Discover Top Posts Tagged with #lowkeyharry writes

Spaces - Part 12

✨ summary: harry starts to feel in over his head.

🍒 word count: 7.9k

🪩 masterlist

H A R R Y

I do not believe in fate or destiny, but I do believe in time. I believe, specifically, that time is elastic: it stretches and snaps according to the level of your anxiety, or the anticipation of something you’re not quite ready to experience.

Case in point: the council’s Family Therapy Centre. For reasons I can’t explain, I find myself jealous of whoever had the slot before us. At least their session is over. At least they can move on.

Arabella and I are on our second session. The first was a disaster, because Ruth, our therapist, tried to get us to do a feelings wheel. Arabella lost interest in under three minutes while I tried to remember if it was legal to bribe a child psychologist.

Today, we are back in the ring, facing off against Ruth’s latest innovation: a whiteboard divided into three columns—Me, You, and We. In theory, this is supposed to facilitate “transparent, shared reflection.” In practise, it is just another surface on which Arabella can demonstrate her indifference to the therapeutic process.

I sit on the left, Arabella on the right, Ruth at twelve o’clock, poised for whatever relational insight might emerge from the carnage. Everything about her says, “I see through you, but I won’t use it against you unless you really deserve it.”

“So,” says Ruth, after the requisite three seconds of silence. “Let’s do a check-in. How have things changed now that Arabella is permanently situated in the home?”

I’m supposed to go first. Ruth always sets it up that way, as if I’m the teacher’s pet, or the only one who ever raises his hand. I try to make it sound less like an announcement and more like an honest reflection.

“She’s… integrated really well, I think. Better than I expected, actually.” I glance at Arabella, whose eyes are fixed on a poster about mindfulness strategies. I force myself to keep talking, even though my instinct is to bail out and let her finish the thought. “Nothing remarkable.”

Ruth nods and takes a note. “Is there anything you’re concerned about? Any surprises?”

This is a trap. The correct answer is “no,” but the honest answer is “yes, I think my daughter may be nocturnal and I caught her sleepwalking into the living room at two in the morning, where she spent thirty minutes staring at the piano before returning to bed.” I decide to split the difference.

“Not really, but…” I glance at Arabella again. “I do think she’s been sleeping on the floor.”

Arabella makes a face, but it’s more of a “God, not this” than anything resembling shame.

Ruth looks at Arabella, then back at me. “On the floor of her room, or…?”

“In her room,” I clarify. “I thought it was a one-off, but then last night I passed by her door. She leaves it open sometimes, and—” I pause, because I know how this sounds, “—she wasn’t in the bed. I got worried she’d left the house, so I went in. She was asleep on the floor, between the bed and the wall.”

“Do you remember doing that?” Ruth asks Arabella.

“No. Must’ve fallen out, or something.”

This is the most absurd lie I’ve ever heard, but Ruth treats it with reverence, like it’s a confession of a secret world only available to those with master's degrees.

“I don’t think so,” I say, because I know what I saw. “You were curled up with your blanket, using a pillow. It looked…intentional.”

“That’s a lot more common than you’d think,” says Ruth. “Kids in care often sleep on the floor, especially if they’ve never had a bed that felt…secure. Sometimes the floor is the safest place they’ve ever slept.”

I feel the shame flush up my neck, because I should have thought of that. I should have known it from the start, but of course I didn’t. All my training, all my lectures about how trauma manifests, and still I managed to overlook the most basic thing.

“Can I ask what you like about sleeping on the floor?”

“I don’t,” Arabella replies quickly, “but it’s… I don’t know,” she pauses and resets. “If I did, hypothetically, sleep on the floor, it’d just be because I wanted to know if someone’s walking around. That’s all.”

I feel my stomach go cold.

“That makes sense,” Ruth agrees, as if this is a perfectly normal design feature of a child’s bedroom. “Is there a reason you’d want to know if someone’s up and about?”

“Not really.”

“Is it about feeling safe?” Ruth asks, and this time there’s a faint edge to the question, like she’s steering the conversation toward something we’ve not addressed yet. “Hypothetically?”

Arabella sighs. “I just don’t like surprises,” she gives me a sidelong glance. “Clearly it’s not a fool proof method.”

Ruth lets the silence breathe, then tries again. “Is there something about the bed that feels unsafe to you?”

Arabella shakes her head. “No.”

“Is this about Miles?” I ask. I feel the air in the room change the instant I say it. Arabella’s posture tightens, and Ruth’s pen stops moving. I’m aware that, at some point, Arabella will have to talk about this. But I also know there’s a right way to bring it up, and I may have just chosen the exact opposite.

“Who’s Miles?” Ruth asks.

Before I can respond, Arabella interjects in a rage. “What the hell do you think you know about Miles?”

