Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Ambrose

M onopoly sure had been something, Ambrose reflected when the dust had settled. It was a bastard of a game to begin with, and Marcus had added some extra bastard to the mix, but once the game had ended and the Connellys had started to reminisce about other times they'd played, the tension in the room had dissipated and everyone had chilled out again, though Marcus still looked peeved that he hadn't won. The game itself might have been a bust, but Ambrose enjoyed hanging out with Liam and his family and watching the way they all interacted. When he was a kid, he'd always wanted to be part of a big family. He liked that the Connellys had jokes that everyone already knew, and all it took for someone to start an embarrassing story were a couple of well-chosen words, because everyone knew the story and had heard it a thousand times before. And he liked that when Liam saw him watching avidly, he'd shared the joke or the story with Ambrose in an undertone, so that he was included too.

Like the one about the time when Riley got the Monopoly house stuck up her nose. She'd been twelve . Or how Neve had once spent hours one Christmas Eve when she was six drawing fake Monopoly money with crayons, and everyone had played along with it and pretended they couldn't tell because she'd been so proud of her deviousness. One of the notes had still been in the bottom of the box, and Bridget had shown it to Ambrose—Neve was no forger. But the cutest story had to be about when Liam had been learning to play, and he couldn't say ‘Community Chest' so he'd called it ‘Community Kiss.' Liam's ears had turned pink when Fi told that story, and Ambrose had reached over and held his hand, his chest swelling with warmth.

In the end, despite Marcus— ugh —it had been a fun way to spend some time.

He flopped back onto the couch, feeling loose and boneless and relaxed. But not so relaxed that he didn't shift his arse and make room for Liam beside him. He moved back so that he could lean against Liam. He got a fluttery feeling in his stomach when Liam put his arm around him, which was weird, because usually PDAs didn't bother him at all. The difference, he suspected, was because this one was real, and the glances that the Connellys gave them meant something. He hoped there might have been less reservation in those glances if they'd known the real him.

Jesus. If he and Liam made a real go of this, Ambrose had a not-insignificant redemption arc coming up in his future, didn't he? He'd cross that bridge when he came to it, he guessed. For now he just wanted to enjoy the sensation of Liam's arm around him, and lean against him some more.

Fi brought another charcuterie board into the living room and set it down on the coffee table. The Connellys and their charcuterie boards. Maybe they thought that a person would die if they weren't always within easy reach of a triangle of Camembert. But Ambrose approved. So did Balian, who toddled up and carefully examined the olives. Then he looked hopefully at Bridget for permission before lifting one to his mouth, obviously still cautious after what had happened with the Monopoly house earlier.

"Oop," Orhan said, and plucked the olive from Balian's chubby little fingers. He broke it in half, then in half again, and gave the mangled pieces back to him. "You're still figuring out that chewing thing, right, Bal?"

Balian didn't seem to be having any trouble as he shoved the olive pieces into his mouth but he nodded anyway.

"Kids," Orhan said, and sat down on the couch with Bridget. "You spend ages planning for them and getting everything ready, then when they get here it's like your entire life suddenly revolves around stopping the little lemmings from killing themselves."

Bridget laughed and tangled her fingers in his.

"Oh, the girls were the same," Fi said. "Not Liam though. He was so well behaved."

Will came around with a bottle of ginger beer, filling glasses. Ambrose was relieved there was a non-alcoholic choice on offer. He was warm and comfortable enough that he was pretty sure half a glass of wine would send him straight to sleep.

Riley snorted and rolled her eyes. "Yes, Mum, we know he's your favourite!"

Fi clutched her bosom. "That is not true at all, Riley Meredith Connelly, and you know it!"

"It's true," Bridget mouthed to the room, and everyone laughed.

Liam flushed, and Ambrose jabbed him gently in the ribs. "You're my favourite, too."

Marcus, leaning back in an armchair with a glass of white wine perched on the armrest, looked slightly bored, and Ambrose wondered if he was thinking about spreadsheets and figures and exchange rates, or whatever it was guys like Marcus thought about. He caught Marcus's gaze, and Marcus's mouth twitched in a faint, mocking smile. Ambrose wasn't sure if he was mocking Ambrose, or the Connellys, or something else entirely. Probably not himself though, and the way he stood out like a sore thumb among the Connellys. Guys like Marcus, in Ambrose's experience, didn't like to take what they dished out.

It was a pain having to get up to reach the charcuterie board, but Ambrose made the sacrifice, loading up enough crackers that he wouldn't have to move again for a while.

"All I'm saying," he said, "is if you nailed the board to the top of a train set, and set up a track around the room, that would solve all my problems right now."

"I don't think anyone asked," Marcus pointed out.

Neve laughed, but Ambrose didn't think Marcus was joking. He jammed a cracker in his mouth and regarded Marcus narrowly.

