The week without Tilda was the longest of Weston’s life. There wasn’t a moment the man’s thoughts didn’t run to her.

“It’s been a while, Weston.”

“Oh, Mr. Nichols, yes, it has.”

“Aren’t you shining bright, what’s new? The senior asked. Mr. Nichols always happened to sit next to Weston when he wrote. As usual, Mr.Nichols fed the birds.

“New? Nothing.”

“Oh, come on Weston, we’ve in bench buddies for a few years now, you can tell me.”

Weston didn’t have anyone to confide his secrets to, the time spent with Tilda was surreal and magical the man wanted to shout his joy to the world, but this instant telling Mr.Nichols was enough.

“I’ve met someone.”

“Great, that’s what life is about, son, treasure it,” Mr.Nichols said while he patted Weston on the shoulder, before getting up to leave. After taking a few steps, Mr. Nichols glanced back on Weston and said, “haven’t you got somewhere to go?”

Weston automatically looked at his wrist,” shit,” he got up and ran only to stop after a few meters. He turned around to see where Mr. Nichols was. The older man was already far, how did he know Weston had somewhere to go?

The writer speeded to catch his train at King’s Cross. Tilda was coming back the next day, and he needed to smooth a few things out with his parents before she arrived.

Tilda only texted twice while she was away once to say she missed him and another to sayㅡ.

Weston smiled to himself, “hurry and come back, woman,” he mumbled, gently sweeping his lip with his finger. He quickly found his seat in the train, and he took out his laptop and began to type, writing came easy; it was thanks to Tilda who encouraged Weston to write to let his imagination run wild. She was beneficial for him in so many ways.

As usual, his parents waited on the train tracks. His mother waved as though Weston was a sailor coming back from a mission.

“Oh, see this one here, aren’t you at the height of your beauty?” Alice said, pinching her son’s cheeks.

“Hello, West.”

“Please, don’t call me that way dad, it’s confusing,” Weston said.

“Remember what he said the last time, it makes him think of the American rapper, what’s his name again Canal West” Alice reminded her husband.

Weston muffled the laughter, which threatened to explode. He loved his mother too much to make fun of her error.

The Edmonds highly appreciated Weston’s monthly visit, the nurse and the former professor were now retired and enjoying their days gardening and baking cakes.

They walked to the Velar Land Rover.

“Dad, aren’t you driving?”

“Your mom says I’m reckless with her baby.”

Weston’s mother, Alice, loved cars, whereas her husband adored mountain bikes. Alice was talkative; she could knit a subject out of anything.

Observative, her husband Charles went straight to the point of avoiding unnecessary blabbering as he called it.

Charles annoyed his wife, who complained. She would ask him for whom he was saving his words.

Alice turned on the radio and started the engine.

“You look terrific, Weston; you’re glowing.”

“Was he dull before?” Charles asked.

Alice shook her head, “no, I mean, look at him, doesn’t he seem blissful?”

“It’s obvious Weston has met someone,” Charles returned.

These observations, too, were Edmonds family specials, Weston’s parents could have conservations doing the questions and the answers without even consulting the person present.

“Have you met someone, Weston?” Alice asked, looking at him in the rearview mirror.

“I was going to mention it at tea time, but since you’ve grasped the bull by its horns, my answer is yes, I have.”

“Oh, my goodness, Charles, do you hear that?”

“I’m listening; I’m here, Alice.”

“So who isㅡoh, Charles turn it up, it’s my monthly favorite.”

Charles turned up the radio, and Tilda’s voice filled the car, it was a track from Lone Horizon.

“So, Weston, what’s her name. You can tell a lot from someone’s name,” Alice pursued.

“Tilda.”

“Like Tilda Brentwood, wow amazing, I like her already, and if she came with the same voice, I would be delighted.”

“You like Tilda Brentwood’s songs?” Weston asked, testing the waters before unleashing his revelation.

“Your mother adores them; she’s an absolute fan.”

“I’m thinking of going to her next concert in London; it’s in 3 weeks. Do you think I can still get tickets?”

“Dream on Alice,” Charles scoffed.

“If I come, can I stay at yours, it would be a good occasion to meet your sweetheart.”

“Sure, you can stay, but please brace yourself, mom, and behave.”

“Why are you warning me like this? It’s not like your girlfriend is the Duchess of York.”

“No, she is just your monthly favorite singer.”

“What do you mean, Weston?”

“Do I have to spell out everything for you, Alice? You don’t possess an ounce of the art of deduction,” Charles said, pointing at the dashboard as if the facts were there.

Alice’s stare darted from her husband’s position to the rearview mirror, where she stared at Weston, “what are you rumbling about, Charles?”

“Alice, your son’s girlfriend, is Tilda Brentwood, the singer, songwriter, and actress, you’ve been bashing my ears with for the last six weeks.”

“Are you serious? Weston is it true.”

“Yes, mom.”

“Oh, my God.”

Alice directly pulled over and turned to face her son.

