Make him leave, p.10
Make Him Leave, page 10
That was it, wasn’t it? This was about control. About Mum grasping for something – anything – she could influence while everything else slipped through her fingers.
The realisation should have made me more sympathetic. Should have softened my anger, made me understand where she was coming from.
But it didn’t. It just made me furious.
Because her inability to cope with Dad’s illness wasn’t my problem to solve. Her need for control wasn’t justification for sabotaging my relationship. And her paranoid delusions about Finn being some sort of threat weren’t grounds for making everyone miserable.
I wanted to scream at her. Wanted to storm downstairs and tell her exactly what I thought of her behaviour. But that would only escalate things, make the atmosphere even more unbearable.
So instead, I stayed in my room. Avoided Mum. Counted down the hours until Finn returned and I could feel normal again, if only for a little while.
Around four, there was another knock on my door. I assumed it was Mum again and prepared my excuse about being busy. But Dad’s question came through instead.
‘Buff? You awake?’
I sat up immediately. ‘Yeah, come in.’
He entered slowly, moving like someone decades older than his fifty-four years. The cancer had aged him terribly – grey skin, hollow cheeks, eyes that were perpetually exhausted.
‘Thought I’d see how you were doing,’ he said, lowering himself carefully on to the edge of my bed. ‘You’ve been hiding up here all day.’
‘Not hiding. Reading.’ I jerked a thumb at the textbook I’d abandoned hours ago.
‘Right. Reading.’ His tone suggested he knew better but wasn’t going to push. ‘How are things with Finn?’
‘Fine.’ The word came out clipped. ‘He’s out with friends. Giving us some family time.’
‘That’s thoughtful of him.’ Dad studied my face. ‘You know your mother’s just worried, don’t you? She doesn’t mean to make things difficult.’
And there it was. The diplomatic dad, trying to smooth things over, make peace. Under normal circumstances, I’d appreciate it. But right now, it just felt like another person making excuses for Mum’s inexcusable behaviour.
‘She’s not worried, Dad. She’s being paranoid and controlling and completely unreasonable.’ The words tumbled out before I could stop them. ‘Finn has done nothing wrong. Literally nothing. And she treats him like a criminal.’
‘I know it seems that way—’
‘It doesn’t seem that way. It is that way.’ I sat up straighter, frustration bleeding into my voice. ‘She interrogated him about saying she used to smoke. She watches him constantly. She makes these comments that are just… loaded. Like she’s testing him. It’s horrible, and it’s not fair, and I’m sick of everyone pretending it’s normal.’
Dad sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. ‘Your mother’s under a lot of stress. With my illness, with everything—’
‘I know! I know she’s stressed. We’re all stressed, Dad. You’re dying.’ The brutal honesty made him flinch, but I couldn’t stop now. ‘I’m watching you die. Every day you get a bit worse, a bit weaker. And it’s terrifying. But I’m not taking it out on innocent people. I’m not making everyone around me miserable because I can’t cope.’
‘That’s not entirely fair—’
‘Isn’t it?’ I stood and paced the small room. ‘Because from where I’m standing, Mum’s decided Finn is the problem. That if she can just… I don’t know, expose him as secretly terrible or drive him away or whatever her endgame is, then everything will magically be better. But it won’t be, Dad. You’ll still be dying. And she’ll have successfully ruined the one relationship that’s been keeping me sane through all this.’
The silence that followed was heavy. Dad looked at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher. Sad? Sympathetic? Disappointed?
‘I just wish things could go back to normal,’ I said, my voice breaking a little. ‘I wish you weren’t sick. I wish Mum would stop being so paranoid. I wish this week had been what I’d imagined instead of this… nightmare.’
‘I know, love.’ Dad reached out.
I sat back down beside him, letting him pull me into an awkward side hug.
‘I know it’s not fair. None of this is fair,’ he said.
We sat like that for a while, not speaking. Just being together in the quiet. It was the most peaceful I’d felt in days.
