzer as he jogs down the stairs and he makes a mental note to disconnect the damn thing. He flings open the door in irritation. Finn’s waiting on the doorstep, leaning against the porch wall, with his legs and arms crossed, a nonchalance look on his face.
“So you are alive?” he smirks at him.
“Just about,” Jack mumbles, running a hand through his wet hair and sweeping it off his face.
The smirk fades and Finn searches his face in the same way his aunt had and Jack wishes everybody would stop doing that, as if he’s some dangerous animal they need to tiptoe around, scared he’ll lash out. He hasn’t got the energy for that.
