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I looked over at the armchair, where James sat. Why the fuck are you sitting there looking all gormless for? I thought to myself.
It’s not that I hate James, it would be fair to say that I tolerate him, mainly because he lives at my house but we rarely bump into each other. This was one of those rare moments.
James is eighteen now, and my stepson. His mum and I split just over two years ago, and because James was in his last school year she told him he had to stay around here so as not to disrupt his schoolwork and future college plans. Secretly I think she didn’t want him around her anymore either.
There was nobody else involved in the breakup, no adultery was committed. She basically told me one day she was bored with her life, had quit her job and was moving to the other end of the country. Two days later she’d gone.
James is a typical teen. He always looks down and sulky, his floppy long hair down over his eyes and around his shoulders rarely brushed, his jeans always ripped, and dirty trainers. He is almost permanently connected to his skateboard or playing video games in his room. He’s a bit of a wimpy looking lad too. He still lived with me because he was at a local college, and my house was free lodgings. With him not working, I hadn’t bothered asking him for rent.
