Chapter 1 - Riley
“Mum, look at this old photo of you I found.”
It’s a harmless sentence often paired with curiosity and the odd laugh. But today, there’s something in Ava’s voice that sends a jolt of unease through me.
I wipe the suds from my hands, drying them on a tea towel. Making my way into the living room, where my eleven-year-old lounges on the couch. Her feet are tucked beneath her, phone clutched in her hand. A spark of mischief dances in those icy blue eyes-almost identical to my own.
“But first,” she says, dripping with amusement. Her eyes flicked back to the phone with an exaggerated casualness. The impending doom curls in my stomach. There’s an urge to swipe the phone from her hand, and deal with whatever chaos that erupts. I stay put, planting my feet, and schooling my expression into something neutral.
I take a breath. The faint scent of lavender and hairspray drifts up from the salon downstairs. Either that or it has burned into my senses over the years.
The distraction led me to the rest of the flat. It may be small, but it’s homely. Filled with the charm of bobbled carpets, and mismatched cushions. The paint flaking off of the skirting boards, adds to the character. So I tell myself. There’s an undeniable warmth, which may be more to do with the memories than the décor. The furniture has been everything from blanket forts, to walking aids for little legs.
“I didn’t know you were friends with Silas Gray.” My brows rise, eyes settling on the bundle of curiosity. Relief hits me first-at least this isn’t about her father.
Then the name clicks.
Why is it so terrifying that your child finds out you weren’t born an adult? My body sinks into the seat next to hers. Ava shifts, her crossed legs await my answer, but I can almost feel the tension. She struck something and she knew it.
“Silas,” I repeat, the name foreign on my tongue. “Honey, most people in Riverford know Silas Gray. It’s not exactly a big town.” I almost didn’t recognise the shell of words I spilled.
Ava, completely unconvinced, let out a sigh. Before I could think straight, her voice sounded again.
“Yeah, but Mary’s mum said you two were ‘close friends’.”
I let out a sharp laugh-too quick, too defensive. “We had mutual friends, sure, but Silas and I spent most of the time arguing.” I pause. “I completely forgot about him.” A lie I want to believe in myself.
“Oh, come on. It would be impossible to forget him, when videos of his gigs are all over social media.”
“I don’t have social media,” I point out. Giving her a playful wink as she rolls her eyes, but can’t quite hide the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You have the internet.” She quips.
“Anyway, this photo?” I prompt.
With a grin full of barely-contained triumph, she holds the phone out to me, a privilege I don’t get offered much.
A blurry Polaroid fills the screen, but the memory comes flooding back. Four teenagers huddled close on a beach at dusk. Smiles wide, eyes tired, skin pink from sunburn, and too much salt air.
Katie on one side, her curly hair tied up in a knot with a scarf that belonged to her mum. Archie in the middle with that same lopsided grin he’d always had. And then Silas. His arm draped over my shoulder, a bottle of Lucozade in his other hand. Dark hair a mop of chaos like he’d rolled out of bed and never looked in a mirror. Tall, lean, even back then. His crooked smile, and confidence shone, like he knew how to set the world on fire and walk away without a burn.
We must have wrangled some poor stranger into taking the photo. A snippet of our annual trips to Katie Mum’s caravan. Every summer, Katie and I bundled into one room, whilst the boys had the other. Only to squeeze out of the window and meet up once the street lights came on. We walked to the same beach, music playing loud as we burned our throat on illicit cigarettes.
“It doesn’t look like you hated each other.” Ava said, arching a brow.
“Photos lie,” I murmured, passing the phone back to her. “Where did you even get this?” There was only one possibility.
“Aunt Kate was going through old boxes,” she shrugged. Making her way to raid the fridge, hopefully getting bored of this conversation. “I didn’t believe you guys knew Silas, so she sent proof.”
Of course she did. I make a mental note to call Kate later and demand a warning next time she wants to air out our teenage past.
“What’s with the sudden interest in Silas Gray anyway?” I asked, throwing my words across the room. “I didn’t realise you were a fan.”
“Everyone’s talking about him. You’re telling me you haven’t heard?”
I shake my head, but Ava’s already halfway back to the couch. Eyes gleaming with the thrill of revealing breaking news. “Have you been living under a rock?”
When it comes to Silas, I want to stay under that rock.
“Watch this.”
She taps on the screen, and the video bursts to life. A packed bar, the crowd’s drunken hollering almost deafening. Silas’ stood centre stage. Guitar hung low, fingers gliding over the strings with a kind of frantic poetry. His hair’s still on the longer side, brushing the tops of his cheekbones, wild and damp with sweat.
He’s lost in the music, no-consumed by it. There’s nothing polished or poised about him. It’s chaos tangled up in chords and crashing cymbals. Then, silence, before the band kicks off again, even louder this time.
The crowd whistles and whoops, but he doesn’t join the band. Instead, he stares off into the crowd, his dark brows pulled tight, features harsh in the dim lighting. The trance gone, replaced by a stark panic. He lifted the guitar, ducking under the shoulder strap, darting towards the stairs.
The crowd threw questions around, as they shouted for an encore. The band looked between each other as the other guitarist walked to the mic, apologising. Confusion spread around the room, voices demanding he come back.
I stare, an ache in the pit of my stomach.
“That was his last show,” Ava says, “and now the label dropped him.”
“I’d imagine so.”
She watches me, looking for a reaction I don’t have the words for. To most people, he’s a headline.
But to me-he’s the boy who used to throw sand in my hair. The boy who once sat next to me on a log and admitted that expectations scared him. The one who never failed to get under my skin, with his annoying, always-had-an-answer self.
“Aunt Kate, heard from Archie, who heard from Silas. That he’s coming back to Riverford,” Ava reported, curling back into the couch. “Something about lying low while his manager figures things out.”
I don’t envy his manager’s job, telling Silas what to do was like trying to tame a tiger.
The weight of Ava’s presence beside me, was the only grounding thing. She wasted no time, returning her attention to the TV. Whilst I fought back the apprehension of bumping into a ghost.
I reached for the throw blanket draped over the back of the couch, tugging it around the both of us. The flat creaked above the quiet hum of the fridge. Outside, the street light flicked on, casting a soft glow through the curtains.
I tried to push away any leftover thoughts of that video. Only for the usual whispers of the salon downstairs, hanging on by a thread, to take its place.
For now the clients I have are enough. For now.
Tomorrow, I’ll speak to Kate. And maybe-just maybe-I’ll think about what it means for Silas to be back in Riverford.
Tonight, there is popcorn to make, fluffy socks to find, and the promise of a cheesy rom-com, to whisk us away.
