The Uncle

16 - Jamie

They left about ten thirty, making me confirm my promise to go to the beach with them the next day. In all honest it was a ritual we hadn't gotten to do the year before so I was genuinely looking forward to it, despite missing sleep. We all actually were tired, despite Rachel's lie earlier, so we retired to bed not too long after a Ruth and Ben left. While hugging Rachel goodnight, I whispered a almost inaudible thanks to her. She sure made one hell of a wing woman. Rob and I climbed into the loft and I instantly snuggled into his shoulder. He smiled as he shifted to wrap his arms around me.

"Your friends seem nice," he said, "Did I pass the friend test?"

"Friend test?"

"Yeah. The friend test. Did your friends approve of me?" He explained, "I'm a while off passing the dad test."

I laughed, "My dad and my friends won't pretend to like you for my sake. If they don't like you they will tell you straight up. You don't have to worry about that."

"So I take that fact they want to include me in tradition to be...a good thing," he whispered, suddenly weary of the fact others where trying to sleep.

I kissed him, "A very good thing."

He kissed me. And again. And again. Each time lingering a moment longer, "If we keep this up we won't get to sleep."

I laughed quietly, "Or I might fall asleep halfway through."

He rolled his eyes, turning onto his side, "You really know how to make a guy feel special."

"Of course," I said curling up closer to him, "You know I'm only joking."

He kissed the top of my head, "Night baby."

I groaned, "Don't start with the soppy nicknames."

He laughed, a quiet rumble in his chest, "That told me. Goodnight Jamie."

"Night Rob."

****

The next morning, no one got up before ten. Apart from dad who was up at his usual of seven. I woke up first and dressed in my running gear silently. Tiptoeing downstairs, I gave my dad a kiss on the cheek before leaving the house. The cold biting wind lashed across my face and at one point I nearly lost my earbud, but it was worth it for the morning run on a nostalgic route. These were my roads. My views. Through the twisting cobbled streets past old Georgian, Victorian And Edwardian houses, each standing proud with character and personal history. On a corner of the street, adjacent to the small letter box, still hidden within foliage, I tripped up on a run, limping back for dad to patch me up. He taught me to cycle down this road. This road was the one where I told him about my fear of moving from primary to secondary school. Laid out within streets was my entire childhood. My entire life. No amount of harsh wind could change that.

And the final street, just before the one back into my road, was where dad sat me down on the pavement. He had brought me a curly wurley which I chewed into as he spoke. I was six when I first asked where my mum was. Up to that point, I thought people only had a dad. I couldn't really remember my mum. He sat me down on the worn pavement and told me that she had left without warning, abandoning us both for something else. I remember feeling numb, not knowing whether to cry or not and feeling guilty for not crying. I remember the pain on my dad's face and thinking for the longest of time that it was my fault. I made mum go away and as a result caused dad to hurt. I told him this when I was thirteen, on the same stretch of pavement and he sat me down once again. He told me he was hurt because she left us, because she left me on my own. Most of all he hurts because he couldn't hate her because he loved her. I cried that time, unashamed of the tears as dad and I held each other.