When Cay doesn't come back to the house, I worry, but I don't want to risk pissing him off more. I've been punishing myself all day over how it went earlier, and I know it's all my fault; I'd probably do something stupid that involved a rough end of London and a lot of liquor if I made it even worse.
Darkness falls on the city and the suburban area where my house is falls quiet, though I can hear the clubs and people beyond it. I've been flitting between the ancient computer in the study to the TV all evening, too restless to stay at one for too long. I find myself missing him and my mind comes up with all these scenarios of how I'd apologise to him and even promise to go see my parents, if that was what he wanted.
My phone rings, making me jump. I look at the caller ID, surprised, and worried to see it's one I still recognise.
Calls from the police are never fun.
In short, Cay ended up in a huge brawl and with a tired sigh, I agree to pick him up from the station. As I drive over, all these memories of picking Alex up from here come flooding back. Being a cage fighter, he was always up for a good fight, even if it meant he got arrested for it.
Which he did... more times than I care to remember.
I walk into the station and only half listen as the police officer rambles at me about how Cay caused a huge fight. She goes off to get Cay and I sit down to wait for him. She re-emerges moments later with him, cautions him and tells me to keep him out of trouble. Nodding, I stand, watching as Cay chews on his lip, saying nothing.
I sigh, the feeling that I need to say something bearing down on me. Everything I think of to say either sounds snappish or uncaring though - but that's more because of the amount of times I picked up Alex from here, than it is because of Cay storming off and getting himself arrested. Cursing my brain's inability to think, I gesture outside at my illegally parked car (yes, in front of a police station) muttering "shall we...?"
He just nods and walks outside, still saying nothing. Well, this is fun.
We get in the car wordlessly and I set off, still trying to think of something to say. When I glance over at him, he has his cheek pressed against the window, his eyes on the dark road passing by.
"D'you need to go to the hospital for anything?" I ask quietly, almost as if by asking I'd piss him off again.
"It's just bruises," he says, shaking his head slightly, as best he can with it resting against the glass.
"Oh, right. That's good," I mutter, noticing that I'm gripping the steering wheel too tight. I try to get rid of the tension in my muscles, but they don't seem to want to obey. Cay sighs and I glance at him. "Well, no, not good, but you know what I mean," I continue, feeling a mildly hysterical rambling threatening to burst out of my mouth. I swallow it back, wondering why I'm reacting like this.
"I miss America," he says under his breath, and I almost miss it, but I'm pretty sure it's what I heard.
"Oh. I can change the flights, if you want," I suggest. Not that we've got that long left here anyways.
"It's your trip, not mine," he tells me, shaking his head again.
"I don't want to be selfish or make you unhappy by staying longer than your comfortable with," I say, biting my lower lip. He shrugs and I look at him uncertainly. "It's up to you Cay."