All Breakages Must Be Paid For by Morgan Starr
Categories: Contemporary Romance | Gay
Word Count: 31,196 Heat Rating: Price: $ .99 Available here:
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Dan, who is just turning eighteen, is looking for his dad who left sixteen years ago without any explanation. Dan’s only clue to his whereabouts is based on a postcard that his gran had received shortly after his disappearance. What starts out as a search for his father turns into a personal odyssey - and what he finds is nothing like what he expects.
I would be very happy to receive your feedback. If you wish to contact me directly, please email me at: [email protected]. Please visit my website, www.MorganStarrAuthor.weebly.com, for updates on my next story. Thank you, Morgan 
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Chapter One - Hark At Me!
“Gran ...”
“If it’s another question on existentialism, you’ll have to wait until I’ve smoked this joint.”
“Smoking is bad for you, Gran ... It wasn’t.”
“I’m going to smoke this joint anyway.”
“I don’t want to go to Uni in September ...”
“Pour me a gin, would you?”
“How many have you had already?”
“It’s rude to ask a lady her age ... Why?”
“Because ... because ... I hate having to do exactly what Mum and Gary say all the time.”
Whenever I have a crisis, it’s Gran’s door I seek out - she’s my dad’s mum, and she lives in a warden-controlled flat rather than with us because she smokes and drinks, and after a few gins and a spliff, she tends to say things just how they are ... which upsets Mum.
“You’re eighteen next week, aren’t you? Tell the stupid mare to shut her cake hole ... and as for Gary, what does she see in him?”
“I don’t know ... I want to find my dad, Gran ...”
“I thought you’d be the one ...”
“What do you mean?”
“Gin, Daniel, please!”
I should make her get up and get it herself because she’s had both hips done but doesn’t do her physio anything like as often as she should.
“What do you mean; you thought I’d be the one?”
“Tom and Sam are too much like your mother ... anything unpleasant gets brushed under the carpet. I don’t say that what he did wasn’t wrong - upping and leaving like that without so much as a goodbye - but he was very unhappy - I could see that ... I just don’t know why he didn’t feel that he could tell me what the problem was ... Why now?”
“It’s just ... it’s just that there're so many questions that I want to ask him.”
“Questions you can’t ask Gary?”
“Not those sort of questions, Gran ... I really need to find him.”
“Where are you going to start?”
“I have no idea; I looked on-line and there’s nothing ... Do you think maybe he’s dead?”
It’s my worst nightmare, in not having any memories of him at all, I find out that he died and I’ll never know what he really looked like or what his voice sounded like. I need to find him to make sure that he was real ... and that I’m real.
“They say a mother would know if and when her child dies - if that’s true, then he’s still alive ... What are you going to do if you find him but he doesn’t want to know you?”
“He does ... but there’s something stopping him. Do you know where he is?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Help me up ...”
Shunning the stick that the hospital gave her, she shuffles over to the sideboard and opens a drawer. Once she’s pulled one of the drawers out too far and tipped the contents on the floor with a ‘fucking bollocks!’ she opens another and rummages for something, muttering all manner of obscenities and I can only think that she’s looking for her stash. Waiting patiently, with my bum parked on the edge of the sofa, she seems to be taking forever to find what she’s looking for.
“Gran; let me help you.”
“It’s all right; I found it ... Just give me a minute to catch my breath.”
When she turns, I can see that she has an envelope in her hand, and once I notice the tears in her eyes, my heart skips a beat.
“Gran ...”
“Take this; I need the loo ...”
As I reach for the envelope, she says, “Sixteen years is a fucking long time; I want to see my son ...”
I take the envelope from her hand but she holds on to it, forcing me to look into her eyes. “If you’re serious, you’re going to have to tell your mother - it hit her hard when he left; I don’t deny that ... but not as hard as she liked everyone to believe. That Gary was a bit too quick with his feet under the table but that’s none of my business ... Tell her the truth and see me before you leave ...”