I flinch, and so does Ruth, though she masks it with an intake of breath so subtle I’m almost convinced I imagined it.

“I’m not saying I know anything,” I reply carefully, but the moment the words exit my mouth, I know I’ve said the wrong thing. Ruth tries to steer us back to neutral ground, but Arabella is already bristling.

“You bring him up out of nowhere and act like you’re entitled to the backstory?” she grouses, looking straight at me with this glassy distance that makes me feel like a character in a TV drama she’s only watching to pass time.

Of course I don’t expect her to tell me everything. But also, yes, I’m her father and maybe I am entitled to some portion of her pain, even if I can’t do anything about it.

Ruth glances between us. “Arabella, if it’s alright, I’d like to hear a little about Miles, from your perspective.”

“There’s nothing to say,” she deflects.

“Harry mentioned something about a difficult placement,” Ruth continues, turning to me expectantly. “Would you be willing to clarify, so that Arabella doesn’t have to relive anything she’s not comfortable with?”

The pressure is on. I try to do it quickly, as if ripping a plaster off.

“Miles was her foster brother,” I say. “The one involved in the arrest. But before that, there were concerns about…inappropriate behaviour. I noticed some injuries, and her caseworker said Miles had been sneaking into her room. At night.”

I wait for Arabella to storm out, to punch a wall or deliver a closing statement about how nobody in this room is qualified to discuss her life, but she just glares at the whiteboard, which is now a referendum on her entire adolescence.

“Is there anything you’d like to add?” Ruth asks Arabella. “You don’t have to, but if there’s something you want us to know, now is a good time.”

Arabella’s face is unreadable. “I told Ashley that Miles was coming into my room, but I made it up.”

Ruth tilts her head. “Why did you say that?”

“Because I wanted to leave,” Arabella explains. “Lydia let Miles do whatever he wanted. If I said it was bad enough, Ashley would move me. That’s the only way you get out—if it’s an emergency.”

I shake my head. “Ashley told me she didn’t believe you were lying. And I don’t, either.”

Arabella’s eyes snap to mine, blazing. “She’s supposed to say that, isn’t she? That’s how she gets to sleep at night.”

“Arabella—” I start.

“No, seriously, you think they just…what, call up the new family and say ‘hey, we’re sending you a liar, but she’s less trouble than the others so you get her for the next six months?’” Her voice is a scythe. “Nobody cares what happens. They just shuffle you until you age out or get arrested.”

Ruth lets the moment hold. Then she lets out a deep sigh that makes it feel like she’s actually devastated by that. “That sounds exhausting.”

Arabella’s sarcasm stutters. She isn’t used to adults who don’t argue back.

“I guess,” she murmurs.

“Do you believe you’re safe, here?” Ruth asks. “With Harry?”

“I’m not saying I’m not.”

“Sometimes we do things that look odd from the outside, but they make sense for us. Maybe it’s a way to make sure you’re not caught off guard.”

Arabella does not react to this, but I do. There is a tension in my chest that I can’t explain, except that I feel it’s somehow my fault that the world has ever felt that unpredictable to her.

“Harry, you look like you have something to say.”

I do, but the words are all wrong. “I’m sorry” feels like a verdict, and “I’d never let anyone hurt you” is a promise for another timeline.

“I just want you to feel safe here. That’s all I care about.”

Arabella looks away, but not before I see the split-second tremor of something like gratitude. Ruth clocks it, too.

“There’s a difference,” Ruth says, “between being safe and feeling safe. Sometimes it takes a while for your brain to catch up with your circumstances. That’s especially true if you’ve had to rely on yourself for most of your life.”

Arabella frowns, as if the concept is somehow offensive. “It’s not like I’m living in the actual worst case scenario,” she says. “Harry is a control freak, but he’s not dangerous. I just…like to know what’s going on.”

“Right, and hypothetically, would it help if you could lock your door? Or if you texted each other before you went into the hall at night?”

This is so absurd that I have to stifle a laugh, but Arabella has less shame and actually does. “It’s fine. It’s not that deep.”

“Let’s try something different,” Ruth suggests. “What’s one thing Harry does that makes you feel more comfortable here?”

Arabella thinks about it, then rolls her eyes. “He doesn’t shout, like, even to get my attention when I’m upstairs.”

It’s the most basic observation, but I feel a strange surge of pride. At least I’m doing something right.

Ruth smiles, then turns to me. “What’s one thing Arabella does that makes you feel connected to her?”

I don’t even have to think. “She told me once she hates talking on the phone, but she always answers if I call her while I’m out. And if I tell her about a book I think she’d like, she actually reads it.”

Ruth writes “predictability” in the “we” column on the whiteboard. “That’s something you share. Maybe we can lean into that.”

I hum in acknowledgement, because the session is starting to slip into that haze where everyone is just waiting for the clock. I check my watch, then realise how transparent it is, and tuck my hands under my thighs.

