Boundaries

Work. It had been one of those days where I questioned my sanity. Other people had nice jobs selling loaves of bread in bakeries, sausage rolls in Greggs, nice simple transactions where money changed hands with baked goods or such, no drama.

Instead, two of the girls in banqueting had got into some kind of catfight in the Queen Anne room over some bloke they’d both been shagging, even dragging each other by the hair at one point. And yes, the police had been called because the people attending the tech conference upstairs had not been amused. Then we’d caught some lowlife coming up from the loading dock, carrying cans of tomato paste, and next thing we had a bunch of irate taxi drivers having a loud slanging match outside. Apparently, some newbies were trying to elbow in on our regular drivers’ patch.

At one point, my dad had come inside clutching a handbag. It was still sat under our desk, and I’d been too busy to actually figure out where it had come from.

“Madness,” Dad sighed later on, driving us home. “I know we’re supposed to be glorified baggage handlers, but seriously, son. What the hell was today? I feel like I’ve been everything from a psychiatrist to a bouncer to some kind of political negotiator. And Mr Nick-It-All is booked in tomorrow. I seriously can’t deal.”

“He’s all right, Mr Nicholson,” I said. “He’s got real anxiety issues. I talk to him, you know. He only does stupid shit when his anxieties get on top of him. He was trying some new meds last time I saw him, but they weren’t agreeing with him. Made him feel too spaced out.”

“And that’s why people adore you.” My dad smiled. “You’re a good person. You talk to people. Remember that letter we got from Mrs Arndale? Thanking you for saving her life?”

“I didn’t save her life,” I muttered. Honestly, woman. Overdramatic much?

“You are. You’re a good kid. Deserving of good things.”

I didn’t feel like a good kid. I felt weird and wired, and that was without propping myself up with chemical stuff.

I hoped he wouldn’t be there. I hoped that his driver or security or whoever had picked him up and taken him away because there was only so much a person like me could take. I wasn’t some superstar. I was just a bloke with…with…

More than anything, I understood Mr Nicholson. Not that I went and pilfered everything in sight. I wasn’t riddled with anxiety and kleptomania. Neither was I geared up for hooking up with random pop stars.

He’d kissed me. Even thinking about that made me break out in a sweat.

He wanted things I wasn’t sure I could even contemplate giving him. Seriously, man. This whole thing was fucked up. So bloody fucked up.

Firstly, I was NOT into blokes and never had been. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. I liked the ladies. Sometimes watched a bit of porn, okay? My phone had a whole file with my favourite clips. Perky girls with lovely boobs and nice, round arses.

I did not have a single clip saved where there was any kind of man-on-man action. So that proved that. Didn’t it?

Except…if I was really super honest about what had gone down this morning, I’d been on top. I’d kissed him. Like with driving, the one moving first was at fault, and I’d caused that little bump and scrape.

Nothing more.

Apart from the tongue bit, it had been like…Spin the Bottle. Just a quick peck. It didn’t count. No harm done.

I didn’t even convince myself with that little pep talk.

My whole body was tense with unease as we drove down Peckham Rye Lane, past the shops with their graffiti-covered shutters, kids messing around outside McDonald’s, the takeaways with their glaring signs, a train thundering across the overpass.

Home. I loved it here, despite the stupidity of my youth. There were still places I wouldn’t dare walk around on my own, and I definitely didn’t want to go back to being one of those kids. Didn’t ever want to have a blade pulled on me. The fear was still there, somewhere in the back of my mind. Too much. It was all becoming too much.

Dad steered the car into his tidy little parking place, whistling jollily as he got his keys out of his coat pocket and locked the car as I closed the passenger door.

I stared at the back of our house.

The lights were on downstairs.

He was still here.

My chest hurt.

My dad couldn’t deal with Mr Nick-it-All. I couldn’t deal with…

This.

Fuck this.

He was sitting at our kitchen table, bits of paper everywhere, his headphones around his neck. Looking totally normal.

My dad walked past him and ruffled his hair.

The way he ruffled mine.

“You need to leave.” I had no idea why I was so angry. “Like, right now. Seriously. Get out.”

“Reuben,” my dad warned.

Then silence. Me breathing far too strained. Dad letting out a loud sigh.

“It’s okay, Reubs.” He was still sitting there, so calm. How the fuck was he so calm?

“No,” I said, my hands out in front of me. “No. No.” I shook my head, panic in my chest.

I didn’t do things like this. I needed a cup of water. And my meds. Then I needed to have a nice shower and go to bed. Like I always did. A-FUCKING-LONE.

“Reubs,” he said in a soft voice.

“Don’t you Reubs me.” Pathetic. “I just want to go to bed. Sleep. Not have all this…this!” I didn’t even know what that meant.