‘For what it’s worth,’ Dad said, ‘I like Finn. He seems like a good lad. Patient. Kind. The way he was at the hospital – that was impressive. A lot of people would have run for the hills.’
‘I know.’ I leaned into him, careful not to press too hard against his fragile frame. ‘He’s brilliant, Dad. I really like him. Maybe even love him, I don’t know. It’s still early days but… he feels different. Important.’
‘Then don’t let your mother’s anxiety ruin that.’ He squeezed my shoulder, gentle. ‘But also try to understand where she’s coming from. She’s scared. Terrified, actually. And scared people don’t always act rationally.’
‘That’s not an excuse.’
‘No, it’s not. But it is an explanation.’ He pulled back to look at me. ‘Talk to her, Buffy. Really talk, not just argue. Tell her how you feel. Tell her what you need from her. You might be surprised.’
I doubted it. The past few days had proven that talking to Mum was pointless. She’d already made up her mind about Finn, and nothing I said would change it.
But I nodded anyway, because Dad was trying to help and I didn’t have the heart to argue with him.
He left eventually, shuffling back to his room for another rest. And I was alone again with my thoughts and my resentment and my wish that everything could just be different.
My phone buzzed. Finn again: Heading back now. Want me to grab takeaway for everyone? Curry? x
Sweet. Thoughtful. Exactly the kind of gesture that should endear him to my family but would probably just make Mum more suspicious.
Perfect. Get Dad something mild, his stomach’s been dodgy x
On it x
I should go downstairs. Should try to smooth things over with Mum before Finn got back. Make an effort like Dad had suggested.
But I didn’t want to. The anger was still too fresh, too raw. One more conversation where Mum pretended to be reasonable while silently judging Finn would push me over the edge.
So I stayed in my room. Stared at my phone. Waited for Finn to return so I could feel like myself again.
And tried not to think about how much I resented my mother right now. How much I wished she would just shut up and accept that Finn was part of my life. How much I wished Dad was healthy enough to fix this, to mediate, to put things back the way they should be.
But wishes were useless. Dad was dying. Mum was spiralling. And I was trapped in this house, my family imploding while the one person who made me feel normal was out there, blissfully unaware of just how close I was to breaking.
The sun began to set outside my window, casting long shadows across the room. Downstairs, I could hear the television. Mum moving around the kitchen. The ordinary sounds of a family evening.
But nothing about this was ordinary any more.
And I had no idea how to fix it.
Chapter 14
Zoey
Iate alone in the kitchen, pushing korma around my plate without much appetite. Graham had declined dinner – his stomach couldn’t handle anything rich, and lately even bland food made him queasy. Upstairs, the muffled sounds of Buffy and Finn in her room, the occasional burst of laughter that felt like a rebuke.
Look how happy she is without you.
The curry Finn had brought home sat in its foil containers on the worktop, still warm. Thoughtful of him. The perfect boyfriend gesture. I’d thanked him politely when he’d handed over the bags, had even managed a smile that didn’t look too much like a grimace.
I was trying. God, I was trying. Several days of biting my tongue, of reminding myself that I had no proof, that my suspicions could be wrong, that I was likely just projecting my own guilt on to an innocent young man.
But it was exhausting, this performance of normality.
I’d checked on Graham an hour ago – he’d been sleeping fitfully, his breathing shallow and raspy. The collapse had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit. He’d tried to get up this morning, had made it as far as the bathroom before needing to lie down again. The doctor had said this might happen – these sudden dips in energy, these reminders that we were running out of time.
I pushed my plate away, appetite gone. The house felt too quiet, too still. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant murmur of chatter from Buffy’s room.
Footsteps on the stairs made me look up. Finn appeared in the doorway, carrying two plates stacked with the remains of their dinner.
‘Just bringing these down,’ he said, his tone carefully neutral. The same polite distance we’d been maintaining since the smoking incident. ‘Thanks again for letting me grab dinner. Hopefully, the korma wasn’t too spicy for Graham?’