“Before we finish, is there anything else you want to bring up?” Ruth asks.

Arabella shakes her head. “No.”

I almost say the same, but then Ruth looks at me with a kind of expectant, I-know-your-type patience that makes it impossible to do anything but blurt out the actual truth.

“I’m just—” I stop. “I feel…sad, I guess. Because I can’t do anything about the last fifteen years. I want to help, but it feels like I’m just a placeholder until she can do it herself.”

Ruth nods, giving us both a look like we’re toddlers who have just shared a toy without biting each other. “That’s honest.”

Arabella glances at me, then away. “It’s not like you had a choice, either.”

This is not what I expected her to say.

She looks at me again, this time with the full weight of her intelligence, and says, “I don’t hate you, you know. I only said that because I was pissed off. But you’re here now, and nobody else ever was.”

I can’t speak. I want to, but my throat refuses to cooperate.

Ruth gives us a minute, then finishes the whiteboard exercise with a flourish. “Homework for this week,” she says, writing it in the ‘we’ column. “Try to do one thing together, outside of the house. Doesn’t matter what. Just get out in the world and remind yourselves that you’re both still learning how to do this.”

Ruth stands, shakes my hand, then Arabella’s, and walks us out to the corridor. The door closes behind us with a hiss of sealed air, and for the first time in an hour, I feel like I can breathe.

I wonder if, in some alternate timeline, there’s a version of us that just goes home and makes dinner and doesn’t need to be constantly reminded that love is not a hostage negotiation. I wonder if I’ll ever find out.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖

It is a ten minute walk from our house to the Conservatory of Classical Ballet and Modern Technique, but I leave twenty minutes early. There is no logical reason for this except that, deep down, I am afraid of Arabella walking home alone in the dark. She’s lived in Chicago proper and made her own way in places that would terrify most adults, but I still imagine her getting tripped up by a traffic signal or waylaid by some loose dog near the park. I also can’t stand the idea that she might emerge from the studio expecting no one and see me running up the pavement, sweating and short of breath, like some sitcom dad. So I give myself a buffer.

The night is cold enough that my teeth start to hurt by the time I reach the gates. There are four corridors leading out from the central atrium, each marked with discreet gold signage labelling studios 1-8. I know from the emails—Chloe forwarded every last one—that Arabella’s placement exam is in Studio 4, so I follow the arrows and try to look like I belong, even though I am the only person not wearing a leotard.

There’s a window next to the door, two-way glass. On the other side, Arabella is moving through a series of steps that look like they would destroy my spine. She’s with Jennifer—the owner of the place, who has already informed me that Arabella is “something special” and “not to be wasted on your standard curriculum.” They are not speaking, just running through the same combination over and over with Jennifer watching and Arabella correcting and repeating.

Across the hallway, another studio is lit up, but empty except for a woman in a tracksuit who is videoing herself perform what I suspect is choreography for the next morning’s class. She notices me watching, offers a polite nod, and goes back to her routine, more self-conscious than before.

I turn back to Arabella, and I feel that weird sense of pride start to bloom in my chest, the one I get everytime I watch her dance. I have absolutely nothing to do with her talent; it was grown in someone else’s body, trained in someone else’s country, shaped by the bruises and nights spent avoiding men like me. Still, I feel the satisfaction anyway, and for a second I allow myself to think that maybe this is part of being a parent—wanting something for someone even if you are irrelevant to its outcome.

A few minutes later, the woman finishes filming, emerges, and glances at me with pure curiosity. I brace for her to ask me what I’m doing here, or tell me to leave, but instead she sidles up and gestures through the glass with her head.

“She’s good, isn’t she?”

I nod, because there’s no denying it. “Yeah, she is.”

“She yours?” Even though it’s a fair question, it lands with a soft jolt. I’ve never had anyone ask it before. It feels illicit, like I’ve borrowed someone else’s child for a day and am hoping not to get caught.

“Yes.” I stick out my hand. “I’m Harry.”

She takes my hand and gives a firm shake. “Meredith. I teach here—mostly ballet, sometimes contemporary if they’re desperate.” She keeps her eyes on Arabella, who has just pivoted into a leap that looks dangerous to both body and ego. “I taught her at the RBS summer intensive. I was surprised to see her name on the Conservatory’s schedule. She’s in London full-time, then?”

“Yeah, she’s just moved here.”

“Brilliant,” she exclaims. “I know her situation was a bit…complicated. Glad everything worked out.”

She says this like it’s a secret code, and I wonder just how much she actually knows. It wouldn’t take much to reduce me to an absentee father—which is fair, since I have been—but so far, the only judgement for it I’ve gotten has been from Chloe. I’ve yet to be subjected to the court of public opinion, at least, not to my face.

