Fear

8

It's a Saturday morning, the kind of morning that's soft with the sun's warmth, even in late October. The kitchen smells like butter and eggs, and I can hear the sizzle of Mum's frying pan as she hums quietly to a song on the Alexa. I lean back in my chair at the worn wooden table that used to belong to Grandma. It creaks beneath my elbows as I scroll through my phone. Isabel's text is still there, a blinking reminder.

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Iz: Come on, Em.
Iz: I'm begging you!
Iz: Literally just one night and then I'll never ask you again.
Iz: Ever.
Me: I said I'm not sure.
Me: Why can't we just do a movie night?
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This is the second time she's asked me this week, and I half smile to myself. She's been begging me to go for weeks, since I turned twenty-one, and for the first time, I feel like maybe... I might just say yes. But only for her. Movies and popcorn sounds like a much better idea to me.

I glance over at Alex, who's slouched against the kitchen counter with his headphones over his ears, the black ones with the cracked padding.

My Emo kid brother.

He's wearing a faded black band tee, the logo half-cracked and barely legible — something vintage and angry-looking. Over that, he's got a blue flannel shirt, unbuttoned and hanging loose, the sleeves pushed up past his elbows. His baggy jeans are also black and ripped at the knees, frayed threads dangling loose. A chain clips from his belt loop to his back pocket, and his battered blue Converse are scrawled over with doodles, whatever was in his head when he had a Sharpie in hand. His chipped black nail polish and a few silver rings catch the light as his thumb scrolls lazily over his phone, no doubt searching for some obscure band that none of us have ever heard of. The faint thrum of heavy music escapes his headphones, but it's just background noise, like everything else in the kitchen.

Mum doesn't mind. She keeps flipping the eggs, occasionally glancing at the clock on the wall, ticking softly in the quiet. The sunlight is dulled slightly through the roller blind on the window, weak but golden. The house is warm. It's an easy Saturday, nothing to rush for, no school for Alex or real chores to do.

"Chance of a cuppa, love?" Darren's voice pipes up from the stairs, and I look up to see him walk in, pulling on his jacket.

He's a big burly man from Bolton. A builder by trade and a family man at heart. He fills the doorway with his presence, broad-shouldered and solid. His round belly presses against the zipper of his worn blue jeans and he's wearing a fleece jacket on top, giving him the proper look of someone who enjoys his pints as much as his pasties. His head is clean-shaven, a shiny dome beneath a weathered red cap that's seen better days, frayed at the seams and sun-bleached. A full ginger neck beard sprawls under his chin, peppered with grey and untamed by razors. His cheeks are ruddy, and his nose carries that slight permanent flush of a man used to the cold. He wears old-fashioned tartan slippers, well-loved and squashed at the heels, shuffling across the floor with the soft pat of someone who's made this house his kingdom. There's a warmth to him — rough around the edges but unmistakably soft at the core.

He's in a good mood today because he's off to the match later with his mates, Garry and Mitch. Manchester City vs Wolves. We all know who'll win but he says, "it's the fun of the game!" He's grinning with that slight scruff on his face. His thick Bolton accent wraps around everything he says, turning even the most mundane sentence into something homely.

"The kettle's been on, you missed it." I say, not looking up from my phone.

"Oh, right. Well, I'll 'ave a brew, Linda." Darren leans against the doorframe, looking at mum with his typical half-joking grin.