Tough Love Read online

  Table of Contents

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  ALSO BY MAX

  THE MUSIC

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  TOUGH LOVE

  Copyright © 2017 Max Henry

  Published by Max Henry

  All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Max Henry is in no way affiliated with any brands, songs, musicians, or artists mentioned in this book.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  Tough Love may contain triggers for some people. A lot of difficult subjects are broached, and while they aren’t described in great detail, please be aware of this going in.

  The book is also written in New Zealand English, so there may be some words that seem misspelled, but aren’t. Eg: kerb vs curb, or realise vs realize.

  Please bear these things in mind when reviewing, and enjoy ;)

  ONE

  Things to google while you wait in a hospital corridor: Who picked mint green as the universal colour of choice for health care providers? My leg taps at the same speed as my thumb while I spell out the inane question. I’m pretty certain the device in my hand is the only thing that’s stopped me from accosting the poor nurse for the thousandth time as she passes by. The way my mood is going, I’d probably find myself kicked off the premises for harassment.

  Not an ideal situation for the only available next of kin.

  The answer to my question flashes up on my screen, and I read it—well, I skim it—as I shift on the uncomfortable plastic seat. Something about a calming mood, influencing the patient’s psyche. The friendly orderly who stopped to check on me a half hour ago had suggested I move to the family lounge, but fuck that. It’s no more of a lounge than a decorated twelve-by-ten tank to contain the hopeful in. Nope. Instead, here I am, camped out in the sterile, bleach-tinged hallway, watching the trauma patients as they pass by.

  I haven’t spoken to Kath in seven years. Does she still go by Kath? Or is she Katherine now she’s older, more refined? Strangely enough, it hadn’t been the first question on my mind in the five minutes we had shared before she lapsed into unconsciousness. My head had been busy circling around the one thing she did manage to say as the doctors and nurses flew around her.

  “Childcare. Number’s in my phone.”

  Childcare. Since when does she have a kid? Mum left that interesting titbit out the last time my estranged sister came up in not-so-casual conversation.

  I’d ring like she asked, find out the truth, but I don’t have her phone. Chances are it’s crushed somewhere in the mangled steel that barely resembles her Audi. She bought the sedan shortly before we’d stopped talking, citing their impeccable safety record. I guess you could say the vehicle held up its end of the bargain, considering I’ve been told a dozen times over that it’s a miracle she survived the accident that took the other driver’s life.

  I told the attending officer about the kid instead, who then promptly disappeared, hitching the radio on her shoulder closer to her mouth as she rattled off the details. They said they’d sort it. They said they could track down the name of the facility and have an officer there within the hour.

  They shouldn’t have to. What kind of sister knows nothing about her apparent niece or nephew?

  This one.

  My phone vibrates in my hand, and I stare at the name sitting proudly above the Accept and Decline icons.

  Mum.

  I told her I’d ring again when I got more news. There isn’t any. But you can’t blame her for worrying.

  “I still haven’t heard.”

  She sighs down the line, the quiet hum of the television in the background. “It’s been over an hour.”

  “I know.”

  My bladder knows.

  My rumbling stomach knows.

  Yet, I can’t bring myself to leave the uncomfortable-as-hell seat in search of relief, in case I miss an update.

  “Well, we’ve booked the next available flight. Your father’s packing our bags in the car; we depart in an hour and a half.”

  My father, the retired psychologist, convinced Mum that a move to Queensland was what they needed. The thought of another winter in New Zealand’s south, snowed in, was more than he could stomach. “I need the sun to heat my bones,” he’d said. And Mum agreed.

  Kath and I stayed behind, put down roots where we’d grown up, and promptly drifted our separate ways since there was nothing left to tether us to each other. Otago is more than large enough if you don’t want to be found. Seven years living within twenty kilometres of one another, and we never crossed paths. Not once.

  “I’ll ring you if I hear anything.”

  “Message me if we’re in the air,” Mum urges. “I want the update as soon as we hit the ground. We’re picking up a rental car in Christchurch.”

  “Of course. Sure thing.” The majority of international flights still come in to the South Island via the airport in Christchurch. Once they get their rental car, it’s still a four and a half hour drive south to Dunedin. Yet it’s probably still quicker than waiting for the next direct flight to Queenstown and making the shorter drive north.

  Silence hangs heavy. I don’t know what else there is to say that won’t seem trivial given the circumstances.

  “She needs you,” Mum whispers, breaking our reverie. “Don’t make this about the past. Please.”