“Is she enjoying it here?” she asks. There’s a faint challenge in her tone, as if she’s prepared to escalate if I give the wrong answer.

“She seems to,” I reply. “Haven’t heard her complain much—that’s a good sign.”

“She’ll do well,” Meredith assures me. “Jennifer only takes the ones she really thinks she can push.” She checks her phone, then gives a little wave. “I’ll see you around, Harry.” She walks off, already tapping furiously at her screen.

I watch the rest of the lesson in silence. At one point, Jennifer pauses Arabella mid-spiral, corrects her by physically turning her upper body a quarter angle, and Arabella doesn’t even flinch. She repeats the combination, sticks the correction, and gets a nod of approval that could sustain her for a year.

The hour ends with no ceremony. Jennifer and Arabella both pack up, and Arabella opens the door and freezes when she spots me. She looks surprised to see me, though I suspect this is an act.

I stand, trying not to look too eager. Jennifer walks out behind her and gives me a polite smile.

“We’ll have her schedule for next week,” she tells me. “Arabella’s phenomenal technique-wise, but I’d like to see more confidence. She’s capable of more than she lets on.”

This feels like a direct accusation, but I take it as a compliment.

“Thank you,” I say, and she nods before vanishing down the hall. I turn to Arabella. “You ready to go?”

She shrugs on her coat and starts to walk ahead, but she’s not quite fast enough to lose me. There’s an immediate relief to being out of the building, as if the walls in there were pressing the truth closer and closer to the surface. Out here, it can disperse harmlessly into the dark.

“So,” she says, keeping her eyes forward. “What are you doing here? I thought you had some work dinner tonight.”

I lie so fluidly that I almost believe it myself. “I do, I just…wanted to make sure you got home all right.”

“You walked me here yesterday. And today. I don’t require an escort—I know how to walk three blocks around a city.”

Little does she know I’ve got a pathological terror of losing things before I even know what they are—but I suspect this would either make her feel sorry for me or mock me for weeks, neither of which I’m equipped to manage at the moment.

“There are dangers specific to South Kensington,” I counter. “Overzealous dog walkers. Luxury cars parked on the footpath. Also, you left your phone at home.”

She grunts, which I take as a concession. “I wasn’t planning on getting lost. Worst thing that could happen is someone mugs me for my pointe shoes.”

“That’s definitely a possibility,” I say, “especially in this economy.”

We walk home in silence, because we have nothing to gain from performing small talk, which is either a testament to our mutual understanding or a sign that neither of us particularly cares to impress the other. Arabella keeps pace with me, but every time we turn the corner, she makes a point of doing it first, just to prove she knows the way.

Chloe is waiting in the living room when we get back. She’s sitting on the sofa with her knees up, scrolling through her phone and pretending not to listen for the sound of the lock. The moment we step in, she lowers her feet and composes herself, as if there’s a camera recording her every movement for the custody review. Arabella clocks this and gives her a look so withering I’m briefly grateful I’m not the intended target.

“You’re back,” Chloe beams, and for a moment I can almost believe we are a real family, the kind that eats dinner together and watches bad telly and calls each other “love” without irony. “How was class?”

Arabella shrugs off her coat, managing to make it land perfectly on the banister without looking. “Fine,” she says. “Jennifer’s scary, but in a good way.”

“I’m glad you’re giving it a shot,” Chloe replies. “We’ve got reservations, just the two of us. Can you be ready in a half hour?”

Arabella gives her a thumbs up and heads for the stairs, bag over one shoulder, not bothering to look back.

Chloe waits until she’s gone, then leans in. “Are you ready for tonight?”

I make a noise that could be “yes” or “please kill me.” “Not really.”

“Don’t worry. They’re your parents, not the Supreme Court. Just…ease them into it.”

“That’s the problem,” I say. “There’s no gentle way to tell them they have a granddaughter and she’s already fifteen.”

“Try not to mention the court-mandated therapy, then.” She checks her watch, then glances toward the kitchen, where the sound of a kettle boiling drowns out any chance of a private argument. “You’re not going to be late, are you?”

I look at the clock. Half past seven. I need to get this over with, so the rest of my life doesn’t feel like I’m living in a witness protection programme.

“Not unless the Circle Line is on fire,” I quip. “And thanks for taking her out. I know she can be by herself, but I don’t want to feel alone…” I trail off, because I’m not even sure what I’m trying to say.

“I know, I know.” She kisses me, the way only a wife knows how to do, and hurts so badly because I’m not sure how much longer that’ll be true. “Don’t worry about rushing home. Just call me when you’re done.”

I kiss her again, because this seems like one of the few times I’m allowed to. “Goodnight, baby.”

“Night, Harry,” she muses, practically shooing me out the door. “Tell them I said hello.”