Dad walked into his room and closed the door.

“Okay.” Gray closed the lid of his laptop. “I get it, Reubs. I do. It’s a bit much.”

“Yes.” Finally.

“Give me a few minutes to get an Uber sorted, yeah?”

I breathed. In. Out.

“I’m going to go grab a shower.” My voice sounded weird, and my hands were shaking. Fuck. What was I doing?

“Fine,” he said. Headphones into his rucksack, papers, laptop. He tapped something out on his phone, waiting. Then looking at me.

“I understand what you’re going through. Trust me. I do.”

“No, you don’t,” I hissed. “You don’t know shit.” Unnecessarily rude, but my chest was heaving with every breath.

I turned around, no idea what I needed. No idea what to do. I went into my room and grabbed my pills. Downed them dry. Went and brushed my teeth. Totally irrational.

Breathed. Tried to calm down.

The front door opened. Then it closed again.

Perhaps it helped. Or perhaps that was what made me start to cry.

I sobbed, standing there in the bathroom still holding my stupid toothbrush. I sobbed like a bloody child. No wonder. I hadn’t grown up. Not at all.

“Kiddo,” Dad said, taking the toothbrush out of my hand and folding me into a hug.

We rarely hugged.

I ugly snorted into his shirt.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It’s a lot to deal with, a relationship.”

“It’s not a relationship, Dad.”

“It is, Reuben. Your first. And it’s a bloody good one with a decent human being who really cares for you. You know how nice that is to see? He adores you. Can’t even look at you without smiling. He’s a stable young man who’s holding down a tough job—”

“Dad.” I snorted. “He’s so fucked in the head it’s not even funny.”

“As I said,” my dad continued, undaunted by my interruption. “He’s a decent young man, very put together, with a bright future. And he really likes you. You could do a lot worse.”

“Like you did?”

It may have been on the nose, but Dad laughed and kissed the top of my head.

“You can’t learn to live out of a textbook, son. Life doesn’t work like that. There may have been a time when I wanted all that stuff. All that perfection, a loving wife, lots of kids, a couple of dogs. But happiness looks different to everyone. Turns out my kind of happiness is living in this crappy little flat with you. See? Not textbook at all. But does it matter? Nope. I’m happy. Really happy, kid. And I want you to find your happy too. Just don’t think it has to look like everyone else’s.”

“He’s not everyone else.”

“No, he’s not. But as I said. Nice bloke. Not a dickhead. Likes you. All good starter qualities.”

“Also, Dad. A bloke.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, I’d say it matters!”

Here I was, shouting, and my dad just stroked the hair out of my face, smacked a kiss on my forehead.

“Trust me,” he said.

“Oh, fuck off, Dad.”

I went to bed, dried my tears on the sheets, face-planted into Mr Snuggles, and I slept.

I didn’t even feel guilty about it.

When I woke up, my dad was sitting at the edge of the bed, handing me a cup of tea.

“Thanks,” I said weakly. He was looking at me the way he did when I was about to get one of those tellings-off. When I’d done something really bad.

“I’m not telling you what to do,” he said softly.

I snorted. “You’re not exactly the best person to give relationship advice.” I was being mean again, all my thorns poking out of my skin.

“I have lived a bit. I wasn’t always your dull old dad, Reuben. I was young and stupid once too. Made mistakes. Did a load of illegal shit. But I also loved. Had a lot of sex. You know this. And I don’t regret a single thing. Remember that. Perhaps my choices weren’t always the wisest. Perhaps I hurt people. People certainly hurt me.”

“Yeah.”

I did know all this. And I was hurting too. I wasn’t sure how or when or why. Just the fact that he wasn’t here, in my bed, next to me. I was holding on to Mr Snuggles, when I should have been holding on to someone else.

“Text him, kid. Say good morning. Tell him he’s in your thoughts. Something like that.”

“Sounds like a stupid greetings card.”

“Perhaps.” Dad smiled. “Tell him whatever you need to tell him, but in any case…”

“What?” I took a sip of my tea, cringed at my attitude when Dad was only trying to help.

“Tell him you’re sorry. You behaved like a right twat last night.”

I had no words left to say. Nothing.

“We’re leaving in fifteen. Get your arse into gear, kid.”

Work. More shit no doubt. More of everything I didn’t want to deal with right now.

I didn’t text him. Couldn’t.

What was I supposed to say? Sorry I yelled at you? Sorry I gave you a snog. Didn’t mean to, I have no idea what came over me, and if you have any stupid ideas of anything else happening, forget it?

I felt wrecked. Empty. Dumb.

