Chapter 25

Chapter 25

It was a matter of days, but waiting for the following Monday was torture. Especially since he barely acknowledged me around school in the meantime. It got to the point where I seriously thought I'd imagined making the arrangement, but there was no opportunity to confirm it with him, and I just had to hope. I'd arrive and give him twenty minutes, I thought to myself. That's enough to account for any delays along the way. As it turned out, he was already waiting for me when I cycled into the car park, leaning up with one foot against the back wall of Shop 'n' Save.

"Evening," Rob said, a small smile on his lips.

I dismounted. "Hi."

I leaned my bike next to where his was – by the loading bay. It wasn't what I would have called a romantic location, but maybe that was just me with my expectations again. Flattened cardboard boxes were strewn over the concreted ground where they'd overflown from the big dumpster, the air slightly sour with that bin smell, and the security lights casting everything, including us, in an unflattering stark white glow. Beyond, there were no cars in the car park, and the shop was deserted since it shut at six. There was a lonely, hopeless, bleak gloom about the place – like we were the last survivors in a nuclear war.

Why had he suggested we meet here?

Then he smiled at me, and it didn't matter any more. He was here.

"Come on then, I'll show you something," he said, walking over to a set of metal stairs that led up the outside of the building to the roof.

Not for the last time, I learned Rob didn't give a shit about trespassing. He had a view that it was wrong to portion up the world according to who had the money to claim it as their own, and that we all had as much right to any part of it as anyone else. I'll admit, I wasn't sure I shared his views on land ownership.* I quite liked having my own space and couldn't imagine being particularly pleased to go home one day to find a couple of hippies in my bedroom "because it was theirs as much as mine", but then it turned out we didn't agree about a lot of things.?

Another surprise, dear reader? The expectation is that we'd agree, isn't it? The beauty of some common ground and shared ideals? Well, wouldn't that be boring.

After he rubbished my protestations about "the owner being cross" we ascended, up past the first floor and one fire exit, to the flat roof, where we sat down next to each other and looked out over the car park and the rest of Market Wickby beyond. If I had been hoping for some clichéd romantic setting (which, naturally I was), I would be disappointed (I was). There was no sunset. No birds gently singing their night-time songs. The sky was dark grey. There weren't even any stars visible under the low canopy of cloud.

EXT. THE FLAT ROOF. NIGHT. FANTASY SEQUENCE

Jamie and Rob lie back and gaze up at the sky. Rob traces his fingers around a constellation.

ROB: That's Orion.

[A shooting star passes by. Everything is beautiful.]

The reality:

"Granted, it's not Paris," he said.

No shit.

He pulled two cans of Woodpecker cider out of his rucksack. "Want one?"

"Thanks."

We cracked our cans open and drank. (Me: drinking on a school night! I don't think you can fully appreciate how big this was.*)

"So … do you come here a lot?" I asked.

He chuckled. "Yeah, OK, I know it's shit. That's kind of the point."

"How come?"

He shuffled over and put his arm around my shoulders, me, immediately melting into his warmth and loving every second of it. "Because, Jamie, I look out there," he swept his right hand across the vista, "and all I can see is how crap this town is, and it reminds me how much I want to get out."

"You come up here … to depress yourself?"

"No. Well, a bit, I suppose. It just feels good to stare the crap in the face and know – well, hope – that one day, it'll change, but in the meantime … it is what it is, it's my life, and I'm not going to pretend otherwise."

"That still sounds depressing to me."

"That's because you're an optimist. Whereas I'm a realist."

I nodded. He was probably right about that.

"What about you?" he asked. "Where would you love to be if not here?"

"Oh, a city, for sure. I'm sick of the country. London looks good, but honestly, anywhere with a cinema that isn't a forty-minute drive away, and some shops that stay open after six."

"Cities are more open-minded too."

"And there's that."

"I want to travel. See the world," he said.

"But where would you want to settle eventually?"

He slightly grimaced. "See, I don't like that word. Settle. There's so much to see, Jay. Great big world, people, places, experiences – more than enough for one lifetime, even assuming you get your full allocation. I hate the idea of being stuck in one place, around the same people, and that's it, that's your life now."

"So, what, you'll just … travel about?"

"Yeah! Why not? Spend summer down in Cornwall one year, head off to the Med, spend some time in Thailand, then maybe Brazil, Mexico, travel around the US – I mean, it's endless."

"What about work?"

He shrugged. "There are people who literally travel the world following the sun, working summer seasons in bars and hotels everywhere they go."

"But don't you want a career?"

"Not especially."

"But—"

"I don't want to be a little hamster on a treadmill, Jay. What's the point?"

It was probably deeply uncool of me, but I couldn't compute any of this. I was used to being in the middle – that's where I was comfortable. And, OK, I'd recently done some things that weren't especially average: I'd read a banned book, I'd broken into school, I'd lied to Prenton, and I'd called Ms Wilkins's approach to English "bullshit". But, fundamentally, I think I still wanted normal.

Rob took a swig of cider. "I don't want to live the life other people think I should or want me to. I'm not interested in following the crowd. I don't want to just exist. I want to live. I want to fucking fly."

He was like a smiling assassin. Arm across my shoulder, being all friendly, while it felt like he was basically telling me he didn't see a future with me and him. The words being around the same people nagged at me.

Except…

He was right, of course. There wasn't a future. How could there be? No one would let us. As ever, in my head, in my stupid stories, I'd imagined a world where that could be. I really had to stop blurring fantasy with reality. I had to stop being an optimist and maybe just look out there, like he did, stare the crap in the face and see it for what it was. Accept it.

