This is Not a Love Story (25 page)

That
loneliness
… how could he have survived it?

Crash’s warm fingers brush my hand.

We’re here
, he signs as the bus pulls over.

We step out into a quiet street, the wind gusting lightly around us. An avenue of tall, straight trees lines the pavements, ancient sentries guarding over all they can see.

Involuntarily, I shiver. This is just the sort of street that Julian and I would avoid. Every house set back away from the road, new cars parked on driveways, curtains drawn against the night and whatever might be lurking out there. The sort of street where people don’t hesitate to call the police to report suspicious-looking boys with their dirty blankets and tired, stumbling feet. I can’t help the resentment I feel prowling my gut.

Crash bites his lip as he looks at me. He must have felt this too, once.

They’re good people
, he signs.

I don’t care. I can’t do this. I don’t
want
to do this.
And I look away wishing with all that I have, all that I am, that I could take away the last few weeks, scour them from existence, but quietly he waits for my anxiety to pass.

We walk in the same direction the bus took for a little way. I try not to look too closely at the huge houses, each one more extravagant than the last. What I feel is pointless and exhausting.

We stop at the corner. A thick square hedge towers above us, hiding the house behind it almost entirely.

This is it.
Crash inclines his head at a small garden gate hidden amongst the greenery.
I should text Estella,
he adds, looking at me expectantly as if wanting my permission.

I pluck a tiny waxy leaf and rub it to mush between my fingers, nervous as fuck and trying to distract my hands from shaking as I shrug.

Maybe she’ll give him a pat on the head for doing so well in getting me here
, I think darkly as he texts away.

I’m just a pawn that’s been maneuvered into place, and now they think they have me. They think my every move will be mapped out, that I’ll be like them, and Julian will become just a boy I knew once and lost.

But despite how completely out of place I am here, despite it being the polar opposite of all the places I have ever spent my life, despite how much I want to hate it and for it to hate me so I can carry on believing at some level that people like this are the cause of all our problems, despite the fact that Julian is not with me, despite
everything
, I feel a knee-collapsing weakness as we walk up to the warmly lit front door, little pots of well-tended plants lining our way. And when a middle-aged woman with short blonde hair and messy layers of mismatched clothes answers the door—so unlike everything I had imagined her to be—looks from one to the other of us and then throws her arms around us both without saying a word, I feel so utterly and inexplicably relieved.

Struggling with the tightness that builds in my throat and stings behind my eyes, I let myself be guided inside, out of the cold.

“Y
OU
MUST
be Romeo,” the Bohemian-looking woman says once we are inside, smiling warmly and signing so naturally she doesn’t look like she’s even thinking about it as she speaks. “I’m Kay. Crash has told me a lot about you, and I’m so happy to finally meet you. Please come through to the kitchen so you can meet my husband.”

The house is painfully colorful and eclectic, decorated by someone with a love of everything around them. Photographs of forests and rivers vie for space with paintings of the same, a large tapestry hangs on the stair, and the dark wooden floors are covered with richly patterned Persian rugs in reds and browns. It feels full, even though it’s so huge. Full of life. Of opportunity. Of a sort of freedom so alien to me I can’t even imagine what it tastes like.

It’s too much. So instead I watch the way my broken trainers gape at the sides with every step, the rubber split across the soles in a thin-lipped smile. I think of how far I’ve walked in them, how many pointless miles have worn them through. And even though I don’t want to, even though they’re just stupid trainers and the rest of me isn’t fixed up any better, I feel ashamed at how dirty they look compared to everything in here.

Crash catches my fingers as we walk down the hallway and squeezes lightly. If I meet his eyes, I’m not going to be able to hold back. I’m a shivering emotional wreck behind my blank, hopeless expression, and he knows it. He thinks this is how it needs to be. He thinks he can save me.

As we enter the kitchen, the man sitting at the table stands up, a look of surprise on his face.

