At some point he becomes aware that he isn’t alone. Alan turns to find Brooks standing at the bottom of the stairs, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, staring at him.
“Wotcher, lad?” Alan pats the cushion beside him on the couch. “Take a seat.”
For a moment Brooks doesn’t move. Then he rocks back on his heels, and when he rocks forward, he pretends to stumble off the bottom step and into the living room. He kicks at Alan’s shoe as he passes by, then falls onto the couch with an audible oof
“You’re a bull in a china shop, mate,” Alan says, shaking his head. “Can you try nottearing the place down today?”
“Sorry.”
It’s gruff and low, but about as sincere an apology Alan can expect from a teenage boy. “S’oright.”
“No, I mean it.” Brooks flops back with a sigh. “Sorry for this morning, too. And for talking to Kylie about you. I wasn’t being mean, I promise.”