Chapter 11
Harvey
This was going so badly. I had a handle on it, but the moment Killian burnt his finger, everything went to shit.
Unable to move, I went into panic mode, paralysed, but Killian was calm, even though I could tell he was hurting. I should have known nothing would go to plan. I’d overslept, then the call with Julie.
I’d sat on my bed for longer than I should have, debating whether to call the whole thing off, but by the time I’d decided it was worth the risk, time was running away from me.
I was almost done, then he arrived, and if he thought I was flustered because of the meal, he was dead wrong.
He strolled into the kitchen as if he’d been there forever. He’d gazed around the room, taking in the old, battered cupboards and the electric oven I’d never replaced. Why should I? It worked, albeit a little temperamental.
What was it about him that made me put all my fears aside and want to try? I’d never felt that way about anyone before. All the agony I’d harboured as a young teen until now had left me with the notion that loving a man, hell, even looking at a man in any way other than platonically, was wrong.
Killian threw all those notions out of the window.
He was beautiful, and when he sang, my knees weakened, and my heart swelled. I hadn’t felt that way since I’d seen my parents dance, but then all that had been snatched away, and I was left empty inside. Nothing since had even come close to filling the void.
Until now.
The more I saw him, the more I wanted to know.
My skin still tingled, my clothes so fucking tight that I wanted to rip them off, and the urge to slice into my skin still lingered, but he was telling me with his actions that it could happen and that I wouldn’t burn in hell for all eternity.
With his encouragement, I dished up the food and carried it through to the dining room. He ate with gusto, as if it were the best thing he’d tasted in forever. Was his joke about Pot Noodles true? I was thinking not.
But my hunger had deserted me. I poked and prodded at the food, taking forever to chew the smallest amount. It wasn’t bad, probably one of my best, but I was nauseous.
I ate a little more of the sticky toffee pudding, and again, Killian ate like a starving man, throwing his spoon into the bowl once he was done.
“It’d be rude of me to lick it, wouldn’t it?” He winked, and the smile that turned my insides to jelly was back.
“I mean, you can. Or you could eat mine if you wanted to?”
He chuckled, and I pushed my bowl towards him.
“You eat it. You’ve barely eaten anything tonight.
Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” The smile disappeared, replaced by a serious look.
“I know this has been difficult for you. I don’t know exactly what keeps you locked away in this house, but there is so much more to life for you to enjoy. ”
“I’m not sure you’d understand if I told you.” How could he? He was free to be who he was.
“Try me, Harv.”
Why did I love it when he called me Harv? I’d always been Harvey, or Harvey Barton if Mum was pissed with me.
How much to tell him? I barely knew him, but I also knew that I could trust him with my story. How could that be in such a short space of time?
He didn’t scream, ‘Trust me’ when you saw him. He shouted, ‘Look at me,’ and I’d certainly been doing that a lot.
I gazed down at my hands, at the torn fingernails and the shredded cuticles, and began to talk.
“Mum said I was always a lonely child, preferring one, maybe two, close friends. I remember this one kid. Patrick was his name. We’d sit together at break time, sit next to each other in class. He was the best friend ever, and then one day, he didn’t come to school, nor the next, or the next.”
“What happened to him?”
I shrugged. “His parents moved away, and he was gone. After that, I didn’t really bother with friends. I hated how his leaving had made me feel.”
“How old were you?”
“Nine. Ten, maybe. It wasn’t until much later that I suspected why it had affected me so much when he left. I’d known for a while that I was different. I didn’t fancy girls like the other boys did.”
I gulped my drink. This bit was going to be more difficult, but it might go some way to explaining why I did the things I’d done.
“One day, we were in the showers after a wet and cold rugby lesson, when someone shoved me from behind. I fell into the guy next to me and...”
I took a deep breath; the memory was still painful.
“Take your time, Harv. You don’t need to tell me this.”
But I did. Didn’t he understand that?
“I touched his dick. It was an accident, but of course, a bunch of lads didn’t see it that way, and for the rest of the school year, I was taunted and teased, called many names. Gay, bender, cocksucker.”
I closed my eyes and pictured them in my mind. The viciousness of their words, the sound of wet towels as they slapped against my cold skin, leaving welts that took days to go down. I tensed, the ghost of those whips sharp all these years later.
Killian’s hand closed around my fists. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t pull away and took comfort from the warmth of his skin. His strong fingers wrapped protectively around mine as if he knew the harm they could do.
“It never stopped. Day after day, month after month, they took delight in ostracising me until I believed that the feelings I was having were wrong. How could so many boys be wrong? The fact that I liked boys…”
Tears pricked my eyes. I’d only ever talked about this in therapy, never to anyone else, not even my parents.
I continued despite the tendrils of dread that skittered down my spine.
“I liked boys, and although it had been an accident, the memory of that brief touch haunted my dreams. What would it be like to do it again? But the more I imagined doing it, the more the self-loathing and hatred started. Not for them, although I fucking loathed them, but hatred for what I was.”
