Chapter 29

Chapter 29

I felt like a new man when he showed me out of his house later that night. Well, if not new exactly, then changed. Is that pathetic? We'd totally kept our clothes on. Maybe the odd hand wandered a little … we don't need to go into it.

And, if you're a librarian, you don't need to shelve this as 16+.

Rob glanced over my shoulder, down the long drive. It curved off to the right, and we were shielded from the road by shrubs and trees, so it's not like anyone could see us, but I knew we had to be cautious anyway. "Quick action replay then? To say goodnight properly."

We stood on the step, and, like before, he led the way, guiding us, setting the pace, hands all over each other, lips locked, tongues, the whole exquisite thing. Probably a minute passed, but I couldn't say for sure. His lips tenderly brushed mine and he gently broke away. "Remember that, at school, when we can't even look at each other, remember that."

"I will."

I wanted to go in again, I wanted more, but I had to go. "Oh, um… Beth had an idea. She wondered if you wanted to come round to Dan's one night. Just the four us?"

I sensed his immediate panic, the way his breath caught, and I knew I'd got it wrong.

"What?" he whimpered.

"Just, she—"

"Does she know, Jay? Did you tell her? Dan too?" He swallowed, his eyes wide.

"Um, no. Well, she does, but I didn't say … she worked it out—"

"Oh, Jesus."

"It's OK. Beth won't say anything. She heard people talking about the book, about Wildflowers, and looked it up and put two and two together, but—"

"And she's told Dan?"

"No. She said she wouldn't."

He ran his hands through his hair. "I want to," he said. "I … really want to. It would be amazing. But…" He took an unsteady breath. "I can't do this, Jay. This is exactly what I was saying. It's too risky. Too easy to slip up—"

"Yeah, but—"

"We already have slipped up – if Beth's worked it out. Who's next?" He took an unsteady breath. "How long before someone tells someone else and that someone else tells someone who knows Dad?"

"Forget I said anything."

I moved towards my bike, kicking myself for the hint of annoyance in my voice. I wasn't really angry with him, I was angry with the situation. And at myself. Because I should have realized this was a bad idea – too much, too soon. He followed me out on to the gravel drive.

"Do you understand what my dad would do if he found out? Not even found out, but just heard rumours? He'll ship me off, Jamie. He's said he would. There's some evangelical Christian school in Scotland that ‘cures' boys like us, did you know that?"

I looked down. "I'm sorry," I muttered.

"I can't handle it, Jay."

"I know."

"I mean this. I don't think I can handle this."

I met his eyes, recognizing the fear in them that I was feeling.

"By ‘this' do you mean—"

"It's getting late," he interrupted, breaking eye contact.

"Rob, I'm sorry, OK?"

He nodded, but he didn't look at me. "Me too," he muttered.

There was a wall between us now, and it was built from fear. Fear of the situation, of other people, and of everything that was being left unsaid. I couldn't break through it.

I took my bike and I walked it up the gravel drive, the tears springing from my eyes the moment my back was turned.

Why did other people have to make this so hard for us?

How could they think that something so beautiful was so wrong?

And had I just wrecked everything?

It was a ten-minute cycle ride home, twenty-five walking, but I started pushing my bike by foot anyway. Cycling always feels like such a jolly activity, don't you think? You never see a miserable cyclist. Or a crying one.

"This wasn't how I expected this evening to end," Electra said, appearing alongside me, also pushing her bike.

"Snap."

"I honestly thought we'd get back home, we'd put Freedom on your hi-fi, and we'd celebrate your first proper snog with tongues and the liberation of it all, and, hell, get busy with the fizzy!"

"We don't have a SodaStream, Electra." I glanced at her. "What do I do now? Have I ruined everything? Just tell me. Don't sugar-coat it. Just tell me."

"You've ruined it. It's broken."

"Oh god, I've changed my mind – sugar-coat it!"

"But … it can be fixed."

"Can it?" I asked. "Or is that just sugar-coating?"

"For all his talk of living on the edge, of risk, he's afraid of not being in control. Of course, there are reasons for that, reasons he might share with you when he's ready, but for now, know that you stumbled into this without realizing, it isn't your fault, and what needs to happen is that he needs time. Can you do that, kiddo?"

"Give him time? Yeah."

"Without getting all depressed and writing endless love sonnets and angst-ridden diary entries, and the like? Without going on a Morrissey binge, basically?"

"I've never really liked Morrissey," I said.*

"Well, that's OK then. Now get on your bike, because it's a long walk home, cheer up and remember – you snogged another boy tonight, Jamie. And it was amazing. And you liked it. And that, my dear, dear child, is progress."

With that, she produced a boom box?, pressed play, put it on her shoulder and rode off one-handed, while Wham!'s "Freedom" started blaring out of the speakers. "Come on, Jamie!" she shouted.

I smiled, swung my leg over the seat, pedalled to join her, and we rode off into the night, joining George Michael on the chorus. Maybe it wasn't total freedom – but it was worth waiting for, and, I was soon to realize, it was worth fighting for.

Bet you're wondering how soon the shit is really gonna hit the fan, huh?

*I didn't actually say this, I'm just pretending I did to account for more recent developments about Morrissey and to not be problematic. Fact is: great music. Let's leave it there.

?Speaking of problematic, these were more often, I kid you not, known as "ghetto blasters". Casual racism, alive and well in 90s Britain!