So, what was this? Did he just want to be mates? Or was he just looking for some proverbial fun?

And why didn't I feel like I could be happy with either of those options?

He slid his arm away, reached into his rucksack and pulled out a Sony Discman. "Have you heard of Pulp?"

"No."

"Jarvis Cocker does the vocals. He sings like a kind of … dirty old man, but I love it. They just released an album, literally six weeks ago, called His 'n' Hers. Listen to this."

He produced two mini portable speakers, plugged them in, then fiddled around with the controls of the Discman until I heard the waves of synths, this sweeping Casio orchestra, and then this song … about happy endings and about … how they're not real, they're something you only get in films. A lump formed in my throat. Was he wise to me? Was he trying to tell me this wouldn't work, but through the medium of music?

The track finished and I took a long drink.

"What did you think?" he asked.

I wiped my mouth. "It's a song about the gulf between dreams and reality."

He nodded.

"So. Yeah." My throat was so tight. I don't know why I could feel tears bubbling inside me, but I could.

Too late.

"Hey," he murmured, shifting closer again.

I wiped my eyes. "I should probably go, I—"

"Stop it." He sighed and put his arm back around my shoulders. "It is a song about the gulf between dreams and reality," he said. "But it's also a song about how life is an unknown, and if you don't try for a happy ending, well, you'll never know. You might get one, you might not, but … maybe you've just gotta try."

I sniffed and swallowed and told myself to pull it together. When I turned to him, he was staring out ahead, into the gloom. "But you don't want to try," I muttered.

He took his arm away and sat with his hands in his lap. "Do you?" He turned to look at me.

"I—" I couldn't say it. I was paralyzed with the fear of what it would mean if I did.

"You said you liked me."

"I do. I do … and you said you liked me. In your letter."

He nodded. "I think you're gorgeous," he said, just like that, matter-of-fact, like that was something I heard every day and it wouldn't be the most stars-in-my-eyes amazing news I'd ever received.

He chuckled. "I love how you don't quite believe that. So many lads are all ego. They honestly think they're something special. But not you. You are, you just don't realize it." He groaned and rubbed his face with his hands. "Aargh. Why did you have to go and get inside my head, Jay?"

"Um … sorry?"

"Stop apologizing." He gave me a playful push. "How about we don't overthink this? How about we just live for now? Because, at this moment, I'm sitting here with a boy I like, and I think that's enough."

"Same," I said.

We tapped our cans of cider together and drank.

"And yet, tomorrow there's school," I added.

"That's tomorrow, Jamie."

"So, what then? Because this is nice, but what then?" I clocked his sigh. "I'm not trying to pressure you. It's just, I don't think just one ‘now' would be enough. I'm not needy, but wouldn't it be good, though? A few ‘nows'?"

I studied his face. Thinking.

"Nobody can find out," he said eventually. "I mean it. My dad is close to getting the cabinet position he's wanted for ages. Journalists are already sniffing around, just in case there's any dirt. That's what they're like. Something like … me could bring his whole career down. So we can't be anything at school. We can't suddenly start hanging out or people will talk. We have to ignore each other. I won't ring you, and you absolutely cannot phone me – if Dad picks up, or gets wind of it, he'll be suspicious. OK?"

I nodded. It sucked, but I could see that it was the only way. There was no version of this plan where we could be open. He couldn't be, and nor could I. And I didn't want to be, for that matter.

"We'll find places to meet up, like this, and other places too," he continued. "Could that work?"

His pleading eyes met mine. And, for a moment, I got a flash – I think – of how much he wanted this too.

"OK. Rob? Why did you decide to meet up with me after all? When you said you didn't want to? Was it what I said to Ms Wilkins?"

"No, it wasn't!" He laughed. "Jesus, and by the way, don't go tanking your grades on my account. I guarantee you'll live to regret it." He sighed and smiled. "I couldn't stop thinking about you—"

I smiled to myself. He did want this.

"… because you were doing my head in, and even though I think we're doomed, I can't stop myself."

"Doomed? Why are we doomed?"

"Oh, Jamie." He closed his eyes. "Let's be honest: we're probably gonna wreck each other, mate."

"You're such a pessimist."

"Realist."

His hand found mine and he gently squeezed it.

We locked eyes, his lips parted, his breathing … slightly heavier. Or maybe I was just more attuned to it.

He kissed me.

Just quickly. Just on the lips. Then pulled back, his eyes searching my face.

I smiled. I tried not to overthink it, or spoil it, by trying to remember every detail, even though I knew this was a real moment in my life, you know?

He kissed me again. Slower this time. Longer this time. Different this time.

And I…

Shaking.

He pulled back again, his eyes soft. "Are you cold?"

I swallowed.

"Scared?"

I barely managed to nod. Everything about this terrified me. All I could see were the headlines, flashing in my head, years and years of them. I would never admit this to him, but I was convinced if anything happened I would die of AIDS. That's what I'd been told happened to boys like me. And nobody had ever said any different.*

He moved his hand to my shoulder. "Listen, the only thing I wanted to do tonight was bring you here to tell you that maybe it's worth trying for some kind of happy ending. Except I don't like the word ‘ending' because that suggests something is over, so how about … a happy beginning?"

I held up my can of cider and tapped his again. "To happy beginnings."

*Translation: we had a shit-tonne of arguments about this.

?A few years later, he told me he hated The Corrs. Would you dare?

*Sets up crystal meth lab as next logical step.

*This stayed with me for many, many years. I still worry today, despite new treatments meaning it's no longer something that will kill you. Hate casts a long shadow, folks.