Apple

Apple

Summary: Teenage River visits his mother in France.

Adult language

No warnings

Gen

746 words

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When River arrives, the house is dark and empty. He floats through it like a ghost, present without leaving an imprint anywhere. Two days later, the door opens. He recognizes his mother's tinkling laughter. He's not sure if the brittle note was always there or if he just didn't notice it as a boy.

The burble of a conversational duet flows closer and then they stumble into the kitchen, where he’s sitting at the table. After a minute the man starts sliding his hand up under his mother's skirt and he realizes that if he doesn't announce his presence, they're never going to realize he's there. Zero situational awareness. He coughs and they jump apart.

“Oh! River! What are you doing here? You scared me half to death skulking there.”

He gets straight to the point. “Where were you?”

“At a party down the coast. Marvelous people. Marvelous wine. Some of the Cannes crowd, you know.” River really did not know. She paused a moment, taking in his presence. “What are you doing here?” River felt the genuine confusion of her question like a blow, hot poisonous shame immediately flooding his body. Again. Not fucking again. How does he keep falling for this trap? Stupid stupid stupid.

“I'm visiting you. We had agreed…” he heard the choked sound in his voice and hated himself for it. He cleared his throat. “You agreed that I would come visit at the term break....”

“Oh! Is that this week!?”

“Yes. Obviously.”

“Oh." Her face fell. "It's just, we hadn't exactly planned on you, darling. Gavin's friends...they have the yacht in port at Monaco... Well, it's not exactly an event for children…”

“I'm not a child.”

“I just wouldn't want you to be bored. You understand, don't you?”

“Oh River, don't be like that. Maybe you could come back next week?”

His shoulders tensed as he pulled into himself. “You don't want me hanging around ruining your image, you mean.”

“I have school next week.”

“You could miss a few days to see your own mother, surely?”

“I have O Levels prep”, he muttered.

“And that's a higher priority than me?” She managed to sound extravagantly wounded.

“You make everything a higher priority than me! Do you even remember I exist when I'm not around?”

Boyfriend #178 stepped toward River, a hand extended, and placed his arm between them like a boxing referee. 

"Now son" he started but River turned on him before he could get his platitude out.

“When I need your input I'll ask her for your credit card number.”

“Have some respect for your elders”, his mother hissed. River turned his scowl back on her.

“You're a fucking bitch.”

“Now look here you little shit, I know I'm not your father but I'll be damned if I let you speak to her that way.”

“Jokes on you, mate. I don't even have a father.”

“You do,” Isobel interjected hotly.

“Could have fooled me”, he shrugged.

“You're just like him”, she muttered, lip curling almost imperceptibly. But River saw it. It was hard to shake old habits and his included frequently scanning his mother's face for signs of gathering weather.

“Whatever. Bye.” He scraped the chair back roughly and went to collect his things, flipping a two finger salute over his shoulder as he left the room. When he got upstairs, he packed slower than he needed to, to give her a chance to come find him. Apologize. Yell at him. Anything. An hour later, he left without a word. No one tried to stop him.

Three days later, he opened the kitchen door in Tunbridge Wells.

“You're back early, River!”

His grandmother was in the kitchen,  busy at the counter. He could smell food. His stomach rumbled audibly. The pocket money he'd left with hadn't been meant to cover two and a half unscheduled days in Paris on the way back and he hadn't exactly been on three squares.

“Yeah. Mum got busy, so.” Rose put an arm around him. 

“She does get busy, sometimes”, she said in a knowing tone. 

“Yeah.” It came out as a sigh.

“Your grandfather's out in the garden. I'm sure he could use some help.”

“Okay. Thanks Nan,” he mumbled around the piece of bread she'd handed him. He opened the door again, wondering if his cover story about what happened in France would make it past the OB's radar. He was finding lately that he was better at lying than he would have given himself credit for.