In releasing her hold on the envelope, I stagger back to the sofa, solely intent on opening it to find out what’s inside and oblivious to the sight of her bottom lip trembling and the tears that are now falling freely from her cheeks.
It’s not sealed; the flap is just tucked in. Inside is not a letter but a postcard. It’s got three scenes of Salcombe in Devon on it - Town Quay, Bolt Head and Fisherman’s Beach, so the captions say - with Greetings From Salcombe in a banner through the middle. I want to turn it over but I can’t seem to do it.
“Arrived not long after he left ...”
Gran hobbles back to her seat and flops down, puffing and wheezing.
“... Read it.”
Spurned on, I turn it over and see one word in the space where the message goes - Remember?
“Remember what, Gran?”
“He took me there for my birthday one year; stayed at The Marine Hotel - very posh ... It’s all I’ve got, Daniel; don’t lose it.”
“I won’t ... Do you think he’s still there?”
“Only one way to find out, sweetheart ... Best you go and get your tea, hadn’t you?”
“Guess ... She and Gary are gonna go ballistic.”
“Uni will still be there when you get back ...”
“I’ll see you later, Gran.”
“Leave the door on the latch; Harold is due ...”
Harold is her fancy man - as she calls him. What can two eighty-six-year-olds get up to? I don’t even want to think about that.
oOo
I wonder if I shouldn’t have packed first. Gary looks to be in one of his moods and Mum is walking on eggshells as she gets tea ready. Tom and Sam aren’t back from circuit training yet.
“What did Gran have to say for herself?” asks Mum.
Gary gives me one his looks; the one that suggests that he’s chewing on a turd.
“Oh; nothing much ...”
“Need you at the warehouse, Dan.”
I’m his unpaid fucking skivvy when he’s got a rush order on. Too fucking tight to pay the other blokes overtime and expects me to do it for love.
“Right ...”
Shit; here goes.
“... uhm; thing is, I’m probably going to go-”
“You’re not going anywhere until those bedrooms are decorated, young man - you promised me you’d do it in exchange for that iPhone thingy.”
“No I didn’t, Mum. I thought I was getting that for my birthday.”
“And what about the car insurance?”
“I never get to use the car; Tom and Sam have always got it.”
“They’ve paid their share. If you want to use the car, you’re going to have to pay yours ... and then there’s the cost of everything for Uni ...”
We both retreat from the inevitable argument; I never win. Made to study, forced to work for free, and always told what to do, where to go, and how to do it by her ladyship and his lordship. Tom and Sam both work, so, of course, they have money - and they make such a fucking show of giving Mum her housekeeping every week.
This has side-tracked me and I have to get this out in the open before they get back.
“I’m not going to Uni ...”
Fuse is lit; Gary puts down the paper. I keep my eyes on Mum.
“What do you mean; you’re not going to Uni? It’s all arranged.”
“I don’t want to go to Uni.”
“You’re going to Uni and that’s the end of it, Dan - why this all of a sudden?”
“It’s not all of a sudden; I never wanted to go in the first place - you said I had to go but I don’t want to.”
“It’s Gran, isn’t it? Filling your head with a load of rubbish, that’s what it is.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with Gran - I’m not going.”
“You’re going to Uni and that’s final.”
I turn to address Gary, who obviously thinks that he’s had the final word because he picks the paper back up.
“I’m not going - no one can make me go!”
“What will you do; get a job at the supermarket?” Mum suggests. The tone is distinctly derisory - and that’s a first. Tom and Sam both work at the supermarket - admittedly in trainee management.
“No, Mum, not in the supermarket.”
“Where then? Don’t expect Gary to give you a job!”
“I wasn’t - he doesn’t pay me when I do work!”
Floodgates are about to open.
“You ungrateful little bastard; if it wasn’t for Gary ...”
Here we go. I’ve never known anyone get so much praise heaped on them for doing so little. It’s a good five minutes of expounding his virtues before she runs out of steam with the final salvo, “... you have more respect, Daniel.”
