“Does that bother you?”
“What? That my mum hasn’t got a clue what to make of me? Nah, son. It used to, but families are messed up. I don’t know anyone who hasn’t got issues.”
“True that.” Rhys thought of his own and shivered. Their drama had faded as the years had rolled by, but he hadn’t forgotten. Couldn’t. “But your dad was cool?”
“So cool.” Jevon smiled fondly. “It helped that my cousin Efe had married her girlfriend a year before, but I swear down, I told my pops a while back that I probably wouldn’t be bringing anymore girls home, and he didn’t bat an eye. Just told me to find a dude who liked cricket.”
Rhys burst out laughing. “Seriously?”
“Yup. He’s obsessed. Keeps him out of trouble though.”
“That’s nice.”
“Uh-huh.” Jevon slid the fish into the oven and washed his hands. Then he came to Rhys’s side, warmth spilling from his liquid gaze as he gently brushed Rhys’s hair back. “What about your family? I remember you said that you never came out, but do they know you’re into fellas?”
Rhys nodded. “It’s not an issue with my mum and my brother. She just wants us to be happy, and Harry’s as gay as Christmas, so he can’t fucking complain.”
“Do they live in London?”
“Nah. My mum retired to Malaga, and Harry lives in Cornwall with his boyfriend. Love’s young dream, they are.”
“He’s happy then?”
“Sohappy.”
“What about you?” Jevon leaned down, his face millimetres from Rhys’s. “Are you happy?”
Rhys shook his head—not a no, but not a yes. How could he be happy when he was so fucking lonely? When Jevon’s hand on his arm was the deepest affection he’d ever felt from someone without sharing blood? “I don’t know.”
“Try,” Jevon whispered. “You deserve it.”
He drifted back to the stove, sparing Rhys the pressure of an intelligent response.
* * *
Rhys pushed his plate away and rubbed his stomach. “You’ve killed me. That was amazing.”
“You’ve had enough?” Jevon hovered with his rice pot. “There’s more.”
“Stop.I’ll legit explode if I eat any more.” And Rhys was only half joking. Jevon had cooked jerk fish, rice and peas, and fried plantain, and Rhys had devoured every scrap offered until his distended stomach could take no more. “Seriously. I’m good.”
Jevon relented and disappeared into the kitchen with the empty plates. He came back with civilised measures of rum and flopped onto the couch beside Rhys. “Wimp. I’m going to be eating leftovers for a week.”
“Lucky you. I’ll be back on the Maccy D’s breakfasts and marmite butties tomorrow.”
Jevon pulled a face that made him look about twelve. “All that shit you just said is disgusting.”
“Yup.”
“But you eat it anyway?”
“Yup. We don’t get much time some days, and there isn’t much scope for cooking on the airbase. Microwave and a toaster. At least it ain’t Pop Tarts, eh?”
“Oooh, Pop Tarts.” Jevon leaned back on the couch. “I loved them when I was a kid—the chocolate ones—but I tried one recently and they taste rank, man. I was so disappointed.”
There was nothing about Jevon’s face that didn’t make Rhys smile. He traced his jawbone with his knuckles and coiled a loose dread around his index finger. “There’s a picture of you over there with blue and white hair. Was it real?”
“Yes. I painted my head every day for two weeks straight. I lost a bet with a bunch of kids in Jordan.”