“It’s not wrong, Harvey. It’s never been wrong to feel what you did.”
I looked at him, noted the concern and pity on his face.
Then I really looked at him. The wrinkles around his eyes. The long, dark eyelashes framing them, plump lips partially hidden by his scruff. Lips I wanted to kiss.
I shook my head and dispelled the idea that had formed there. Nope, not doing that. I knew what would happen if I did, and all the coping mechanisms in the world wouldn’t be able to stop me this time.
But still, he held my hand.
“Tell me what happened next.”
“I never told my parents. I think they suspected I was, you know…”
“Gay?”
I nodded. “Grandma knew, told me she’d always known, and I was her special boy.
” A memory sprang to mind of her on her deathbed.
“She clutched my hand tightly, even though she was weak. ‘Live your life, Harvey. Don’t let anyone take it away from you.’ It was one of the last things she said to me, but by then, it was too late. I was already in deep.”
“What do you mean? In deep?”
I warred between telling him or not, but in the end, I decided that if he wanted to be my friend, warts and all, he needed to know.
I rolled up my sleeve and bared my shame. “These.”
There, amongst the tattoos, was the unmistakable evidence of the self-hatred that had plagued my life for the past fifteen years. The trigger had been those boys, and since then, I’d used the blade every time impure thoughts filled my head.
“My God, Harvey. How long?” He held my arm and ran his fingers over the many, many scars.
“Long enough.” I pulled it down, but not before he spotted my most recent tattoo.
“This is new?”
“I got it last week.”
“Barely breathing. It’s the line from Breakeven. It means something to you.”
“It does. I told you it was my parents’ favourite song, but this phrase means more to me.”
“Because you’re barely breathing.”
He understood. He’d known me for less than two weeks, and he knew.
“Most days, yes. I have good and bad, but on the bad, it’s hard to control the urges.”
“But your therapist helps.”
“She does. They all have. I’ve been in therapy since I was fourteen. Mum noticed the blood in the bathroom one day. I’d hidden it from them for a year before they found out.”
“What did they do?”
“Doctors, therapists, medication. They tried it all. I played along, pretended it was working, that the urges had passed. By then, I was cutting in places they couldn’t see.
One day, I cut an inch above the base of my dick.
I bled so much I thought I was going to fucking die. I don’t know why I did that.”
I did, but I wasn’t about to tell Killian.
Imagine trying not to get a hard-on when you were a teenage boy.
I might not have wanted to be gay, but I had urges and hormones the same as any other.
I hated that I had them, and only over the past few years had I realised it was a normal function, not related to my feelings.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Harvey. What about now?”
That was the question. How did I feel now?
“I manage. It’s been a while since I’ve cut myself. I’ve used art as a distraction.”
“You design your own tattoos.”
“I do. Drawing takes me out of my head. I’m concentrating on the image in front of me, building layer upon layer of pencil, charcoal, paint. Whatever I’m using right then. It focuses my mind.”
“I’d love to see some of your drawings. I bet they’re fantastic.”
I huffed out a small laugh. “I don’t know about that. It’s something I do to keep myself sane. I’m not a professional. It’s just a hobby.”
My stomach grumbled, reminding me I’d eaten next to nothing all day.
“You should go get some dinner. I’ll clean up.” He stood and cleared the table.
“No, it’s fine. I can do it.”
“I wouldn’t be a very good guest if I left you to it, now, would I?”
“Killian.”
“You look dead on your feet. Eat something, relax for a minute, and let me take care of it. I think it’s been a while since someone has done that.”
He wasn’t wrong, and as much as I wanted to argue with him, I didn’t have the energy to do so.
I followed him into the kitchen to see him put the plate of pie in the microwave. He filled the sink with hot water and threw in some dishes.
“I’ll leave them to soak awhile. For the love of all that is holy, sit down, Harvey. Let someone else do the hard work for a change.”
Sheepishly, I walked back to the table and sat down.
Killian’s voice reached me above the clatter in the kitchen.
How could it affect me the way it did? I was never one for music, usually.
I’d shied away from it after Mum had died.
She played the songs that reminded her of Dad on repeat until I couldn’t bear to listen to them anymore.
They brought her comfort, though, in the days, months, and years after his passing.
Now, I preferred silence. Until I heard him sing.
I closed my eyes and listened with rapt attention. The lyrics of the song were unknown to me, although I recognised the melody.
The voice grew louder, and then he was there, putting a plate of steaming food in front of me.
“Enjoy, and make sure you eat it all this time.” He left the room humming the same tune.
“Killian? What’s that song you’re singing? I recognise it.”
“Oh, it’s an old song. My Ma used to play it all the time when we were growing up. I don’t know what reminded me of it today. Well, I do, but it sounds so fucking cheesy, I don’t want to say.”
He laughed and sang a few more bars.
“I still don’t know it.”
“Don’t laugh when I tell you, but it’s You’ve Got A Friend by Carole King. I told you it was fucking cheesy.”
I wasn’t laughing because it was the most perfect song he could have sung.