  I don’t say anything. I know Kath needs a familiar face, someone in her corner, but my capacity for caring is tied up in how this affects our ageing parents, not me. I could have easily received the phone call and dismissed it, safe in the knowledge Kath is in the best hands here at the hospital. But I came in. I dropped what I was doing and took a cab across town to be here, because I knew it would break my mother’s heart if she knew how deep the fissure between her children ran.

  “I’ll call you,” I say simply, before hanging up.

  The low power warning flashes up on the screen of my phone, and I set it to battery save mode. There goes my entertainment. I slip the device into the pocket of my coat, and fidget with a frayed patch on my designer jeans. I used to feel bad about spending the amount of money I do on clothing and accessories, worried that somehow it portrayed the belief that I thought I was better than the average Joe. But that’s not why I choose to drop two hundred dollars on super-skinny denim.

  It’s because I earned the right to.

  I studied, I went without to focus on my goal, and I worked my damn arse off to get where I am now. The opportunity to work on half-million dollar apartments around the country, to coordinate their interiors and advise the elite on what style best suits their schedule, isn’t thrown in the laps of the lucky. It’s earned; fought for and won through determination and fire.

  I made my life what it is, and so I deserve the rewards, shallow as they may seem to some.

  “Ms Harris?”

  I glance up at the nurse, who looks apprehensively down at me. “Yes?”

  “They’ve collected your sister’s son. He’s here.”

  TWO

  “How did they pick him up without consent? I mean….”

  “In cases of emergency, the police are allowed to collect dependents.” The nurse glides down the corridor with a speed that belies how softly her sensible flat shoes strike the linoleum. “He doesn’t know what happened, how bad it is, just that he’ll be with you until his mum feels better.”

  I reach out and catch her elbow, bringing her to a halt. She looks down at the connection, her arm stiff around the patient files she holds close to her chest.

  “How old is he?”

  Her face says it all: He’s your nephew. How can you not know?

  “It’s complicated,” I offer. “I’m not close with my sister.”

  “He’s six.”

  If she’d said two, four even, maybe it wouldn
’t have been such a surprise. But hearing that he’s six, and adding at least nine months to that timeframe, somehow makes it hurt a lot worse when I realise Kath and I had barely parted ways when she fell pregnant with him.

  And my family never said a thing. Why?

  “Where’s his father?”

  “Ms Harris, we can only do so much,” the nurse says gently. “You’ll need to discuss that with your sister when she’s well enough to talk.”

  If she’s well enough to talk.

  “Of course.” I gesture for the nurse to go ahead, and we resume our flight through the halls.

  Mint green gives way to baby blue as we cross into an area that holds no sign of the trauma we’ve left behind. Televisions strategically mounted in the top corners of the large waiting area play sitcoms; something light to lift the mood, no doubt. The furniture is plush and inviting, the toys that spill over in the children’s corner invoking a false sense of home.

  The nurse, whose name I never bothered to catch, swings left and leads me past an elderly couple reading tabloids, down to the far corner where the child I presume is my nephew is overshadowed by a uniformed officer. The space between my escort and me grows as my feet slow of their own volition; the realisation dawns that whatever this is, however this situation turns out, it’s all too real now.

  I cross my arms over myself and draw my coat over my torso as though it’s a protective shield from the harm this innocent child’s presence can inflict on a cold heart like mine. The nurse catches the officer’s eye, and jerks her head toward me, before leaving just as fluidly as she arrived.

  “Ms Harris?” His hushed tone wraps around me like a velour blanket, inviting and comfortable.

  “Yes.” I can’t look away from the dark-haired boy as he builds what appears to be a garage out of a pile of blocks.

  “You’re the mother’s next of kin?”

  I nod, my breath firmly lodged in my throat as the child looks up and questions me with his eyes. What the hell? She couldn’t have. She wouldn’t have. Would she?

  “Are you in a position to take on his care temporarily?”

  I know what Mr Smooth Operator is asking in those dulcet tones: have I got my shit together enough to be in charge of something so precious?

  I don’t know. Have I?

  “I guess.” I finally tear my gaze away from my nephew—the child whose name I don’t even know—and address the cop.

  The stunningly good-looking cop.

  The all too familiar cop.

  The cop whose head is cocked to the side as he waits for me to stop flapping my jaw soundlessly and say something.

  “Evan?” My legs weaken, and I shoot my hand out in preparation should I collapse. “When …?”

  “Hey, Amelia.” His lips quirk up in a soft smile, yet his piercing blue eyes hold all the pain I feel echoed deep in my soul.

  He left me. Right when I needed him most, he just up and left. And here he is now, when I don’t need anyone anymore, and I’m not sure what to make of that. Questions float through my mind, blurring with each other as I stare at the boy I once loved—the boy I never stopped loving.