‘He didn’t eat,’ I said. ‘Not feeling well enough. But thank you for thinking of him.’
‘Of course.’ Finn moved to the sink, rinsed the plates, then stacked them in the dishwasher. Domestic. Helpful. Normal.
I watched him, my jaw tight. Just get through this. Be polite. Don’t engage beyond what’s necessary.
‘How’s he doing?’ Finn asked, his back still to me. ‘Graham, I mean. Since the hospital.’
‘Tired. The collapse took a lot out of him.’
‘I can imagine.’ He closed the dishwasher and turned to lean against the worktop. That easy, casual posture that should have looked relaxed but somehow felt staged. ‘Must be hard on you. Caring for him. Watching him deteriorate.’
‘It is what it is.’ I stood and picked up my plate. ‘Part of the vows. In sickness and in health.’
‘Right. Though I suppose you never imagine the sickness part when you’re young and in love.’ He tilted his head. ‘How long have you been married?’
‘Twenty-two years this past August.’
‘Long time. You must have been quite young when you met.’
‘Twenty-five.’ I moved to the sink, needing something to do with my hands. ‘Graham was thirty-two. Teaching at the university.’
‘Age-gap relationship.’ Finn’s tone was conversational, but there was something underneath it.
Something I couldn’t identify.
‘Those can be complicated,’ he went on. ‘Different life stages, different experiences.’
‘We made it work.’
‘Clearly.’ He watched me rinse my plate. ‘Twenty-two years is impressive. A lot of couples don’t make it that long. A lot of things can come between people over two decades. Secrets. Mistakes. Things you’d rather forget.’
I set the plate down carefully, my hands suddenly unsteady. ‘What are you implying?’
‘Nothing. Just making conversation.’ His smile was pleasant, innocent. ‘Though I suppose everyone has secrets, don’t they? Things they’ve done that they’d rather not examine too closely. Choices made in moments of weakness or desperation or just… need.’
‘Finn—’
‘Take that mole, for instance.’ He was casual, almost offhand. ‘The one on your inner thigh. Left side, maybe two inches from your—’
The world stopped.
I was across the kitchen before conscious thought could form, my hands slamming into his chest, pinning him back against the worktop. His eyes widened – genuine surprise, or a brilliant performance of it – as I pressed closer, my face inches from his.
‘How?’ My voice came out strangled, barely human. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘Know about what?’ His expression was confused, innocent. ‘Zoey, what are you—?’
‘Don’t you dare!’ The words tore out of me, months of suppressed panic and guilt and rage breaking free. ‘Don’t you fucking dare pretend you don’t remember! I know you know! I’ve known since the moment I saw that tattoo!’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ But something shimmered in his eyes. Amusement? Recognition? It was gone before I could identify it. ‘You’re not making any sense.’
‘The mole, Finn! How do you know about the mole on my thigh?’
He blinked at me, then his face cleared with understanding – or a performance of understanding. ‘Oh. That. I saw it the other day when you were in your workout gear. Those shorts you wear. It’s visible when you sit down a certain way.’
I stared at him, my grip on his shirt loosening. Had I worn shorts? I tried to remember, but the past week was a fog. I’d been to the gym in the spare room a few times, trying to work off stress. Had I been wearing shorts? Had he seen me then?
‘That’s not—’ I started, but doubt crept in.
‘Not what?’ He met my gaze steadily. ‘Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you, Zoey. But you’re clearly under a lot of stress. Graham’s illness, your work, having us here. Maybe you should talk to someone. A professional.’
‘You’re lying,’ I said, but my voice wavered.
‘Am I?’ His eyebrows rose. ‘Or are you so convinced I’m some kind of threat that you’re seeing sinister motives in innocent observations?’ He gently removed my hands from his shirt, stepping to the side. ‘I mentioned a mole I happened to see. That’s all. The fact that you’re reacting like this says more about you than it does about me.’