“Romeo, this is Peter, my husband.” Kay’s manner is so genuine I wish I could just let go and accept all this for what it is—an offer of help, of hope. But a part of me holds back. A part of me is still waiting outside.

For a moment I think Peter is going to come over and hug me too, and I tense, but he just asks me if I would like a drink or something to eat, tells me that they are vegetarians, and talks in a steady stream as though words really are that easy, making it seem normal that I don’t respond, that I sit down and stare at the tabletop as though it’s the only thing I can see.

I eat what they give me without really caring what it is. They ask me what foods I like, and I just don’t know how to answer. I don’t know whether they are just trying to get me to talk or whether they really want to know because they think I’m staying. I catch them looking at one another, some secret communication going on. Crash sits next to me, not saying much, mostly watching, but I’m used to that now.

After we’ve eaten, he tactfully signs he’s going to show me around the house. He can see my brief sense of relief has worn off.

“That’s fine,” Kay says, smiling kindly. “Romeo, just let Crash know if you’re tired, and he’ll show you to one of the spare rooms, and we’ll talk some more in the morning, okay?”

She pats my arm reassuringly, and I have to swallow and look away, unsure of why such a gesture makes me want to cry.

I follow Crash out of the kitchen.

I just want to go to bed,
I sign when we’re in the hallway.
I’m exhausted and my hands are hurting.

Drawing his eyebrows together in a concern that’s far too sweet to be meant for me, he asks,
Do you want me to get you some painkillers?

The irony hurts so badly I want to laugh, because really it’s not just exhaustion or physical pain; it’s the fact that I feel like I’m breaking apart, and I don’t think I have the ability to hold myself together any longer, and I don’t think they’ve got tablets for that.

No.
I shake my head.

Still frowning, he leads me up the wide old staircase to a room he says they call the garden room because of its view. It’s cozy and warm despite its size, full of solid plain-looking furniture and two windows black with night, a room so much bigger than any of the cold, bare slices of building my mother and I shared so long ago.

My room is opposite,
he signs, taking his time and drawing the curtains across for me.
And the bathroom is at the end of the hall.
He hesitates a little, and I want to push him out of the door, I am so desperate for him to go.
If you need anything, just come get me, okay?
And finally he leaves.

As soon as the door shuts, I sink to the floor near the bed, and covering my face with my arms, ride out sobs that silently rack my body. My heart is a shattered, broken mess. I can’t take it. I just… can’t.
Julian. This loneliness is killing me.
I need him so much. It doesn’t matter where or how, but I need him in my life, with me. I need to know he still cares, that he loves me, that he didn’t just fuck off and leave me because his feelings changed. How could they have changed? I don’t understand. I don’t understand anything. All I know is I never want to feel like this again.

There is a knock on the door. Quickly I stand up, hurriedly wiping my eyes and taking a deep breath to calm down. When no one comes into the room, I walk over to the door and open it. On the carpet just outside, there is a little tray with a mug of hot chocolate and a small pile of biscuits.

This kindness undoes me entirely.

Shaking horribly, I pick up the tray and carry it into the room, placing it carefully down on the chest of drawers before I collapse onto my knees and fall apart completely, my tears soaking into the carpet.

It feels like the end.

Eventually I still. Husked out, empty, unable even to take a deep breath without my chest hurting from exertion. With trembling arms, I pull myself up and numbly drink the now cold hot chocolate and work my way slowly though the biscuits. I’m not hungry, but I’ll never be able to waste the food in front of me. Even if I lived the rest of my life in comfort, I know there will always be a part of me that doesn’t trust the next meal won’t be my last.

It’s late, but I don’t want to be in this room on my own anymore.

Listening out and feeling like an intruder stealing through some family’s home, I open the door and creep across the thickly carpeted hall to the room Crash told me was his. I pray that I don’t bump into Kay or Peter.

I can hear the sounds of a television chattering away to itself somewhere, the low rumble of it strangely more comforting than silence, but then maybe I’m so used to constant background noise, I now need it.