  “Why did you go?”

  “Why didn’t you call?”

  “Did you love me?”

  So many things I want to say. None of which are important given the current situation.

  “My parents are on the way,” I word vomit, still mesmerised after all these years by those striking blue eyes that are the colour of a summer day in the middle, ringed with the deeper shade of an approaching storm. “They can help.”

  He nods, gaze moving to the boy, and then back to me. Does he have questions for me too? Or am I a closed chapter in his life? An inconvenient reminder?

  More likely he’s probably wondering why I haven’t cuddled the child, said hello, or so much as acknowledged he’s my problem now.

  “What’s his name?” I whisper, the blush of shame burning at my cheeks as I avoid Evan’s stare.

  “Briar.” He frowns.

  “Okay.”

  “Pardon me for asking,” Mr Sure-grew-up-to-be-sexy asks, “but he’s your sister’s kid, correct?”

  “Right.”

  “And you don’t know his name.”

  I shake my head, not missing the fact Evan moves slightly to the side so he’s effectively body-blocking me from Briar. He’s dubious. And so he should be. It’s his job to be worried about the welfare of the innocent.

  Pity he couldn’t show that eight years ago.

  “Family problems,” I explain simply, craning my neck to look around him at the kid.

  He nods, grumbling knowingly. He was there for the start of it. He doesn’t need me to elaborate on who the problem was. He just doesn’t know the crux of it, the reason for the fallout, what happened after he left.

  “Why did you go?” I blurt, the question evading my internal filter.

  His gaze swings my way again, and he frowns. “It’s complicated.”

  “Just like using a phone was?” I can’t hold back a second longer. He left me hanging, heartbroken, and alone. He was the first boy to steal my heart, and he never gave it back.

  “Amelia.”

  I shake my head, lifting a hand to stop the placating rubbish that’s no doubt about to spill from those full lips. Besides, there’s a much more pressing issue currently manoeuvring a Hot Wheels car into the garage.

  “How much does he know?” I ask, tucking my arms tight across my body.

  Evan sighs as he removes his hat and tucks it under his arm, revealing shortly shaven hair. I admire the stretch of his uniform sleeve as it fails to adequately accommodate the swell of his biceps when he crosses his arms before him. “A little.”

  I nod, running my gaze once again over the ghost from my past I never expected to see again.

  At sixteen Evan was already big for his age; his T-shirts were always baggy, because to fit his broad shoulders he’d need to buy the next size up. But back then he was just like me—a skinny teenager, heavily into the Emo scene. I spent so many afternoons sitting opposite him outside the local shops, brushing his overgrown hair out of his face, so I could see both of those beautiful eyes. I never knew just how handsome he was underneath it all. I was in love with what I had, satisfied with the boy who owned my heart. But damn, he sure filled out to make one heck of a man.

  Evan lifts his strong jaw, and jerks his chin away from Briar. “Let’s take this a bit further away, huh?”

  I take a couple of steps to give us some form of privacy and turn back to face him. He stops short of colliding with me, apparently expecting me to have walked further away.

  “He knows his mum got hurt, but he thinks—like any child would—I’m talking about a few scratches, a bump on the head, that kind of thing.”

  “You’re partially right,” I murmur.

  “Pardon?” He squints as he takes me in.

  “She did take a bump to the head, but it was just a lot more severe than what Briar probably thinks.”

  Evan jams his hands in the front pockets of his uniform pants, drawing my attention downward. I jump on the spot when he purposefully clears his throat, and burn from shame at being busted checking out his ... seams.

  “Can I ask how your sister is?” His brow furrows, his eyes hard yet understanding. “Katherine, right?”

  “Yeah, Kath.” I shrug in answer to his initial question, falling into the nearest chair. “She lost consciousness not long after I got here, and they whipped her off to do something that takes the pressure off the brain. Apparently, she had a bleed caused by the trauma. They said they’d update me a soon as they had something definitive, but that was over an hour ago.”

  He settles in the seat beside mine, his body turned slightly toward me. “I’m sure they’re doing the best they can.”

  “Yeah.” Isn’t everyone?

  He looks across at Briar, who’s lost himself in his imaginary play again, and then over my shoulder at the vacant halls and the clerks doing their thing behind the station desk. “Look, I can stay a while if that helps, but I might get called away.”

  As though to punctuate his point, the radio on his hip crackles some garbled message that reminds me more of the teacher from Peanuts than an actual string of coherent words. I look pointedly at it, silently questioning.

  “Nothing I need to worry about.” He shakes his head. “Would you like me to stay for a bit?”