Work. I carried bloody bags. Pushed trolleys, arranged car keys and argued with taxi drivers trying to rip my guests off. I was having none of their shitty fraud here. Not at my door. Neither was my dad. We worked that door like a well-oiled machine.

Next week, we’d be on opposite shifts again, my cousin Luis taking my side instead of Dad’s, and then I had a few shifts with my other cousin Magda again. I liked working with her, as much as I liked anything right now.

My arms hurt. My head hurt, and Dad was late back from lunch and I was running around like a headless chicken when a car pulled up outside and someone got out. Someone I recognised far too well.

Shit.

He had that hoodie on again, hood up and head down but walking confidently. That rucksack was slung over his shoulder like an extra limb of some sorts. Straight through the doors, he thumped his elbows down on the desk in front of me, lifted his head and looked me in the eyes.

He was a showman, all right. I giggled. I couldn’t help it. Any second now, he’d do a little pirouette dance move and loud music would blast from the speakers alongside a cloud of show smoke.

None of that happened, of course. This wasn’t a cheesy musical.

“G,” I said. “What the fuck?”

“Just needed to see you. My driver’s waiting outside.”

“Not here.” Grabbing his sleeve, I steered him over to the baggage store, tapped my card to open the door and pushed him inside. A large group of guests passed through the lobby, heading out into the London sunshine. It’s a nice day, yes. And have a lovely time!

“Reuben, go to lunch.” Dad was back.

“Just a sec.” I squeezed into the small baggage store with him, called, “Need to make a phone call!” and closed the door behind me.

He had his hood down, his usually perfect blonde hair all messed up. He looked at me. I looked back. Then he grabbed me. Hugged me so tightly, I thought I might break some bones, suffer internal damage or something. But it felt good, having his face in my neck, his soft breaths against my skin. My arms were doing that thing I had no control over, where I hugged him back, my hand moving up and down his back.

“I know you don’t want to see me, and I know I have a problem with…like…your boundaries. I cross them. All the bloody time. I promise to work on that, but I can’t just…you know. Exist and not know where I stand. Even if I can just…talk to you. Text you. Hug you sometimes?”

“Yeah,” I said. A word that encompassed answers to every single one of those questions.

I had a small chat with myself. A very short one. One about standing my ground and not being gay and not enjoying a single second of having him pressed against me like this, of being with someone who made you feel better about everything.

Fuck the goddamn feelings.

“I need to go to lunch.”

Bullshit. I wasn’t even hungry.

“I have a viewing of an apartment in an hour. Gated parking. A small terrace. Looks great.”

“You don’t have a car.”

He let me go, put a little bit of space between us.

“No, I know. But you do. You could come, you know. Park there for work. It would be safe.”

I laughed. God. He was as bad as me.

“Are you trying to bribe me with parking?”

“Is it working?” He smiled. “Dude, you could come see me. We could hang out.”

“Gray,” I said, protesting even as my fingers brushed his cheek, my thumb stroking slowly over his top lip. What the hell was I doing?

“Reubs. I know you’re pissed off with me. But I don’t mean to be like this. I just. You know. I like you. I really like you. I like how…easy you and me are. That’s all. We have fun. We laugh. And you’re—”

“I’m at work.” I let go of him.

“So am I,” he said softly. “Turns out that yesterday, they brought some session singers in and prerecorded a bunch of songs without us. Stuff other people have written. The official word was that they no longer trust us to deliver the vision the company has for the Blitz brand. We’re all fuming. I mean, we are Blitz. And if management wants something that we’re not, well, fuck, Reubs. The whole thing is so bloody screwed up. I had to walk out to cool my head, and all I could think of was coming here so I could just hug you. See? I feel better now. That’s actually…”

He hugged me again. Held me. Breathed out so loudly that it made me smile.

“This is what you are to me. Someone I can come hug and I feel better.”

“Gray, we’ve known each other for what, a couple of weeks?”

“Nope. Months. When were the BAFTAs?”

“Dude, they’re every year, but the ones you mean, a year and a bit ago.”

“See?”

“Gray.” I seemed to say that a lot.

“Need to go to my viewing.” He let go of me, hiked the rucksack up on his shoulder, hood over his head. “Walk me out?”

I opened the door for him, pretending I didn’t notice my dad’s attempt to keep a straight face as G gave him a high-five. Then he got in his car, smiled at me as I closed the door. Waved politely as the car drove off.

“Son, want to explain what The Dieter was doing in our baggage store?” my dad asked right behind me, sneaking up on me like the dad he was.

“Nope.” I grinned.

Then I went to lunch. Did I feel better? Not really. But I shoved grub in my mouth, scrolled on my phone. A text came through. Just a heart. Fuck him and his bloody poetic romantic blackmail bullshit.

But I smiled. It felt…kind of. Good.