The Perfect Son Read Online Free Page A

minutes ago. The luggage would already be spewing down onto the carousel.
    “Hazza—time to go.”
    Harry blinked, the spell broken. “You haven’t called me Hazza in years.”
    “Because you’re a little old for nicknames.”
    “You really believe that?” Harry cleared his throat. Part of his original tic repertoire, this vocal tic had been the one constant in the ever-changing world of Tourette syndrome.
    “Harry, you’re—”
    “Nearly seventeen, I know.” Harry opened the car door. “Old enough to start mapping out the rest of my life. So you keep reminding me.”
    What? Felix got out of the car. What had he said? Now he was the bad guy for trying to prepare his son for the future? Fatherhood was an active minefield.
    A plane roared overhead, zooming up into the heavy blanket of gray clouds. Felix shivered and snuggled into the cashmere scarf knotted around his neck. For a nanosecond he was back in London, trapped in one of those gloomy January days when summer was an unattainable dream and you believed sunlight would never again warm your skin.
    Heads ducked against the glacial wind, they crossed the road and entered Terminal 2. Felix patted Harry’s arm to signal a change of direction, and they headed for the down escalator. People buzzed around them while an announcement drummed from invisible overhead speakers. Harry winced, then stopped to listen.
    “Dad?” He grabbed Felix’s arm, nails digging in as his elbow started to flap.
    No. Not now. Not in public. Could Harry not hold in the tic for two more minutes so Ella could deal with it?
    “Dad, why are they talking about Mom? Something’s wrong, I told you. I told you. Something’s wrong!”
    “Harry. Stop this nonsense right now and—”
    “Would the family of Ella Fitzwilliam please go to the Air Florida desk? Would the family of Ella Fitzwilliam please go to the Air Florida desk?”
    Felix stood still and tried not to let his mind tumble through a series of worst-case scenarios as Harry’s always did, but the thought trickled out like slow-working poison: Who was in the ambulance?

THREE
    Mom was in trouble. Even without the nightmare, Harry knew, he knew. This wasn’t the wacky part of his brain flashing through catastrophe. No, this was tangible fear; this was certainty. Mom was big on constant contact: Text me when you and Max get there so I know you’re safe; text me as you’re leaving; just text me, okay? Truthfully, it could get a bit annoying, but that was her way: to worry about him. All the time. And now he was worrying about her. She hadn’t texted him when her plane landed. She wasn’t safe.
    A herd of travelers split around them and scattered. Everyone was going someplace except him and Dad. Why was Dad standing there not moving? What was he waiting for?
    “Would the family of Ella Fitzwilliam please go to the Air Florida desk? Would the family of Ella Fitzwilliam please—”
    “D-dad!” The stammer vibrated through his chest, through his arms, through his fingers. Pressure built in his throat: an unstoppable urge, an itch that had to be scratched. No. Now was not the time for a new tic. Dad couldn’t deal with, with—
    “G-go!” Harry tried to say more, but the words stuck in his throat.
    Dad’s chest rose and fell like he was panting. Beads of sweat escaped from his hairline like he was melting. He leaned up close, so in-your-face close that Harry almost gagged on the aftershave. Shouldn’t a father know that his son was practically allergic to perfume?
    “Harry, please, don’t do this to me. I can’t cope if you start ticcing.”
    Seriously? Mom needed help and this shit was still pushing Dad’s buttons? Did he ever consider anyone but himself?
    I have Tourette’s, get over it already.
    Harry tried to push against the mudslide of demeaning sound, tried to focus on those years of habit reversal therapy with Mom when she’d refused to quit, refused to let him quit no matter how hard they’d both been