I wish I could remember what it looked like here when our mother was alive. How it smelled, what kind of music she listened to. I often wonder what her style was like, both in clothing and in home décor. Am I like her in more ways than just my first name and birthday?
Our mother’s maiden name was Nystr?m. She was a full-blooded Swede whom our father met at a pub while playing champion league soccer, just before he signed with Manchester United. She was attending University in London and from what little I’ve heard, it sounded like a pretty exciting love affair that resulted in Gareth. Gareth is really the only one who remembers much of Mum and the immediate years following her death. He’s never been very forthcoming about those times and he’s not one to push for answers. He’s got a short fuse and we all learned quickly that Gareth gets his way and that’s that. I remember bits and pieces of her, but it feels more like I’m remembering photographs rather than actual times.
I unclip Bruce’s leash. His paws clack loudly on the white marble as we walk down the hallway and turn left through the double doors into the kitchen.
“My sous chef, ready and waiting!” I announce proudly, finding Booker reading a hardcover at the large wooden island that sits parallel to the galley style kitchen. “Where is everybody else?”
“They left this morning to check out a university player. They rang and are twenty minutes out.” He shoots up from his stool and rushes over to grab the supermarket bags from my hands.
“Always a gentleman,” I tease as Bruce noses Booker in the leg, excitedly begging for some affection. “Where did you learn that anyway? It surely wasn’t from Cam and Tanner.”
Booker places the bags on the island before squatting down to give Bruce a hearty cuddle. “Probably all those girlie films you made me watch growing up,” he laughs. Then he strides over to the large patio door and lets Bruce out for a coveted romp around the fenced-in grounds. It’s Bruce’s favourite thing about coming here.
I prop my hands on my hips. “I never made you watch them!”
“Well, it was either that or get my arse kicked by Cam. I took my chances with you. And look at me now,” he beams proudly, stretching out his sculpted arms and shooting me his boyish grin. “I’m a proper gentleman. Did you bring stuff for Swedish pancakes?”
“Of course.”
Booker’s smile grows as he ducks into the walk-in pantry to plug his phone into the overhead sound system. The notes of U2 fill our kitchen as we wash our hands and make quick work of prepping today’s meal.
For several years, it has been tradition that the Sunday meal following Mum’s and my birthday include Swedish pancakes. The recipe is one I stumbled upon during my cooking quest. It had special Swedish notes in Mum’s handwriting that I couldn’t even read. That box of cookbooks ended up having a lot more than old recipes inside, that’s for sure.
Swedish pancakes have become a favourite amongst my brothers. They’re served extremely thin—similar to a French crepe—with homemade cream and berries or lingonberry jam…if you can find it. And I have just the place I go to in Shoreditch for the jam.
After a while of quiet companionable prepping, Booker breaks the silence. “So what’s new, Vi?” He’s eying me hopefully as he whisks the cream vigorously by hand.
“Oi! I forgot to tell you! I won a weekend getaway to Barcelona at a charity gala I attended Friday night. It’s a trip for two and I was going to see if you want to come along. It’s in like nine weeks’ time. Think you can manage?”
Booker’s eyes alight. “Timing should be all right. Training will have started, but I think I can get away for the weekend.”
“Brilliant!”
“Are you doing all right, otherwise?” he asks, eyeing me curiously.
“‘Course I am,” I frown as I pour oil onto the griddle. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Shrugging, he replies, “It’s just…you seemed a bit emotional on your birthday a couple of days ago. I wanted to talk to you about that before everybody gets here.”
I stop what I’m doing and look at him. “I was just trying to make a daft point. Don’t read too much into it.”
“Well…you haven’t dated anyone since Pricky Pierce and I was wondering if you are okay. You aren’t still holding candles for the prat, are ya?”
Pricky Pierce. I’d laugh if I didn’t think it’d only encourage him. “No candles I assure you.”
“If you ever did, you can talk to me about it, ya know. I’m not as stupid as the rest of ‘em. I won’t go completely mental.”
I shoot him a sardonic smile because I’m not sure I fully trust that. However, Booker always did have a special fondness for me that superseded my other brothers. They always seem to put protection above affection. But with Booker, it’s more often affection first and it’s why he’s got a special place in my heart.
Hayden’s face flashes in my mind as I consider whether talking about my situation with him is a good idea or not. “Booker, how would you…describe me?” I grab the prepared pancake batter and pour it onto the hot griddle.