Cherry Pepsi

By: Becca Alexandra Hurst

Dad drives me to get cherry Pepsi.

We only talk in the car.

At home, I retreat,

not dramatically,

just in a to-do-list kind of way.

You know?

I stretch my legs on the dash.

The sun hits just right.

Sometimes I bring the fur throw

from the front room,

a cinema seat,

a therapy couch,

both.

We keep our eyes ahead.

No detours.

Just the loop.

The time it takes

to finish a cherry Pepsi.

Slowly.

Our script’s well-rehearsed:

job stuff,

how my recovery is going

(we tread soft here).

But he can tell from my face,

warmer now,

brighter,

more myself.

He’s my dad, after all.

Sometimes we bitch about my friends.

He still gets their names wrong.

Carmella’s been Camilla since sixth form.

We pass the estate

that means we’re nearly home:

Morrisons,

the chippy,

the place I quit army cadets

after one winter.

And then,

casually,

“You had an okay childhood.

Didn’t you?”

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Becca Alexandra Hurst is a sober poet, copywriter, and creative communicator based in London. She leaves a mark. Through words. On people. Drawing on her lived experience of recovery and sharp cultural observations, she crafts a voice that’s both witty and darkly humorous. Her work challenges social landscapes with a tone that’s detached, yet deeply felt.