“We’re home,” he says, as Max huffs and wipes the drool off his chin. Stretches awkwardly in the seat.
“I can’t believe I slept all the way,” Max slurs out, and takes a tentative step out onto the drive, as Tom hands him two shopping bags and motions towards the open front door.
“Chop chop. Food for the freezer. And come back out again because I am not carrying all this crap inside myself.”
“Just leave the booze in the car,” Max shouts from somewhere inside the hallway.
“Yeah right, the car window would be smashed in and everything gone before midnight. It’s Saturday night. Partying kids hanging around.”
Not that they have ever been broken into out here. Or had the car windows smashed, but there are a lot of kids about. Parties. He thinks. There must be. Surely. He ends up carrying it all in himself. Just as expected. Chucking the last of the pallets of beer on the hallway floor and tipping the food bags out on the table whilst Max is eating sweets and doing something on his phone.
“Can I take your blood sugar?” Tom huffs as he tries to jam the freezer door shut with his hip. Ten packs of meatballs now squeezed in with another five bags of frozen pytt-i-panna.
All the frozen food staples crossed off the list. Along with a bottle of bourbon and three cheeky bottles of red wine from the state-owned alcohol shop.
Max just rolls his eyes and sits down at the table. Grabs the pack from Tom’s outstretched hand and tips out a lancet, pricking his finger like a pro, letting Tom catch the drop of blood on the testing strip.
“Thank you,” Tom whispers.
“You worry too much, Dad,” Max says. “I’m not going to go crazy overnight just because I have a stomach full of junk food. It just makes me tired, not off my head.”
“I know, kiddo.” Tom smiles. “I just try to keep track. I want to finish this article I am writing for the Norwegian Medical journal, trying to find links between insulin levels and mood elevation, combined with normal thyroid function.”
“Whatever, Dad,” Max mutters. He’s tired. Yawning shamelessly and scratching his head. The way he does when he’s tired and grumpy. “I’m going to bed.”
“Thank you for a great day,” Tom says. Stepping forwards. Hoping.
“It was good, wasn’t it?” Max actually looks up. Smiles tentatively. Like he is happy. It was a good day. Happy.
“Can I hug you good night?” Tom asks. Go big. Or go home.
“Dad...” At least he’s still smiling. One little step at a time.
“I like hugs.” Tom sulks. Trying. Please.
He gets one. It might be short and awkward, but it’s a hug. A second of warmth and love and a clumsy pat on the back, but for Tom, it’s heavenly.
“Love you,” he whispers.
“Okay, Dad,” Max whispers back.
TOM: Hi. Just wanted to say hi and hope you had a good day. Tom.
He doesn’t quite know why he sent that. But he has had a glass of red wine and can’t find the inspiration to work on his paper and is now down to five possible addresses for Lukas Myrtengren after Google threw up LinkedIn details and company registrations for two of them. Lukas is not a Sanitary-solutions management consultant from Uppsala. Nor is he a Professor of Metaphysics from Lidingö. Unfortunately. Because Lukas Myrtengren the Metaphysics dude seems seriously cool, even though he is seventy-four and bald as a coot.
LUKAS: Hi. Yes. Thanks. Bye Tom.
The reply shouldn’t make him laugh. But it does, actually. He’s still him. Cocky little twat.
TOM: I am having a glass of wine. Wasn’t it a gorgeous day?
LUKAS: Fuck off, Tom. What’s the matter? The wife not putting out?
TOM: You know full well there is no wife. No girlfriend, boyfriend, dog, or ex either.
LUKAS: You are a lonely sad man. There are apps to help with that you know.
TOM: Yeah. My son told me about Grindr. No thanks.
There are no speech bubbles. Tom just stares at his phone and sloppily pours another glass of wine, never taking his eyes off the screen. Some of the wine goes on the table. Some of it is dripping from his chin as he takes a messy slurp. Not that he cares. He just wipes up the drips with his sleeve.
TOM: I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sure Grindr is great if that is your thing but it’s not mine. I work, eat, sleep, and raise my son. That is all I do.
LUKAS: Yeah, and stalk me. It’s called Tinder for you straights. You should try it. You might find something else to do.
TOM: I like stalking you.
He’s not ready to address the other thing. Doesn’t know how to say it without coming off as an idiot.
LUKAS: So, you admit that is what you are doing?
TOM: I’m only trying to talk to you. Be nice. Have a conversation. That is what friends do, Lukas.
LUKAS: We are NOT friends, Tom.
TOM: Yes, we are. We have texted back and forth several times now and you have still not blocked me. We are friends.
LUKAS: Fuck You.
TOM: What are you drinking?
LUKAS: Shut up, arsehole. It’s like we are sixteen again and you sound like my Mum.
TOM: Max and I went to The Outlet Mall today and I’m on an Australian Red from Wolf Blass. Shiraz.
LUKAS: I went to Simon’s BBQ. I’m drinking Tuborg. Happy now?
TOM: Ecstatic.
LUKAS: You didn’t send me any shit today. I was almost disappointed.
TOM: See? We’re friends. Friends send each other shit to make each other happy.
LUKAS: Fuck you, Tom. I’m going to bed. Have a good life.
TOM: I will happily send you more things. I just don’t have your address. You are safe. For now.
LUKAS: Is that a threat?
TOM: No, Lukas. Do I send it to Verdandivägen, Bergsterassen, Trollebergsvägen, Storsjövägen or Fruängsstigen?
There is nothing. No reply, and Tom takes a gulp of wine thinking maybe he has overstepped the line. Maybe that was just a little too much. Maybe he is actually a little bit frightening now, behaving a little too much like a proper stalker.
He waits. Waits until it’s pretty much obvious that there won’t be any more replies from Lukas. That he has actually done it. Blocked him.
TOM: I’m sorry, Lukas. I’m not going to turn up on your doorstep or something. You might have a family that I know nothing about and I don’t want to ruin anything. I just want to be able to talk to you, if you will let me.
LUKAS: Good. Night. Tom.
Thank God. Not blocked.
He brings the phone with him outside and stands in the doorway leading onto the patio, having a last cigarette. It’s raining heavily now, the air thick with the smells of soil and grass. Rain and air. Thick droplets falling against the wooden planks, splashing water onto the threshold.
The phone remains silent, not unsurprisingly so. Tom needs a new tactic. He needs to find some kind of common ground where they can talk. Discuss something mundane enough that it won’t cause them to hurl abuse and behave like children. Again.
The sound of the doorbell makes him jump out of his skin. They aren’t expecting anyone. Nobody ever visits. Unless Max has sleepwalked out of his room and gone outside without him noticing. Sleepwalking can be a side-effect of the medication he takes. Tom should have checked on him. He should have kept an eye on his son instead of trying to impress some bloke who obviously has zero interest in him.