"God, don't tell Grandad Billy," Riley said. "He'd be on that idea in a heartbeat."

"Well," Will said, "it'd be a tripping hazard, wouldn't it?"

As though that were the craziest thing about Ambrose's suggestion. He looked like he might be seriously considering it otherwise.

"I'm going for a swim," Riley announced.

"But it's pouring down!" Fi exclaimed.

"Oh no," Riley deadpanned, heading out of the room. "I might get wet."

Bridget put on some annoying children's TV show for Balian and planted him in front of the screen. He seemed more interested in the olives than whatever was on the screen, and Ambrose respected that. The olives were very good.

"Do you guys want another round of Monopoly?" Bridget asked, giving the box a dubious look.

"Hell, no," Liam said. "I'm going to see what else is in the games cupboard."

Ambrose made a small sound of protest as Liam levered himself out from underneath him. But also, he got to watch that arse as Liam walked away, so he didn't complain too much.

"If we're playing another game, we probably need more cheese," Fi decided, and followed Liam out of the room. Ambrose could only assume she'd be back with a charcuterie board large enough to sail to New Zealand on. Again, no complaints. Well, apart from his bladder, which was straining a little because of that last ginger beer.

Ambrose rose and stretched and padded out of the room for the closest bathroom. Of course the Connellys had more than one, and of course they were all immaculate. The entire house was like something that could have featured in the glossy pages of a fancy magazine, but, more than that, it felt like a home , and that was something no photoshoot could capture. The Connellys were the heart of this place, and they filled it with warmth and laughter.

God, Ambrose would have killed to be a part of a family like this when he was a kid.

He used the toilet in the half-bathroom and washed his hands. Then he wiped them down the side of his jeans, even though there was a fluffy hand towel hanging right there, because you could take the boy out of the shitty student share house, apparently, but you couldn't take the shitty student share house out of the boy .

There was pomegranate-scented hand wash on the edge of the sink. Ambrose didn't even know what a pomegranate was supposed to smell like. They didn't have hand wash at their place and, honestly, the shard of soap that lived on their leaky bathroom sink was covered in dust and so dry that a spider lived under it. Still, the shitty share house with its rotating roster of shitty roommates—excluding Harry, who Ambrose loved like a brother—was a home of sorts too. At least, it was more of a home than Mum's flat in Macquarie Fields. It wasn't until he'd left there that he'd realised how long he'd spent walking on eggshells around Mum, and what a relief it was when he didn't have to constantly watch everything he said and did for fear of puncturing her very fragile reality.

The weight of his phone in his pocket reminded him that he should probably call Mum and check in with her. Maybe she'd forgotten that she thought someone had stolen her photograph, or maybe she was spiralling even further into that place where she thought everyone was conspiring against her, jealous of her success.

He drew a breath.

He'd call tonight. Hell, he deserved an afternoon to just laze around and play stupid board games with his not-quite-fake-anymore boyfriend, right?

He opened the bathroom door to leave, moving back in surprise as Marcus stepped inside.

"Um," Ambrose said, and made a lemme-just-get-around-you gesture, only to find Marcus crowding him up against the sink. "What the fuck?"

Marcus was tall enough to look down at him, even from their sudden and uncomfortably close quarters. "You've landed on your feet here, haven't you? For a guy from Macquarie Fields. "

Ambrose rolled his eyes. Of course Marcus was a total snob. "Yeah, well, not everyone gives a fuck about someone's postcode, do they?"

"Hey," Marcus said with a smirk, "I respect the hustle, Ambrose."

"The hustle ?" Ambrose demanded. "Mate, the only hustle I know is the dance, and I'm way too sober to give that a whirl right now." He looked pointedly at the door.

Marcus leaned even closer, his expensive aftershave threatening to make Ambrose sneeze. "So, is it true that gay guys give the best head?"

The question felt like suddenly being dunked in icy cold water, so cold that Ambrose struggled to draw a breath through the sharp shock of it. This wasn't just being a dick like Marcus had been before over Monopoly. This was physical intimidation, from a guy taller and maybe even stronger than he was, from a guy who was giving off every physical signal that he didn't know the meaning of the word ‘no', and Ambrose felt queasy. He looked over Marcus's shoulder. Marcus had closed the bathroom door when he'd come in, and Ambrose really didn't like the implication that he'd wanted privacy for this. He managed to draw a breath at last and summoned up his outrage.

"Uh, how about you go and get fucked?" Ambrose got an elbow between them and jabbed Marcus in the chest, but Marcus only pushed back harder, ending up with Ambrose shoved back roughly against the vanity unit. The edge of it dug into his lower back almost painfully.

"Come on," Marcus said. "You've got a good thing going here, Ambrose. You wouldn't want to fuck that up, would you?"

