The Life and Times of Walt Rogers, summarised:

For one, his name wasn't Walt Rogers. He'd been born under a cruder name of Gaelic roots, after a baseball player that nobody his age had heard of. Duane. Like Josephson? Some Red Sox catcher my dad liked. They called him DT in kindergarten, and that stuck much better, to his father's chagrin.

He didn't have a trade, as such. He'd been smart in his school days, sharp as a tack when he tries his teachers had said, but nothing much had come of it. Thinking was easy, but school was hard, so when his father made him and his brother, Jerome, glorified gunmen in his New York drug cartel, Duane had quickly taken to the role, shrugging into the violence and vanity like a well-fitting hand-me-down.

As sudden as if it had happened whilst he was bent down to tie his shoelace, Duane woke up one day afraid to think. To think meant to dwell, and to dwell meant to be disgusted by what he had let himself become; a man who could smile at a baby, knowing he'd pistol-whipped his dopehead dad because he didn't pay up; a man who could look himself in the mirror and go about his day as though the only thing wrong was him was his slightly crooked nose; a man who could let his little brother take the rap, 19 long years behind bars, for a bullet that he had fired. Duane wasn't a man; he was a boy – but he purposed in his heart... one day, I'll be a real man. The kind of man that his mother, bless her bottle-blonde soul, prayed he would be when she bought him a one-way ticket to the last place his small-town father would think to look for him. Go be a good man, DT. Like... Bill Clinton... or Mr. Rogers!

DT chose the latter. And as it happened, he found a gap in a semi-detached in Aldwych, that seemed just the right size for one Walt Rogers.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You ever known somebody, and thought you knew them better than they knew themselves, when in fact you didn't know them at all, so they tell you over tabbouleh and tahini, after a prayer that you didn't know they knew, that 80% of what you know about them is a lie? It's an awkward situation, would not recommend.

There was a little silence, at first... then August asked what part of New York he was from, and there hasn't been a second of it since.

Mum hasn't spoken in eleven minutes by my count, but Auggie hasn't stopped. She seems so comfortable you'd think she was interviewing old mates. John Wick or Vincent Vega? Did you guys always work together? What was it like? Were you, like... rich?

It's almost like she's unaware that depending on how, or frankly if, Mum reacts to all of this, everything could be falling apart.

Although, without the distraction of August's jabbering, I can't say for certain that Mum wouldn't have already launched herself across the table or collapsed into a pile on the floor. I suppose I'm grateful, in that regard.

Walt keeps looking at over at Mum before he answers one of Auggie's probing questions, like he's checking for her permission or seeing whether it's finally happening and she's about to chuck a flute of wine at him. Either way, she hasn't met any of his glances yet. Or mine.

She is looking at him, just never at the same time he's looking at her. If looks could kill, I reckon he'd still be alive. She doesn't look furious, or even confused; she's gnawing on the inside of her cheek, with the faintest look of abstraction, like she's thinking about where she left her car keys. Except for when Walt looks over; then her gaze snaps to anywhere he's not.

"Okay so," August starts again, pointing her hummus-covered fork at Jerome, "when Angie came into the shop, did you know who she was?"

"Yup," Jerome says without missing a beat, "well," he tilts his head in thought, while stretching his mouth about to fish something out his teeth with tongue, and all I can wonder is how is this guy related to Mr. Rogers?

"I thought she looked like someone I'd seen on your, um," he shakes a thick finger in Walt's direction as he tried to find the words, "the, um, Facebook. There was a photo of you guys ... on somebody's birthday, I think? Looked like a real family – everybody smilin' and, you know, really meaning it..." He's scoffing and shrugging and shaking his head like what he's saying doesn't matter, but something about the way his voice trails off sets off a twinge in my chest.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Auggie says so softly it sounds like an exhale. "About Walt?"

He sticks a fork into the mass of meat and leaves on his plate, poking about without purpose, and laughs with his eyes decidedly down, like he's thought about it a hundred times before,

"'Cause, sweetheart, I knew that if Goldilocks was who I thought she was – if you all were who I'd pegged you for... dear DT would be better off without me. With the ...kinder side of the world." He raises his head to smile, but it isn't a real one; it isn't one that meets his emerald eyes.

