Mack was a match.

Weirdly, the news surprised me. Maybe it was because there had been so many blows by then: first, the mystery of Rosie’s illness; then the diagnosis; then the news that none of us could help her. But now, for the first time in what felt like forever, there was good news. Mack could help her.

He could save her life.

The process was quick. Mack had to undergo a raft of physical tests and scans, but these were arranged swiftly, and within days, we had a green light. The main delay arose after that, when the hospital insisted that Mack speak with a counsellor and take some time to reflect on his decision before confirming he wanted to proceed.

The night after he met with the counsellor, Mack announced his intention to visit a friend in Essex for a bit.

“The last thing you need is me sitting around here twiddling my thumbs while I weigh all this up,” he’d said firmly.

He was wrong though. While he was gone, Rosie’s mood reached a new low and Mum got so stressed, I began to worry she might be heading for a breakdown. I’d never seen her in such a state. As for Derek, he was walking around like a zombie, unable to concentrate on anything.

For my part, I focussed on the practicalities—someone had to hold everything together after all, and it wasn’t like there was much else I could do, so I threw myself into running Dilly’s, insisting that Mum and Derek prioritise Rosie. When I wasn’t working double shifts at the café, I was at the Costco or paying bills or banking takings . . . I even washed the bloody windows one day. That was one good thing about running your own business. You never ran out of things to do.

Six days later, Mack came back.

He arrived at the house on the Thursday evening and announced that he definitely wanted to go ahead.

After that, things moved fast.

The surgery date was quickly arranged—it was sobering to realise how pressing the doctors considered the procedure to be—along with a bunch of other presurgery appointments. Over the two weeks leading up to surgery, it felt like Rosie and Mack were constantly at the hospital having something tested or scanned or measured. Mum and Derek were at pretty much every appointment, which left me holding the fort at the café.

It was fine. Someone had to keep our employees in work and our customers coming through the doors, but yeah, there were times, occasionally, when I wished it didn’t always have to be me; when I wished I wasn’t constantly on the outside of what was happening with my sister. In my worst moments, I’d wonder if Rosie thought I didn’t care and that I was more concerned about keeping Dilly’s running. I knew she thought I was obsessed by the business—she was always rolling her eyes when I went round to hassle Mum and Derek about incomplete paperwork and unpaid bills. But right then, quite honestly, I couldn’t have cared less about it. It was just that looking after the café was the only way I could contribute to our family crisis. It wasn’t as if I could tag along to the appointments.

Not like Mack.

And God, what kind of a dick was I to feel resentful of that? Mack was giving her his fucking liver.

I wasn’t really resentful. But sometimes I’d go round in the evening, and I’d walk into the living room, and there they would be, the four of them, and they’d look up, and I’d feel like . . . an interloper.

And sometimes, just sometimes, the idea would flash across my mind—He’s the interloper, not me.

It would be a fleeting thought, banished an instant later. I knew it was dickish and stupid and untrue to boot. Unkind. But sometimes—well, yeah, that was how I felt.

A couple of nights before the surgery was due to take place, I went round to the house after closing up the café, like I’d been doing every night that week. When I walked in, the four of them were midconversation—or rather, Mum was midrant. She had a determined expression on her face and her voice had gone up in pitch, the way it did when she was agitated. Derek was sitting, silent and plainly uncomfortable, on the sofa beside her, and Rosie was slouched miserably in her favourite armchair.

Mack, who appeared to be the victim of her rant, looked hunted.

“It’s six weeks’ recovery time,” Mum was telling him. “It makes sense. You need someone to take care of you, and you’ve admitted yourself you can’t afford to stay at the B&B any longer.”

“What’s up?” I asked settling myself down in the only remaining vacant chair.

Mum glanced at me. “We’re talking about where Dylan’s going to stay after the surgery. It’s obvious he should come here. We’ve got loads of room, and I’ll be running around after Rosie anyway. I may as well run after two as one.”

“But I’m not going to be bed-ridden,” Mack protested. “I don’t need a nurse.”

“Then why not stay here?” I asked. “There’s a spare room, and Mum would love to have you. You can’t stay at the B&B for six weeks.”

“That’s what I said!” Mum exclaimed. She sent Mack a reproachful look. “I don’t know why you won’t let us help you.”

Mack stared at his hands while a dark red flush crept up his neck. He appeared as uncomfortable as Derek, ready to crawl under a rock.

Like father, like son.

Of course, being me, Mr. Fixer, I had to step in and try to make it better. Smooth over Mum’s offended hurt; offer another explanation. Mediate.

I turned to her. “I can understand where Mack’s coming from—he doesn’t want to take up your time when you need to be concentrating on Rosie. She’s going to need all your attention after surgery.”

Mack glanced up, his expression grateful. “Yeah. That’s it.” He offered Mum his usual diffident shrug. “Rosie should be your priority when we get out. You can’t be running after me as well.”

“I don’t mind,” Mum said, but there was a note of doubt in her voice now.

“Besides,” Mack went on firmly, “I’ll be up and about pretty quickly and—”

For the first time since I’d arrived, Derek spoke up, interrupting Mack midsentence, his tone flat and uncompromising. “The doctor said you need to factor in a full six-week recovery period, son.”