I head out and run through the scenarios on a loop: mum cries and dad goes into shock; my brother makes a joke about “illegitimate offspring” and then spends the rest of the evening talking about Brexit; everyone pretends it’s fine and then calls their solicitor to rewrite their will. There’s no clever way to do this. No matter how I spin it, it’s a car crash.

I arrive at my parents’ house in Chelsea five minutes early, which is an error in judgement. Their house is easily the largest on the street with two separate entryways for staff and family. I hate it, always have. The garden is perfectly clipped, the lights in every room set to the same impossible brightness, and as I approach, I hear the low drone of music from inside.

The door is answered by my mother, who hugs me so hard I nearly drop the bottle of wine I brought as an apology in advance. “You’re just in time!” she exclaims, and pulls me into the kitchen, where the clatter of cutlery and the smell of grilled salmon do nothing to steady my nerves.

Ben is at the counter, uncorking something expensive. He’s always been the family’s answer to a missing Labrador, because he’s friendly, overenthusiastic, and impossible to offend. He sees me and smiles. “Evening, mate. You look like death.”

“Work’s a shitshow,” I lie. “Parliament is eating itself alive.”

My father is nowhere to be seen, which means he’s either in his study or lurking in the sitting room, waiting for an opportune moment to make an entrance.

“Is Chloe coming?” mum asks.

“No, she’s got dinner with a friend,” I tell her, because it’s as close to the truth as I can manage right now.

“Shame,” she murmurs. “We haven’t seen her in ages. Things still rough between you two?”

“She’s fine,” I say, knowing full well that “fine” is not a real answer. “We’re still…figuring things out. She says hello.”

“Has she moved back in yet?” Ben asks, sensing blood in the water.

I sigh. “No, mate. She hasn’t.”

Mum gives a sympathetic smile and squeezes my hand as if she’s about to dispense the secret wisdom of the ages. “You know, darling, it’s perfectly normal to have a rough patch in marriage. Especially with your work being so…all-consuming.”

“Thanks, mum,” I say softly.

The three of us do the perfunctory small talk—how was the tube, did you see that dreadful business on the news, what’s the latest at work. My mother pours us each a glass of white, sets the table with a perfection I will never achieve, and herds us into the dining room.

Ben sits opposite me while my mother flits about lighting candles and adjusting the angle of the cutlery. There’s a faint, ghostly sense of ritual to the whole thing, like we’re actors in a period drama about my childhood and I’m about to tell them I’ve gambled away my entire inheritance.

Dad appears just as the soup is being served with the frown of a man who has seen the markets and does not like what he’s seen. He nods at me, then at Ben, and sits at the head of the table with a heavy sigh.

The soup is carrot, with a suspicious whiff of ginger, and the bread is cut into perfect slices as if by a laser. There’s a separate wine glass for every course, even though my mother only ever drinks half a glass before switching to tea. This is the kind of dinner where the tension arrives before the guests, then sits in your chair and starts working on the place cards.

Ben asks if I’ve seen the new press about the reshuffling at Downing Street. I haven’t, or I have, but I lie and say I haven’t because I don’t want to get into a pissing contest over who has the worst job. My mother, always the peacemaker, glances between us like a tennis umpire and then asks if I’d like to stay the night—code for “are you emotionally capable of taking the train home at midnight.” I say I’ll see how it goes.

My father is content to observe, which means the temperature in the room has already dropped a few degrees. After the salmon has arrived—accompanied by a white wine reduction and the crushing sense of impending doom—I realise that if I don’t do it now, I never will. I clear my throat.

“There’s something I need to tell you all.” I say it as lightly as I can, hoping it will sound like I’m about to announce I’ve won an award or, at worst, lost a minor appendage.

My mother freezes with her fork halfway to her mouth. Ben looks up from his phone. My father’s jaw flexes as he wipes the edge of his mouth with a linen napkin.

“I knew it,” says my mum. “You and Chloe—”

“No,” I cut in, before she can build the narrative. “It’s not about Chloe. I mean, in a way it is, but…not really.”

Ben frowns. “Then what?”

I swallow, because this is the point of no return. “I have a daughter.”

There is a silence so perfect, so symmetrical, it feels like someone has hit pause on the universe.

Mum’s fork clatters onto the plate, rolling twice before it stops. Ben, for once, is speechless, and my father’s lips purse so tightly they almost disappear.

“Wait,” Dad shakes his head. “Chloe’s pregnant?”

“No,” I say. “It’s not Chloe’s—”

“So, you’ve fathered a child with some other woman? That’s why Chloe’s leaving you?”

“Dad, please,” I plead. “It’s not like that. This was before I even met her. Arabella’s fifteen.”

This does not make it better. Ben’s face cycles through five distinct expressions—shock, dismay, awe, then back to shock. “No way,” he laughs. “Have you had a paternity test?”