Crash’s room is dark. I think at first he might be asleep, but as my eyes adjust to the gloom I see he is lying on his bed, his phone in his hand.

I must look like crap because as soon as he sees me he flicks the lamp at his side and gets up, signing worriedly,
What’s wrong?

His room is kind of messy—clothes are strewn everywhere, books, a laptop, a skateboard without any wheels, what looks like school books and several posters, which have detached themselves from the walls—and I like it more because of that. I like seeing him like this. I like that he doesn’t seem to care about meaningless stuff.

I don’t want to be on my own,
I reply, picking my way across the floor and sitting down heavily on the end of his bed.

Do you want to talk about it?

I shake my head.

Can I sleep here?
My eyes plead with him.

A brief look of apprehension crosses his face, but it’s gone in a blink. He nods and starts to clear a space on the floor next to the bed, but I put my hand on his arm and stop him.

I mean with you.
I trace the abstract pattern splashed across the duvet.
Just sleep.

Chewing his lip, he sits back down on the bed. His leg brushes against mine. He doesn’t look at me.

Instead he pulls a piece of paper and leaky pen off the nightstand, writes something then hands it to me.

I like you,
it says.

A distant warmth squirms in my gut. This is painful but a pain I can deal with better than being alone.

I know,
I write back, letting my head fall onto his shoulder.
Could you hold me? Please.

Immediately his arm comes around me, drawing me close, and I lean into him, closing my eyes and letting his warm scent comfort me.

Do your foster parents know you’re gay?
I write, not wanting him to get into trouble having me in his room like this.

His fingers close over mine briefly as he takes the pen, and I think I feel his lips brush my hair, but I could just be imagining it.
I’m not,
he writes.
I probably like skinny dark-haired boys more than any girls, though.

His arm still around me, we shift up the bed so we’re leaning against the headboard and Crash pulls the duvet up over our legs.

So who’s the person you were supposed to meet today?

Glancing at me, he smiles wryly and writes.

Someone who’s never going to feel the same way about me as I feel about them.

Why?

He sighs deeply, and I close my eyes to just feel the way his chest moves against mine. He doesn’t feel anything like Julian, but it comforts me all the same. Just this nearness and knowing someone cares soothes the ache inside me to a bearable amount of pain.

We’ve gotten really close, but he’s straight. Sometimes we play-fight, but he pulls back if it goes too far.

I wonder what too far might be and write,
Do you think he knows how you feel?

Crash shrugs.

We run together sometimes. There’s this park most people meet at before going in the city for the bigger jumps and stuff
—

Oh, the climbing buildings stuff you do
, I sign, remembering the way he scaled the building earlier, how strong and beautiful he was to watch.

Crash rolls his eyes.
Yeah, we call it parkour for short.
He doodles a tower block in the margin before writing.
Sometimes it’s just me and him, we have this route we do together near the park, that’s just ours. We ran it together last week, and I tried to tell him that I’m not straight, but he doesn’t always understand all my sign, and I don’t know…. He didn’t say anything. He likes this girl anyway. I should probably just give up on him.

It’s not always that easy,
I sign, suddenly cold and wishing I was asleep or it was tomorrow and we could get out of here and get searching again.

I watch as he draws a whole constellation of stars above the tower block, and I know he wants to ask me about Julian, or he’s waiting for me to tell him, but I can’t. It all hurts too much right now.

So I just lie against him, letting him hold me, feeling selfish and untrue but yet so much better than I did earlier.

I
MUST
sleep, for a while at least, but it’s not even past midnight when I wake again. Crash’s arm still pulls me tight against him, his breath quiet and hot against my neck. I panic a little, needing to get out of his bed, away from the claustrophobic heat our bodies have created. I am all too aware of how well we fit together, how my body responds to his, even though I don’t want it to. It’s like a thousand pieces of glass being pushed into my heart.