Mack’s gaze snapped to his dad, his expression hardening, till eventually, Derek flushed and glanced away. The hostility coming off Mack was palpable.

“She also agreed that someone who’s young and in decent shape might recover faster than that,” Mack pointed out. “And frankly, Dad, I don’t intend to hang around here for six whole weeks.”

“I know you can’t wait to leave,” Derek said bleakly, “but you can’t just go running off the day after your surgery, or even the next week—first, you need to give your body a chance to get over this. They’re cutting out half your liver, for Christ’s sake! It’s a major operation. Not something to take lightly.” His voice went hoarse on the last words. Then he added, more briskly, “Besides, like they told you, you won’t be discharged till they do the three-month scan to check your liver’s grown back properly.”

Mack exhaled sharply. “Listen—” he began, and somehow I knew he wasn’t going to give in. For whatever reason—and yes, I could guess why, we probably all could—he didn’t want to stay under the same roof as Derek. But no way could we leave him to fend for himself after surgery. He was mad if he thought we’d let that happen.

“Why don’t you stay with me?” I blurted.

The words were out of my mouth before I’d thought them through. Before I’d considered my own brief and secret history with Mack.

He turned his head and stared at me, seeming stunned—though really, was it such a surprising suggestion? I barrelled on, not giving him a chance to disagree.

“I won’t be able to wait on you hand and foot, like Mum would,” I said, keeping my tone casual and unconcerned. “In fact, I won’t even be in most of the time, but I assume you’re okay to entertain yourself, till you’re feeling well enough to get out and about, yeah?”

I’ll leave you in peace.

You’re free to go when you want.

I saw a little of the tension leaching out of him as I gave those throwaway assurances, the tight set of his shoulders slowly easing, the firm set of his jaw unclenching. He remained silent though, watching me with that dark, wary gaze.

God, those eyes, dark as bitter chocolate. He must’ve got them from his mother, because Derek’s were a startling blue, but he was like Derek in other ways. In height and build, and both of them with the same thick, shiny hair, even if Derek’s was almost entirely silver now.

Both of them clamming up whenever conversations got difficult.

“Please, Dylan. Say you’ll stay with Nathan.” That was Rosie, perched now on the edge of her chair, her worried gaze fixed on Mack.

He said, almost imploringly, “Rosie, I don’t think—”

“Please,” she repeated, and her eyes filled with tears. “I’ll worry if you’re on your own.”

Good old emotional blackmail.

Mack held out for about five seconds, expression torn. Then he sighed, long and hard. “Okay, you win.” He turned to me then, and his smile was careful. “Thanks for the offer, Nathan. I reckon I’ll be taking you up on it.”

He didn’t look thankful though—he looked wary. And he wasn’t the only one.

Mack moved into my place the next day, while I was working at the café. Mum gave him the spare key and he brought his stuff over. By the time I got home at six, he seemed to have settled in—not that there was much settling in a guy with one rucksack and a guitar case needed to do.

I found him in the living room, bent over his guitar and half humming, half singing under his breath as he worked through a song I recognised but couldn’t put name to. His long, agile fingers coaxed the melody from the strings with the casual ease of long experience, and even mumble-singing as he was, I could tell his voice was a low baritone with a promise of richness.

He mustn’t have heard me come in. I stood in the living room doorway for a couple of minutes listening to him play before he clocked me and abruptly stopped.

“Oh, hi!” He looked flustered, setting the guitar down on the empty half of the sofa beside him and standing up. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“Sit down,” I said, stepping further into the room. “You don’t have to stop playing. I was enjoying it. What was that song?” I settled myself into my favourite chair, toeing off my beat-up Nikes.

He sat slowly, almost reluctantly. “It’s a Blur song. I was just messing about.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, recognition dawning. “I know the one you mean now—it sounded really nice like that. Acoustic, I mean.”

He gave me a stiff half smile. “Thanks.” He didn’t move to pick up the guitar again though.

“So, did you find your room?” I asked.

“Uh, yeah, I think so. Lorraine said to use the one next to the bathroom?”

“That’s right.” I attempted breezy good humour. “Got everything you need?”

“Yeah, course, I don’t need much. Just a bed, really.” He visibly cringed then, as though I might think this bland remark was a come-on. “That is—” he rubbed at the back of his neck and cleared his throat “—um, you know.”

Yeah, I did. At least I knew that this weird awkwardness arose out of our mutual awareness that we’d slept together not so long ago. And now we were going to be living together in this compact space. Passing each other on the way to and from the shower in the morning. Sharing the sofa if we both wanted to watch TV in the evening.

My living room suddenly felt tiny.

I lurched to my feet, plastering what felt like a very fake smile across my face. “I’m going to make a cuppa,” I announced. “Do you want one?”

He blinked at me, as though surprised by my surge of energy. “Um, sure, okay.”

“Great,” I said, too brightly. “Back in a mo.”

I headed into the kitchen, closed the door behind me, rested my forehead against the hard wood, and groaned.

Fuck my life.