Matt watched his friend’s broad shoulders disappear back inside the house as his mind wandered to Izabel. Who was comforting her today, with Luke so eager to not discuss his dad? The idea that whoever it was wasn’t him, that someone else would wipe away her tears and hold her body close, churned his gut so much he couldn’t face his lunch. He put his guitar away and slammed the van door shut. He couldn’t give up on Luke or detonate the band by going to her, to see if she needed him.
No matter how badly he wanted to.
Six days later, Izabel Bryson tried to quell the embarrassment she felt as she let herself into her brother Luke’s flat. Five months ago, she’d lived in a spacious two-bedroom apartment in the popular Northern Quarter with her boyfriend, Harry. She’d thought they were happy, so happy she’d been able to sneak out of the homeless shelter she worked at to surprise him and found him fucking one of his financial services clients on their brand-new Natuzzi sofa.
“That’s one way to grow his portfolio,” she muttered as she clambered past the pile of Luke’s drum kit pieces in the hallway.
“Did you say something?” Luke wandered into the living room, navy blue jogging pants sitting low on his hips, his hair standing up in all directions. White flecks of paint covered his hands, a constant reminder of the path he’d taken to make sure she could achieve her goals to go to university.
And not a day went by when she didn’t feel remorse that after all that expense, she wasn’t even working in her field of study.
“Just cursing Harry. Again.” She threw her bags down on the small round table.
“Should have done more than just punch the dick.” Luke grabbed a beer out of the fridge. “Want one?”
Izabel shook her head. “Nah. I’m good. And please. Don’t hit him again. Not that I care about him, but where would the band end up if you go to prison?”
Luke had always been a quick trigger and fast with his fists. Those reflexes were part of why he was such an explosive drummer. Fortunately, he’d never ended up in serious trouble, usually because Matt and the rest of the band were around to diffuse the situation.
“Sweet of you to care, Sis.”
A blonde who Izabel vaguely recognised appeared from the hallway leading to the bedrooms. By the state of her messy hair and smudged mascara, it was a no-brainer exactly what she’d been up to with Luke. “Any chance of a ride home?”
Izabel looked at Luke and rolled her eyes. “Really?”
Luke shrugged, then looked to the blonde with a smile. “Sorry, babe. Got a gig to get to. But it’s three minutes to the tram stop if you go left out of the apartment building.”
Without another word, she left, and Izabel waited for the door to click shut. “Well, that wasn’t awkward. Where’d you find her?”
“She works the self-checkout at Tesco. Was just finishing her shift when I went to get some laundry detergent, not that it’s any of your business.”
“You’re right. It’s not. It’s just weird to come home and not know who is going to be here.”
“Watch it, Sis. You aren’t my keeper.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. For this . . . for crashing your space. Again.”
Luke sighed and rolled his shoulders. “It’s fine, Iz. Just . . . I had my own life . . .”
“Are you happy, Luke? I see all this.” She gestured to the beer cans stacked up in the recycling bin and toward his room.
“Geez. What is it with you and Matt all of a sudden?” He shrugged. “I’m as happy as anybody else is with their life. Are you happy?”
Matt was concerned too? She wanted to ask but knew Luke wouldn’t discuss either of the Palmer boys with her.
Instead, she focused on his question. “Probably not, but onwards and upwards, right? So, now you can’t go back to Tesco ever again, right?”
Luke huffed. “Nah. I’ll just switch to Aldi for a bit.”
Izabel shook her head. “You’re a dick.”
“Yeah, but I’m the dick who’s letting you stay at his apartment for free.”
She slumped down on his beaten-up, ugly, brown leather sofa. “This is true. Thank you.”
Luke took a large swig of beer. “We’re all we’ve got, right?”
“Yeah. We’re all we’ve got.”
It had been their motto since their father had died. Luke hadn’t wanted to talk about him since the anniversary. He’d left her alone with the gaping hole in her heart that their father’s death had caused and the low-grade anger at her mum.
With Mum checked out, Luke had done his best to keep them afloat, but he’d had his own grief to deal with. It had gotten so severe, he’d dropped out of his A-levels, unable to concentrate. Izabel had done the opposite. Doubled down on her studies as a means of escape.
But Matt had been there for them both, dropping out with Luke so they could start the band, and being there for her. She still had the handwritten notes of encouragement he’d slipped her. And being fifteen and in love with him, she’d hidden them away in an old jewellery box, one with a pirouetting ballerina, that she still kept tucked away in the chest of drawers.
When her mum found love again with Izabel’s father’s best friend, she’d simply sold the house and told them they were now on their own. She’d kept the proceeds of the house sale and their dad’s life insurance policy and moved on. It was the reason they no longer had any real relationship and Izabel had more student loans than she could handle.
Except Luke had stepped in and held the two of them together. He’d worked as a painter and decorator every shift he could around stuff with the band to make sure they had a place to live, food to eat, and that she’d been able to go to university, even though he hadn’t.
Yeah. They were all they’d got. And if that meant overlooking the drinking and the lines of coke and the steady stream of women, then so be it.
“Where’s your gig tonight?”
“Liverpool. Ben’s driving my van. What’s your plan?”
“Pop to the shop and get something for tea. Steal a beer from you. Write a grant proposal for the homeless shelter for repairs. And then send an email to all our local MPs to see if they can help us fend off the developer who we think wants to shut us down.”
“Fucking gentrification.”
“I know. The redevelopment of Manchester is completely at odds with the percent of the population who need affordable housing. We need practical condos where single-parent families on minimum wage can thrive with their two kids.”
The thought made her angry. Currently, the shelter she worked at was on the ground floor of an old mill building zoned for mixed-use. Some living, some business. None of it fancy. A developer was offering a shit-ton of money for the building in need of serious repairs but threatened to kick everyone out. And there wasn’t a plan B for the shelter. Rents were too high in the city, and purchase costs even worse. The homeless congregated in the city centre, but the cheapest place they could find if they had to move was in Stockport, a good thirty minutes away.
“The only difference between me and the people I work with every day is the fact I have you. I mean, I’m technically homeless, but you let me crash here.”