"Um…what? Are you blackmailing me?" Ambrose asked. He stared at Marcus's arrogantly handsome face, expecting a de nial and not getting one. "Holy shit, are you seriously blackmailing me?"

"I saw you last week at Circular Quay," Marcus said, narrowing his eyes. "On your date ."

Ambrose almost laughed. He didn't bother to explain. Why the hell would he, when Marcus was sitting in his very fragile glass house throwing stones? "And I saw you too, remember? Which makes this a fucking stalemate ."

"Jesus." Marcus rolled his eyes, as if he were suddenly bored of this entire conversation. Well, that made two of them that wanted it over and done with. "Seriously, what the fuck have I got to do to get a fucking blow job here?"

Yeah, no. That was not how Ambrose wanted the conversation to end at all.

"Fuck you," Ambrose said. "Not if hell froze over, arsehole."

"You think?" Marcus asked, a corner of his mouth lifting in a knowing sneer. "Like I said, you're on a good wicket here. These people are fucking loaded. You really want to jeopardise that just because you've suddenly decided to play hard to get?"

Hard to… what ?

"Come on," Marcus said again. "You know you want to."

"Get the hell away fr—" Ambrose's brain short-circuited and his skull filled with static as Marcus grabbed him by a handful of hair and pulled him forward into a kiss. For a moment he didn't know what shocked him so much—the fact that Marcus was such a scumbag, or that his ego was really that huge that he thought kissing Ambrose would lead to a grateful blow job in return. Oh, yes, Marcus. Thank you for bestowing me with such a magical kiss. I, a lowly gay, would be honoured and privileged to suck your cheating straight-guy dick in return .

And before he could even decide, before he could even unfreeze and push Marcus away, the door to the bathroom opened again, and Neve was standing there. For a moment she was frozen too, then she screamed.

" Marcus !"

Marcus thrust away from Ambrose, and Ambrose winced as the lip of the vanity dug into his back again.

"Babe," Marcus said, showing her his palms. "Neve. I can explain!"

"What's going on?" Bridget asked, appearing beside Neve.

Neve was tearful and full of rage, her face twisted and her mouth wavering. She pointed an accusatory finger into the bathroom. "They were kissing !"

Bridget's mouth dropped open in shock.

Panic rose up in Ambrose, threatening to overwhelm him. He pushed past Marcus on shaky legs, then past Neve and Bridget in the bathroom doorway.

"Ambrose," Bridget said, but Ambrose kept moving. Away from the bathroom, away from Marcus and Neve and Bridget. He just needed to get away.

He wanted Liam. God, he did. He wanted to explain, and mostly he wanted Liam to feel angry on his behalf. He wanted Liam to be outraged, to match Ambrose's outrage and maybe even eclipse it with some of his own, but no.

"Oooh," he'd said jokingly on Friday, "maybe I'll make a move on Neve's fiancé? That'd be heart-breaking enough for you, right?"

And what had Liam answered?

"Nobody would believe it."

Well, it had happened now. Not that Ambrose had been the one to make a move, but Liam didn't know that, and it wasn't like Marcus would tell the truth, was it? And Ambrose would, but would that count? A part of Ambrose thought that Liam would believe it, maybe, if only Ambrose could explain it to him. That might not be enough for the rest of the Connellys, but maybe it wouldn't feel so bad if Liam believed it.

But another part of him—the kid from Macquarie Fields who would never be good enough for a family like this, the guy who lied for a living, who'd never had a proper family and probably didn't deserve one—didn't want to know. He didn't want to look Liam in the face and see the moment that Liam decided he was a piece of shit, and that it hadn't been an act after all. That a guy like Ambrose was just awful and not worth sticking around for. Not worth falling for. Not worth anything at all.

Ambrose headed for the front door.

He could hear Neve yelling, but he couldn't make out the words above the sound of the blood roaring in his skull.

"What's happening?" Will asked, his brow creased in worry as he hurried past Ambrose towards the bathroom. He didn't stop when Ambrose didn't answer.

Ambrose had to leave. He had to get the hell out of here and never come back. All the stupid fantasies he'd built up over the last few days, the ones where the Connellys liked him, shattered around him now like glass. And they'd been so stupid, because this weekend was supposed to be about Ambrose showing them that he wasn't good enough for Liam, not about…not about falling in love with all of them. With Liam , who was sweet and kind and awkward and everything Ambrose had ever wanted but been too afraid to acknowledge.

Well, he'd showed them, he guessed. He'd definitely showed them.

"Ambrose?" Liam asked from the living room. He was holding a battered Mouse Trap box. His face was a picture of confusion. "What's going on?"

Ambrose ignored him and kept moving.

He pushed his way out the front door onto the porch and ran outside into the pouring rain.