“Yes. Two, actually. She’s definitely mine.”

Dad clears his throat, as if preparing to deliver a closing argument in a case he’s been litigating in his head for decades. “So you’ve just found out you’ve had a daughter out there in the world?”

“No,” I admit, already bracing for the cross-examination. “I’ve always known she existed.”

His face goes dark. “You mean to tell me you’ve known this whole time? Is this really who you’ve become? Running off, starting families you can’t even bother to tell us about?”

“It’s not that simple. I thought she was with her mum. I thought—”

“She’s not been with the mum?” he echoes, his patience wearing thin. “Where the hell has she been, then?”

“Arabella’s been in foster care,” I explain, and I keep going, because if I stop now I’ll never start again. “I had an affair with my professor at uni. Genevieve got pregnant during my last semester, and she was married to another man. She didn’t want to tell him about me, and I didn’t want to be a dad, so the plan was for her to tell him it was his baby.”

“Bloody hell, mate,” Ben chuckles. “Was she fit?”

I shoot him a look. “Not the point.”

My mum glances around the table. “How did she end up in foster care?”

I take a breath, wishing I’d rehearsed this even once out loud. “Arabella found me in July. She had said Genevieve put her up for adoption at birth—” I glance at my father, who looks like he is one standard deviation from flipping the table. “—which, I had no idea, that was not the plan—but when Arabella was eight, the parents lost custody and she was put back in the system.”

There is another silence, then Ben claps a hand over his mouth to contain his laughter. “Jesus Christ. I thought the worst you’d do is join a cult or embezzle funds from the government. This is actually impressive.”

Mum ignores him. “So she’s just…in America? In some random stranger’s home? Have you met her, like in person?”

“I’ve met her,” I confirm. “Arabella was in London over the summer, she showed up at my house, and we started getting to know each other. Then she went back to Chicago and got placed with another family, but there were some issues. And now…she’s living with me.”

“Issues?”

I nod. “She got arrested for assaulting her foster brother.”

My father, to his credit, manages not to spit his mouthful of wine onto the tablecloth. He sets his glass down, wipes the rim with a level of precision reserved for sociopaths, and levels a stare at me that I recognise from every public embarrassment of my youth.

“She’s been arrested? So she’s a criminal?”

“Her social worker said the preferred term is ‘justice involved individual'—”I stop myself, because the last thing I want is for this to turn into a debate about semantics and PC culture, “—but it wasn’t her fault. She was defending herself.”

Mum blinks as if she’s replaying the last thirty seconds of conversation, like a faulty tape. “You’ve… she’s been living with you?” The word living does not feel at home in her mouth.

“Two and half weeks now,” I confirm, because honesty is apparently the new family policy.

Dad shakes his head. “So let me get this straight. You go off to America for uni, sleep with your professor, she gets pregnant, you leave, and now the child—whom you have ignored for fifteen years—is suddenly your responsibility?”

“I didn’t ignore her. Genevieve and I agreed—she was going to raise Arabella as her own. I thought she’d be fine.”

My mother, who usually reserves judgement for people outside the family, looks at me like I’m a crime scene. “You didn’t think to check?”

“I was twenty-one,” I plead. “And I never heard from Genevieve again. She moved, changed jobs, everything.”

“So you just…” Ben gestures with his wine glass, “left the kid and never looked back? Are you keeping her?”

“She’s not a dog, mate,” I murmur.

“Are you adopting her, then?”

“It’s complicated,” I say, struggling to keep my voice from breaking. “She’s here on a special arrangement until her case in the States is sorted. But I want her here, as long as she’s willing to stay.”

My father stands, which is always the cue that the argument is about to escalate. “You really think you can just swoop in, rescue a child you abandoned, and that’s enough? Don’t you see how pathetic this is?”

Mum reaches for his hand. “Sit down, love, please. We’re not going to solve anything by shouting.”

But he doesn’t sit. “You let a girl get lost in the system and didn’t so much as send a Christmas card, and now you want to be congratulated for doing the bare minimum.”

“I’m not asking for congratulations. I just didn’t want to hide it from you any longer.”

“Hide what? That you’re a fraud? That you only ever do what’s easy? You were always like this, Harry, always. Never finished a thing in your life—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Ben interrupts, “He’s trying, Dad. Not everyone’s as perfect as you are.”

For the first time in my life, I want to hug my brother.

My father’s anger burns out, replaced by a cold disgust. “You’ll never make it work. You’re not built for it. Mark my words—six months from now you’ll have found a way to hand her off to someone else. It’s what you do.” He looks at me, and I can see the years of disappointment etched into every line of his face. “Is this the kind of man you wanted to be, Harry? Is this what we raised you for?”

“You raised me to believe every problem could be solved by writing a cheque,” I fire back. “So pardon me if I didn’t want to jump head first into raising a child—maybe I just didn’t want to be the type of father you were.”