Can I hug him? August asks me with a brush off her foot against mine.

I don't know, Augs... My knitted brows say.

"Why Rogers?" I hadn't realised it, but this is my first question, my first words since Walt's big confession, and when my voice cracks his attentive eyes are on me immediately. I clear my throat, and try again,

"The name Rogers... why d'you pick it?"

Walt's face softens, and Jerome laughs again – not with condescension or cruelty, but like a knowing... brother. He sits back and looks over at his brother with a wide smile, beaming with nostalgia. It might be the most emotion I've ever seen on him.

"My mom she... she thought he was a pretty good guy."

Walt's gone from a cliché to our puzzle piece to an utter puzzle, and the whole thing feels like a story that's happening to someone else. But it's not, and that must be what's at the front of Mum's mind when she injects a cool shot of reality into the flow of conversation, scathing and curt,

"I have a question actually – that day in the Tesco. What-what was that? Did you pick me out from somewhere, did you see me in a directory of desperate, divorced English singles with good credit scores, what was that all about, Walt?"

Shit. Now Mum's theatrics are getting personal, cutting deep, and I can't believe she's taking it there. She's talking about the day they met. They day she came home buzzing about the rugged American man at the self-checkout, looking the happiest I'd seen her in too long. I can't believe she's looking him in the face and stamping on the memory.

Something's drained from Walt's eyes in that instant, and I think I see his heart sink in the deep breath he takes. He puts down his cutlery, and I'm praying he's working up some grit. Come on, Walt, fight.

"Flo," he says, sounding choked already, "I understand why you're hurt."

Mum scoffs at that – rolls her eyes, too – but she lets him go on. That's got to count for something.

"I understand and you have every reason to be. I lied to you. About some pretty important shit. But Flo... Flo." He moves his head to follow hers, and make sure he's got her attention.

"I have never lied about how I feel about you. I have never lied to you or-or Evangeline or August, or a soul on this planet, about the fact that right now I am here, and I am ready to be here for you forever. I'm ready to open myself up to you, I'm ready to devote myself – Flo, I'm ready to be what y'all need. If you let me."

His Adam's apple bobs, once and heavily, and he's got his chin up like he's holding back tears, but he's sat upright, with his hands out to her – like he really is here to be our forever.

"Get... out," Mum finally looks up, not to the side, or above, or with blank eyes, and a lone tear falls down her cheek, her eyes cloudy with the rest of them, and void of recognition. "Go." Her voice is a whisper, and she shakes her head as she speaks, like she can't recognise the words she's saying, or, perhaps, as though she can't recognise the man in front of her.

Walt lets his chin down and his tears begin in earnest too, but he doesn't weep; his throttled voice fights its way out, and he drops from his seat to his knees by Mum's side. He doesn't shout. He doesn't raise his voice. He pleads, with eyes that can't believe it's come to this. Neither can mine, Walt.

"Flo, I am begging you. Don't let this destroy us. Please. Please, Flo?" His final plea is so quiet, so hopeless, that I have to bow my head. I can't watch.

"Girls, go upstairs," Mum says vacantly, turning her head but not her eyes in our direction.

Auggie looks to me with slow-growing panic in her eyes, does she mean it? Should we go?

I nod quickly, biting my inside cheek, and take her hand as we walk hurriedly down the corridor with bowed heads.

"I... I want you gone." She speaks slowly, like she's in some disoriented trance, before she follows behind August and I, her feet dragging as though they're too heavy to lift.

"Flo..." His last syllable is a sob that opens the floodgates, and somehow hearing him snivel without seeing his face cuts deeper. When Mum's in our view, we throw our arms around her, and feel her gently jerk as she holds her tears in, while ours stream silently.

"I'm fine, girls, I'm fine," she says, signalling the end of the hug with a swift rub on our backs,

"I'm just going to go to bed for a bit, okay? Don't worry." She pinches Auggie's nose before turning to the steps, and when she walks, she walks clutching to the bannister, like she's full of broken bones, and every step hurts.