“Then walk. But eventually you’ll have to go back.” Max slung his bag over his shoulder. “And if I don’t see you Tuesday because you spontaneously combusted, I want your sheet music in the will.”
I huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Goodnight, Max.”
Max’s grin softened into something almost brotherly. “Night, diamond boy. Try not to polish yourself to dust.”
The door closed behind him, and the room fell still.
I lingered in the quiet long after I should’ve left. The air still held traces of sweat and warmth, but tonight the room had felt different. Less cautious, as though the edges of the group were starting to settle into place.
I closed my eyes and let the silence ring in my ears.
When it started to ache, I grabbed my coat and stepped into the night. The drizzle had stopped, leaving the air damp and shining. London after the rehearsal had a kind of melancholy music to it: the low hiss of tyres on wet streets, the hum of late traffic, a busker’s guitar bleeding from somewhere under an awning.
I shoved my hands in my pockets and headed for the underground. I stood the whole way to Hammersmith, turning the rehearsal over and over in my head, my bag held protectively against my chest. When I emerged from the station, I paused.
Home was right.
Cameron was home.
So I turned left and headed toward Furnivall Gardens, a lawned hangout where crowds often gathered to watch the boat race. I took it slowly, trying not to think too much and failing miserably. I moved by instinct, each step an act of postponement.
My brain, of course, refused to cooperate.
When I reached the river, I stood there for a while, staring into its waters, its darkness broken up by lights from the houseboats moored along the banks.
I thought of the moment that morning when Cameron had looked up from his mug, sleepy-eyed, asking,You get many guests?The way he’d smiled when I saidDefine many.
That smile had been a problem. So had the way Cameron’s voice had gone soft when he’d said,Thanks for this. Really.
I’d spent the rest of the day trying to file the memory somewhere safe, underPractical FavoursorSocial Obligations,but it refused to stay put.
Every time my mind went quiet, there it was again: that image of Cameron on my couch, his feet bare, seemingly at ease in a space I’d only just learned to inhabit.
I’d built my life on order. Predictability.
And now, somehow, a twenty-two-year-old with a maddeningly gentle smile had turned my flat into a minefield. Add to that, my own actions filled me with remorse.
I’m ashamed, that’s what it is.Not of my sexuality, but of wanting too much, being seen as ‘needy’, losing control….
Shame that Luka had cultivated in me.
Cameron’s arrival felt as if it had unleashed chaos, and I didn’t think I could survive that.
I stopped under a streetlight, blinking rain from my lashes. Max’s words circled back.
Control isn’t safety. Sometimes it’s loneliness.
I hated how true that sounded.
I stared into the swirling water of the River Thames.
I don’t know what I’m walking towards, or away from.
One thing I was certain of. I couldn’t face walking straight into whatever waited in my flat. Not yet, at any rate. So I kept moving, walking along the riverbank. Somewhere a church clock struck ten. Then half past.
By the time I finally turned towards home, my shoulders ached, and my thoughts were no clearer.
I stopped at the corner shop for no reason other than to stall. I bought milk we didn’t need, and exchanged pleasantries with a cashier who didn’t care. By the time I reached the house, the street was nearly empty, the streetlights sparkling through the mist. The rain decided it would have another last-minute burst, and I picked up the pace.