There is a long, hot, electric silence. I think about every time I ever saw my dad apologise, and the answer is never. Not once. I’m not sure if I’m really much different, or if I’m just the same bastard, thirty years removed.

My dad scoffs, grabs his glass, and then he walks into his study and slams the door. The impact rattles every glass on the table.

Mum is actively trying not to cry, and as much as I want to hug her, I also want to run for the door and never look back.

“That went well,” Ben says after a while.

My mother wipes her face, then pats my hand. “He’ll come round. You know what he’s like. It’s just…a lot, all at once.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be silly. She’s family. That’s all that matters.” She pours me another glass of wine, as if it will heal the breach.

Ben looks at me, finally serious. “What’s Arabella like?”

It’s a question I’ve been dreading, because the answer is so thorny and so beautiful that I don’t trust myself to get it right.

“She’s stubborn,” I chuckle, “and funny. And smart. She doesn’t trust anyone, and I can’t really blame her for it.”

Mum squeezes my hand. “Do you have a photo? I want to see her.”

I’m about to tell her yes, but then I realise I don’t have a single picture. Not one. It occurs to me that, for all my desperate attempts to prove I can be a decent father, I have not even managed the most basic task of parenthood. I’m shocked by the fact Chloe and I went to her showcase and managed to walk away without experiencing her incessant need to document her existence.

“Not yet,” I tell them, feeling my stomach knot.

Ben laughs. “Unbelievable. The whole world’s got a phone camera now, and you’re the last man alive without a kid pic.”

I shrug, but it’s a bad cover for the shame that’s pooling in my chest.

My mother perks up again. “Can we meet her?”

The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. Not once in the last five months had I even considered introducing Arabella to my parents, or Ben, or anyone outside the immediate crisis perimeter. It’s not just that she’s skittish, or that she might find it overwhelming. It’s that, for the first time in my life, I have something precious, and the idea of exposing her to the world—especially my world—feels like setting a butterfly loose in a wind tunnel.

“I’ll ask her.”

She gives a hopeful smile. “Do.”

We make it through the rest of the meal with only a handful of detours into the abject disaster of my personal life. Dad does not return. At the end, mum packs up leftovers and sends me on my way with a hug so long I’m not sure she’ll ever let go.

I call Chloe on the tube to tell her the dinner with my parents went exactly as expected (“catastrophically,” for anyone keeping score), and in return she gives me the play-by-play of her own evening with Arabella. “We ate sushi,” she says, “and watched a film about a robot who tries to save the world and ends up destroying it.” I sense she finds this symbolic.

I’m starting to suspect that Arabella prefers Chloe to me, which is fine. More than fine, if I’m honest. I’ve never known how to relate to teenage girls—I can barely relate to myself—and Chloe, despite having no biological imperative, seems to have cracked the code. I try not to let it bother me. I tell myself it’s a relief that Arabella has someone more emotionally adept to handle the subtleties of comfort and belonging, but the truth is, I am jealous. Not of Chloe, but of the possibility that, if things had gone differently, Arabella might have felt that way about me.

The porch light is off. I let myself in, then lock the door behind me, counting out the motions to remind myself that, if nothing else, I am competent at entering and exiting my own home. The lights in the front hall are dimmed; the only illumination is the blue halo from the digital clock on the oven, glowing through the kitchen archway.

I pour myself a glass of water, walk back to the sitting room, and sink into the sofa by the window. I check my email on the off chance that something urgent has landed while I was busy shattering the family tree, and then turn on the news. It is a mistake. The anchor is talking about a petrol shortage in the Midlands, and I spend five full minutes fixating on the way her lips barely move when she says “fuel crisis.” I mute the television, but the images keep flickering: angry commuters, empty shelves, some government official sweating under the lights. It’s hypnotic, like watching a car accident from far enough away that you don’t have to acknowledge the casualties.

I must doze off at some point, because the next thing I know, the clock on the wall says 01:42 and the room has gone arctic. I am half dreaming when I hear it: the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Not the measured tread of someone coming down for a glass of water, but the frantic, pounding rush of someone being chased. The steps hit the landing, then the tile, and for a split second I am convinced there is an intruder in the house until I see Arabella.

She barrels into the hall wearing a t-shirt and shorts that could be pyjamas or just the bottom layer of her wardrobe. She checks the wall with her shoulder—hard enough that I wince—and then pauses, staring at the front door like she expects it to open for her.

“Arabella, what’s wrong?” I ask, but there is no reply. She pads to the shoe rack, fumbles for her trainers, and jams her feet into them with the panicked sloppiness of someone being timed. Her hands are shaking, and I can see from the way her fingers are clawing at the laces that she is on autopilot.