“You’re working the summer for me and then you’re going to Uni - final word!”
No doubt this is one of those moments that I’ll look back on when I’m old and be able to pinpoint exactly how it changed the course of my life.
“I’m not working for you; I’m not going to Uni ... I’m going to look for my dad ...”
And at that precise moment, Tom and Sam walk through the door just as Mum drops the pan of spuds.
“Gran ...”
“If it’s another question on existentialism, you’ll have to wait until I’ve smoked this joint.”
“Smoking is bad for you, Gran ... It wasn’t.”
“I’m going to smoke this joint anyway.”
“I don’t want to go to Uni in September ...”
“Pour me a gin, would you?”
“How many have you had already?”
“It’s rude to ask a lady her age ... Why?”
“Because ... because ... I hate having to do exactly what Mum and Gary say all the time.”
Whenever I have a crisis, it’s Gran’s door I seek out - she’s my dad’s mum, and she lives in a warden-controlled flat rather than with us because she smokes and drinks, and after a few gins and a spliff, she tends to say things just how they are ... which upsets Mum.
“You’re eighteen next week, aren’t you? Tell the stupid mare to shut her cake hole ... and as for Gary, what does she see in him?”
“I don’t know ... I want to find my dad, Gran ...”
“I thought you’d be the one ...”
“What do you mean?”
“Gin, Daniel, please!”
I should make her get up and get it herself because she’s had both hips done but doesn’t do her physio anything like as often as she should.
“What do you mean; you thought I’d be the one?”
“Tom and Sam are too much like your mother ... anything unpleasant gets brushed under the carpet. I don’t say that what he did wasn’t wrong - upping and leaving like that without so much as a goodbye - but he was very unhappy - I could see that ... I just don’t know why he didn’t feel that he could tell me what the problem was ... Why now?”
“It’s just ... it’s just that there're so many questions that I want to ask him.”
“Questions you can’t ask Gary?”
“Not those sort of questions, Gran ... I really need to find him.”
“Where are you going to start?”
“I have no idea; I looked on-line and there’s nothing ... Do you think maybe he’s dead?”
It’s my worst nightmare, in not having any memories of him at all, I find out that he died and I’ll never know what he really looked like or what his voice sounded like. I need to find him to make sure that he was real ... and that I’m real.
“They say a mother would know if and when her child dies - if that’s true, then he’s still alive ... What are you going to do if you find him but he doesn’t want to know you?”
“He does ... but there’s something stopping him. Do you know where he is?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Help me up ...”
Shunning the stick that the hospital gave her, she shuffles over to the sideboard and opens a drawer. Once she’s pulled one of the drawers out too far and tipped the contents on the floor with a ‘fucking bollocks!’ she opens another and rummages for something, muttering all manner of obscenities and I can only think that she’s looking for her stash. Waiting patiently, with my bum parked on the edge of the sofa, she seems to be taking forever to find what she’s looking for.
“Gran; let me help you.”
“It’s all right; I found it ... Just give me a minute to catch my breath.”
When she turns, I can see that she has an envelope in her hand, and once I notice the tears in her eyes, my heart skips a beat.
“Gran ...”
“Take this; I need the loo ...”
As I reach for the envelope, she says, “Sixteen years is a fucking long time; I want to see my son ...”
I take the envelope from her hand but she holds on to it, forcing me to look into her eyes. “If you’re serious, you’re going to have to tell your mother - it hit her hard when he left; I don’t deny that ... but not as hard as she liked everyone to believe. That Gary was a bit too quick with his feet under the table but that’s none of my business ... Tell her the truth and see me before you leave ...”
In releasing her hold on the envelope, I stagger back to the sofa, solely intent on opening it to find out what’s inside and oblivious to the sight of her bottom lip trembling and the tears that are now falling freely from her cheeks.
It’s not sealed; the flap is just tucked in. Inside is not a letter but a postcard. It’s got three scenes of Salcombe in Devon on it - Town Quay, Bolt Head and Fisherman’s Beach, so the captions say - with Greetings From Salcombe in a banner through the middle. I want to turn it over but I can’t seem to do it.
