The Boy with the Whiplash Tattoo

Twenty eight

It was after midnight when they got back. The house was tidy and the dinner I had cooked was cold. 

My mother came in and went straight upstairs to get into my bed. I did not question her. 

"Hello Father," I said, barely louder than a whisper. He wouldn't look me in the eye. 

"Hello," he said.

I reached my arms out for a hug but he didn't respond, just hung his head like a sheepish child and stared at the ground. I wanted to laugh at him, because of how pathetic he looked. 

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

He shook his head. 

"I'll just go up to bed," he said.

I nodded.

When he was gone Aaron took my hand and led me into the sitting room. We took the cushions to use as pillows and found a sheet to cover us. We lay down to sleep on the carpet, squashed together in the narrow space between the sofas. He nuzzled his face into my neck and told me how awkward the drive to and from the airport was, and how my mum wouldn't shut up about us having a baby, and how timid and terrified my father seemed.

The way he told it, it made me laugh. 

"What do you think?" he whispered in my ear, his hot breath sending tickles down my spine. I was too aware of each point at which our bodies touched. "Shall we do as they ask, and make a baby right here? Right now?"

I giggled and shoved him,

"Don't be gross!" I protested, and somehow the thought made my panicked heart race.

He laughed, showing all his brilliant teeth, and wrapped his arms around me to hold me tight to his chest. He kissed my hair and settled, soon he was fast asleep.