I sit upright and try again. “What are you doing, sweetheart?”

Arabella doesn’t answer. Her eyes are glazed, but not with tiredness—the pupils are shrunk to dots, and the whites have a faint, searching agitation. She doesn’t register me, or if she does, it’s as an obstacle. This is the same look she had when I found her sleepwalking in the living room. Only, she wasn’t actually doing anything; it was more like she was looking for something than running from it. This time, there is a terrifying level of abject terror, as if there is something behind her that will destroy her if she stays still for too long.

In a movement so quick it almost gives me vertigo, she moves to door and unlocks the deadbolt.

That’s when the adrenaline hits me, but with a twist—it’s not fear for myself, but fear for her. I sprint from the sofa and catch her at the threshold, my hand slapping the door shut with a noise so loud I’m sure it’s cracked the wood. She recoils, but she’s still not awake. She grabs for the handle again, and when it doesn’t give, she pushes at my arm with a force that is, frankly, unnerving, and tries to open the door again.

I remember that you’re never supposed to wake a sleepwalker. Something about shocking the brain into panic mode, triggering fight or flight, or cardiac arrest if you’re unlucky. But you’re also not supposed to let them leave the house in subzero weather, so I place my hand on her shoulder and hold my ground, trying not to startle her further.

“It’s okay,” I murmur, stepping between her and the door. “You’re safe, you’re home, it’s just me.” I repeat it, softer each time, as if layering the words will make them true.

“Go away,” she says. She shakes her head and tries to edge past me, but I side-step, matching her movements until she stops. She’s trembling—actually trembling—and there’s a flush climbing her neck that makes me think she’s about to faint.

“Arabella,” I say softly. “You’re dreaming. It’s alright. Go back to bed.”

She shudders, staring through me as if I’m a glass door, and then her eyes skitter away. I think she’s about to turn around and head upstairs, but then she bolts for the kitchen, quick as a fox. She rattles the back door’s handle twice, then when it doesn’t give, she hammers on the glass with the flat of her palm. I reach her before she can escalate to breaking it, catch her hand in mine and wrap my arms around her from behind.

“Arabella, you’re home,” I say. “You’re safe. Go on—back to bed.”

She thrashes, not violently but with desperate, full-body effort, as if the thing chasing her is so terrible that even my arms are just another layer of threat. My instinct is to squeeze her tighter and hold her in place until she realises she’s safe, but the advice is clear: never restrain, never startle, just guide. So I loosen my grip and use the softest voice I can muster. “You’re alright, darling. You’re just having a dream.”

Her breathing is ragged, like she’s choking on each inhale. She says nothing, but I feel her muscles fluttering against my chest like a trapped bird. She’s so light, I could pick her up and carry her upstairs, but that would only make it worse, so I keep my hands gentle and steer her away from the exit with infinite patience.

At last, the storm subsides. Her hands fall to her sides. She stands there, unmoving, for ten, maybe twenty seconds, before turning her head slowly to look at me.

“Back to bed,” I repeat softly.

She shuffles past me, up the stairs, silent as a shadow, and I follow, keeping enough distance that I won’t startle her again. She climbs without looking back, but when she gets to the top, she stands on the landing as if she’s forgotten why she came here in the first place.

“Left,” I murmur. “Second door.”

She obeys, like the words have short-circuited her ability to resist. When I reach the door, she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, untying her trainers. Her hands are shaking so badly it takes her three tries to get the knot undone.

The room is neat, like a hotel room before you unpack. I go to the window and check the latch, as if I am performing some routine security protocol, and I see at a glance that the bed has not been slept in—the covers are pristine, the pillows perfectly arranged. Between the bed and the wall is a pillow and blanket. “I don’t sleep on the floor,” my bloody arse, Arabella.

“Lie down,” I tell her, and I drape the blanket over her and tuck it in around her back, the way I remember my mother doing for me when I was small and sick. She relaxes, just a fraction, and then, in a voice hoarse from tears I haven’t seen, she murmurs, “stop—I’ll scream.”

I freeze. I know what she means. Even asleep, the terror is never really gone.

I want to fix it. I want to make a deal with whatever gods are in charge: let her sleep, let her live, and I’ll never ask for anything again. But I know that’s not how it works.

“It’s alright,” I whisper. “You’re okay, Arabella.”

I sit next to her in the darkness, watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing. I do not move. I wait until her breaths have evened out, until the tension in her limbs dissolves. I wait, because I don’t know how else to help.

She will probably have no memory of any of this. She will probably say that she just had a weird dream, that she must have gotten up to get water and gone back to sleep. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to correct her, or if we’re just supposed to pretend that the only thing we have to worry about is schoolwork and the weather. The only thing I know is that, for now, I can sit with her and try to absorb the weight of her fear.

#lowkeyharry writes

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#lowkeyharry writes