“Arrived not long after he left ...”
Gran hobbles back to her seat and flops down, puffing and wheezing.
“... Read it.”
Spurned on, I turn it over and see one word in the space where the message goes - Remember?
“Remember what, Gran?”
“He took me there for my birthday one year; stayed at The Marine Hotel - very posh ... It’s all I’ve got, Daniel; don’t lose it.”
“I won’t ... Do you think he’s still there?”
“Only one way to find out, sweetheart ... Best you go and get your tea, hadn’t you?”
“Guess ... She and Gary are gonna go ballistic.”
“Uni will still be there when you get back ...”
“I’ll see you later, Gran.”
“Leave the door on the latch; Harold is due ...”
Harold is her fancy man - as she calls him. What can two eighty-six-year-olds get up to? I don’t even want to think about that.
oOo
I wonder if I shouldn’t have packed first. Gary looks to be in one of his moods and Mum is walking on eggshells as she gets tea ready. Tom and Sam aren’t back from circuit training yet.
“What did Gran have to say for herself?” asks Mum.
Gary gives me one his looks; the one that suggests that he’s chewing on a turd.
“Oh; nothing much ...”
“Need you at the warehouse, Dan.”
I’m his unpaid fucking skivvy when he’s got a rush order on. Too fucking tight to pay the other blokes overtime and expects me to do it for love.
“Right ...”
Shit; here goes.
“... uhm; thing is, I’m probably going to go-”
“You’re not going anywhere until those bedrooms are decorated, young man - you promised me you’d do it in exchange for that iPhone thingy.”
“No I didn’t, Mum. I thought I was getting that for my birthday.”
“And what about the car insurance?”
“I never get to use the car; Tom and Sam have always got it.”
“They’ve paid their share. If you want to use the car, you’re going to have to pay yours ... and then there’s the cost of everything for Uni ...”
We both retreat from the inevitable argument; I never win. Made to study, forced to work for free, and always told what to do, where to go, and how to do it by her ladyship and his lordship. Tom and Sam both work, so, of course, they have money - and they make such a fucking show of giving Mum her housekeeping every week.
This has side-tracked me and I have to get this out in the open before they get back.
“I’m not going to Uni ...”
Fuse is lit; Gary puts down the paper. I keep my eyes on Mum.
“What do you mean; you’re not going to Uni? It’s all arranged.”
“I don’t want to go to Uni.”
“You’re going to Uni and that’s the end of it, Dan - why this all of a sudden?”
“It’s not all of a sudden; I never wanted to go in the first place - you said I had to go but I don’t want to.”
“It’s Gran, isn’t it? Filling your head with a load of rubbish, that’s what it is.”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with Gran - I’m not going.”
“You’re going to Uni and that’s final.”
I turn to address Gary, who obviously thinks that he’s had the final word because he picks the paper back up.
“I’m not going - no one can make me go!”
“What will you do; get a job at the supermarket?” Mum suggests. The tone is distinctly derisory - and that’s a first. Tom and Sam both work at the supermarket - admittedly in trainee management.
“No, Mum, not in the supermarket.”
“Where then? Don’t expect Gary to give you a job!”
“I wasn’t - he doesn’t pay me when I do work!”
Floodgates are about to open.
“You ungrateful little bastard; if it wasn’t for Gary ...”
Here we go. I’ve never known anyone get so much praise heaped on them for doing so little. It’s a good five minutes of expounding his virtues before she runs out of steam with the final salvo, “... you have more respect, Daniel.”
“You’re working the summer for me and then you’re going to Uni - final word!”
No doubt this is one of those moments that I’ll look back on when I’m old and be able to pinpoint exactly how it changed the course of my life.
“I’m not working for you; I’m not going to Uni ... I’m going to look for my dad ...”
And at that precise moment, Tom and Sam walk through the door just as Mum drops the pan of spuds.