“Weston, are you saying that sweet young woman is dating you? No, offense son, but your no Don Juan.”

“Thank you, mom; I’m 30. I’m aware of my qualities.”

“Don’t worry, son, I know your worth,” Charles said in support.

“Oh lord, wait until I tellー.”

“Mom, please keep quiet about this. I don’t know when it will be exposed, but I would appreciate it to be as far away in the future as possible.

“Oh, Weston, you already have so many secrets, I can’t talk about your books. Now, I can’t talk about your girlfriend; everybody is always boasting about their sons and meー.”

“You have Thomas.”

“I have two brilliant sons, and I would appreciate being able to talk freely about you.”

“I don’t call showing off at Sundays brunch with all of Yorkshire’s retired women talking,” Charles added, only meeting Alice’s glaring eyes.

“Please, mom, it’s all-new. I want this to work.”

“It’s serious, then?” Charles said, looking straight into Weston’s eyes.

“Yes, it’s serious.”

Charles nodded, “I’ll make your mother’s lips stay clamped, rest assured, son.”

“Oy, Charles, I’m here, you know. How long have you been together?”

“We met at the premiere.”

“Gosh, that is fresh; your couple is merely a fortnight old.”

“Yet, he is madly in love with her look at his eyes,” Charles said.

Alice waved her hands in front of her eyes, “oh, I think, I’m going to cry.”

“Well, let me drive because we’ll never get home at this rate.”

Alice glared at her husband, “don’t even think about it, Charles.”

Alice started the engine, “Weston, tell me more about her, is she as tall and as slim as she looks?”

“Yes.”

“Is she nice?”

“Alice, your son, wouldn’t date a shrew, would he?”

“She’s better than anything you can imagine, mom.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to meet her, Weston.”

“For once, I agree with your mother; I’m looking forward to it, of course, when you two are ready,” Charles said, smiling.

Weston was relieved having their support was vital, holding Westons back in all his enterprises the Edmonds were stable scaffolds on which Weston rested his psyche. By telling them about his relationship, Weston hoped they would take Tilda in their care.

“We should call Thomas.”

“No,” both men said in unison.

Thomas was a civil servant; his wife Mary-Elisabeth was a bank clerk. They were very conservative and somewhat stuck up. Weston remembered how his brother had laughed and told him to get real when he said he submitted a manuscript to Simon&Schuster.

A couple of years later Thomas appeared to be bitter, Weston avoided rubbing in his life on his brother’s face.

Alice blamed herself for years saying maybe she named Thomas: Jonny, Denzel, or River his name would have had a positive influence on his personality.

“Okay, but we’ll have to tell him at some point.”

“Yes, but not now.”

They arrived at his parent’s; tea time was around the corner. A whiff of freshly baked muffins hit Weston’s nose as he stepped in the house, cinnamon, blueberry, and vanilla the scents mingled and ran free escaping by the windows Alice opened. Cocooned by the peaceful atmosphere, Weston’s eyes had to fight off the urge of sleeping.

“Oh, dear, you look tired. I still got one or two things to do. Do you want to rest a little?” Alice asked.

Weston did not refuse. He went up to his former bedroom, which was now a spare. Sleep didn’t need to pray, and so he dreamt.

The dream was one of those where you are a spectator, in Weston’s a woman who seemed to be Tilda but whose psychical state made him imagine it was someone else wept. This Tilda was boney, hollow-cheeked, and raccoon eyes, and she cried continuously as in roamed in a ravaged apartment.

She drank half a bottle of vodka before going to the bathroom, where she collapsed on the floor, razor in hand. Weston watched her slit her wrist while crying, she spoke, but she couldn’t hear what she said. Weston screamed, but no sound came out. He tried to grasp with all his might the woman’s lifeless body, but his hands slid through like those of a ghost.

He woke up screaming and drenched in sweat, reaching out in front of him as if he hoped to grasp something.

“Weston, are you okay?” Charles yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

“Yes,” he returned though it wasn’t the case; he got up and went to wash off his face.

The water ran while Weston pondered, what kind of nightmare was this?

Weston went back to the room, here too he had his drawers, he picked a burgundy t-shirt and went down for tea. His parent’s playful bickering appeased the angst which remained, and the afternoon added on the same delicate notes on which it started.

Soon it was time to leave, and once more, he bid farewell to his parents on the station’s tracks.

“Take care, Weston and take care of you know who,” Alice said, winking before hugging him.

“I will, mom.”

“Guess I have to come and assist at one of her concerts too now.”

The two men smiled at each other; they sometimes always managed to understand each other’s intent. There male bonding made Alice feel left out. Still, she was happy to have Weston visit them even though he had his own life.

“Oh, here Weston, since she likes sweet stuff, make her taste these muffins.”

Weston got on the train, and his parents watched him leave.

Suddenly the images of his dream flooded to mind.

It was just a dream Weston tomorrow Tilda will be in your arms; dismiss it!

But it was complicated to get rid of the vivid image of Tilda dead.