‘I know who you are,’ I whispered. ‘I know what you did.’
‘What I did?’ A smile played at the corners of his mouth – not friendly, not quite a sneer, but something in between. ‘And what exactly did I do, Zoey?’
‘You know.’
‘Do I?’ He leaned against the worktop, arms crossed. ‘Because from where I’m standing, I met a brilliant girl at university. Started dating her. Came home to meet her family. That’s all I’ve done. If you’re implying something else, you’re going to need to be more specific.’
‘You sought Buffy out. You—’
‘Sought her out?’ He laughed, but it wasn’t pleasant. ‘How would I even do that? Bristol’s got thousands of students. You think I just magically found your daughter among all of them?’
‘After—’ I stopped myself. I couldn’t say it. Couldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing me confess.
‘After what?’ He tilted his head, waiting. ‘Go on. After what, Zoey?’
The silence stretched between us, heavy and dangerous.
‘That’s what I thought.’ He pushed off the worktop. ‘Here’s my advice: stop looking for conspiracies where there aren’t any. Stop interrogating your daughter’s boyfriend because you can’t handle the fact that she’s grown up and moved on. And maybe – just maybe – get some help for whatever’s making you this paranoid.’
‘I know you remember me,’ I said desperately. ‘I’m going to prove it. I’m going to prove everything, if it’s the last bloody thing I ever do!’
For just a moment, his mask slipped. That pleasant, confused expression dropped away, replaced by something harder. Colder. His smile turned sharp, knowing. It was there and gone in a heartbeat, but I saw it. I knew I saw it.
‘Good luck with that,’ he said, his voice dripping with derision. Then the agreeable mask snapped back into place. ‘I’m heading back upstairs. Buffy’s probably wondering where I’ve got to.’
He moved past me, pausing in the doorway.
‘Get some sleep, Zoey. You look exhausted.’ His tone was kind, concerned – exactly the tone you’d use with someone unhinged. ‘Things always look different in the morning.’
Then he was gone, his footsteps light on the stairs. A moment later, I heard Buffy’s door open and close. Her talking, muffled but affectionate. His response, probably something charming and thoughtful.
I stood in the kitchen, my legs giving out. I sank into a chair, my entire body shaking.
That look. That flash of recognition, of satisfaction. I’d seen it. It had been real.
But he hadn’t admitted anything. Hadn’t confirmed what I knew to be true. He’d given himself plausible deniability for everything – the mole, meeting Buffy, all of it.
Which meant I had nothing. No proof. No confession. Just my certainty against his innocent confusion.
My hands trembled as I gripped the table edge, my mind racing back to that night eight months ago.
It had been after another row with Graham. One of many we’d been having that winter. Twenty-two years of marriage, and suddenly we couldn’t seem to talk without it dissolving into arguments about nothing and everything. My career taking off while his stagnated. His resentment. My frustration. The growing distance between us that neither of us seemed able to bridge.
That particular night had been worse than usual. Something about money, about a project I’d taken on that required travel, about priorities and respect and all the accumulated grievances of two decades together. He’d accused me of caring more about my work than our family. I’d accused him of being threatened by my success. It had been ugly and cruel and exhausting.
I’d left. Got in the car and just driven, ending up in Bristol because it was far enough away but not too far. I’d gone to a bar. Just one drink, I’d told myself. Just something to take the edge off, to feel like myself again instead of half of a failing marriage.
But one drink had become three. And the young man at the bar – attractive from my tipsy, blurry view, charming, interested – had made me feel desirable again. Wanted. Like I was more than just a wife whose husband resented her success, more than just a mother whose daughter had fled to university.
I’d told myself it meant nothing. A one-night stand with a stranger whose name I’d deliberately not asked for. No numbers exchanged, no promises made. Just a few hours of forgetting, of feeling something other than anger and loneliness and failure.
