Private

Chapter 2-2

“I got the news confirmed today,” Dad said, when they were halfway through the meal.

A red flag went up. And then Chloe beamed, and the red flag exploded. Shane paused, fork halfway to his mouth.

“What news?” he asked slowly.

“I’ve been offered a position training new recruits down near Penzance,” Dad said.

Shane completely froze. The fork dropped with a clatter. “We’re…we’re leaving Wheatley?”

Leaving. Leaving Rebecca and Sophie. Leaving his studies. Leaving his university applications.

Leaving Luke.

“But…”

“And,” Dad interrupted, extending a hand over the table to squeeze Chloe’s pale wrist, “I’ve accepted it. Sent in my notice this morning.”

Shane’s brain stalled. For a moment it stuck on leaving Luke, and then jerked forward to that hand. The stunned bewilderment morphed into a red-hot fury, and then just as quickly into a liquid burst of gut-wrenching hurt.

“You told Chloe before you even mentioned any of it to me?!” he burst out.

Dad frowned. “Shane…”

“I mean, you even told her the result and you didn’t even tell me this was a possibility!” Shane shouted. His fingers were shaking, rattling the plate against the wooden table, and he curled them into fists. “I thought we’d settled down for a bit! I’ve got friends here! I’ve got—” He caught the word before it could escape. “I’ve got plans and stuff! I like it here!”

“Shane, stop shouting,” Dad snapped. “One of my first postings was in Cornwall, it’s a lovely place, and…”

“I don’t want to go to bloody Cornwall!”

“Watch your language!”

“I can’t believe you told her before telling me!” Shane yelled. He felt hurt and sick and shaky. His vision was blurring, and there was a shard of a very real pain in his chest, a pain he was afraid of. A pain that had never been there before. “This is the first home we’ve had since Mum left, and now you just up and want to go to Cornwall and you tell Chloe before me? Have you even told Jase?!”

Dad’s jaw clenched. “Your brother is nineteen; our moving no longer aff—”

“It affects me, but no, tell Chloe first, go right ahead!”

“Shane, you will apologi—”

“I’m not going.”

“This isn’t up for discussion!” Dad shouted. He banged a fist on the table, but Shane’s eyes and throat were burning, and he couldn’t quite catch enough air. He didn’t want to leave. He’d found an ounce of freedom here, a little room to breathe outside the expectations everyone in the family had for him, and—

“I’m not going,” he repeated. “Chloe can have my place in Cornwall, she can go instead, or you can go on your own—I’m not going! I’m staying here! I’ve got a life here, Dad, I’ve got friends and…”

“There’s always new friends.”

“Not like this!” Shane was only aware he stood up when the chair clattered on the tiles behind him; Dad surged to his feet, too, and Chloe called out to both of them, her tiny hand grasping at Dad’s sleeve.

“Sit down!” Dad shouted.

“I’m not f*****g going!” Shane shouted right back, at full capacity, and ducked away from Dad’s hand. He was quick—quicker than Dad, quicker than Jason—and in five seconds had darted around the table and out of the kitchen, heading straight for the stairs.

“Steve!” he heard Chloe shout over his shoulder. “Steve, don’t. Let him go. Leave him.”

Shane took the stairs at full pelt and slammed the door behind him so hard that plaster dust drifted free from the ceiling. Dropping down onto the carpet, he pushed his back hard against the door and buried his head in his hands.

Leave. Cornwall. Cornwall. Dad and Cornwall and Penzance—and no Luke, no Rebecca, no Sophie. No freedom. Back in the box, back to being the Shane everyone expected him to be, back to having Dad so aware of what he did because there was nowhere else to go, back to trying to keep the secrets buried, back to…

Back to the would-be soldier, the future officer, the perfect straight military son that Dad expected him to be, wanted him to be, and with no stolen reprieves, no sharing his secrets with people who would keep them for him, no snatched escapes. No sneaked weekends with Luke, no mutual defence with Rebecca, no…

He fumbled his phone out of his pocket, and sent a catch-all text.

Emergency. School early 2moro. HELP NEEDED.