Chapter 5 – Luca
‘There’s the new guy in our year, Jacob. He ended things with his boyfriend before he moved here. He’s cute, don’t you think?’
Louise looks up at me with her big hazel eyes framed by a heart-shaped face and strawberry-blonde curls.
She’s an unapologetic gossip, not unlike a certain elderly lady who lives in the flat above ours.
But where Miss M collects rumours like a magpie does shiny things, Louise shares what she’s gathered with anyone who will listen.
My plan to sound her out was purely strategic.
I was quietly hoping for fresh scandal. Not that I wish other people harm, but the best way to bury a rumour is with a bigger, juicier one.
Somewhere in her monologue I forgot that I wasn’t listening to a podcast, so it takes me a moment to register the direct question.
‘Wha— Jacob? He’s in my photography class but, this is the first time I’m hearing about a boyfriend.
’ Or that he’s gay. A tingling feeling rushes through my body, and I rock back and forth on my feet to release the restlessness.
It’s strange knowing I’m no longer the only gay boy in town.
Good strange, I think. I’m just not used to the idea.
‘Bit preoccupied, huh?’
‘You could say that.’ I force a smile that convinces nobody. ‘So, Simo and I, we’re still . . .?’
‘The talk of town, yes,’ she confirms soberly.
‘Great.’ I sigh.
‘What’s great?’ a new voice chimes in.
I freeze. And of course, Simo joins us. His hair is ruffled, the way it always is at the end of a school day; brown curls reaching up into the sky. When he’s deep in thought, he twirls them without even noticing. I want to reach out and unwind them, but I control the impulse.
‘The manor,’ I blurt out, ‘Louise was just telling me that the old manor house outside of town finally sold. And that’s great because, well, it’s a historic building that was falling into disrepair and now it’s . . . not.’
Simo hates gossip. Recent events haven’t exactly changed that.
As much as I would like to share his position, I’m far less noble.
I admit that I’m morally corrupt and that gossip is fun, as long as my name stays out of the conversation.
Simo frowns, and the freckles on his forehead shift.
They’re a product of ten cloudless days under the Spanish sun. It’ll be sad to see them fade.
‘Hidden House? The one near the causeway?’
‘Yeah, the buyers are this really posh couple, apparently. Moguls of some sort.’
I don’t know how Louise knows this, but I’m glad she does. Simo doesn’t need to hear that we’re still Lombard’s Number One Topic. He’s subdued enough as it is.
‘Must be loaded to afford it. It’s basically a castle. No wonder it’s stood empty for decades,’ I say to steer the conversation further into safe waters.
‘There’s that. And people think it’s haunted ever since the last owner’s son drowned because he got lost in the fog.’
I watch Simo’s expression turn to stone in an instant. My heart sinks. So much for safe waters.
‘Louise, it’s been great talking to you, but we have to run!’
I reach out to take Simo’s shoulder and navigate him away from Louise and more talk of dead sons, but he turns before I get the chance. Someone wolf-whistles after us, and Simo stops abruptly. Even with his back turned, I know that the vein on his forehead is pulsing angrily.
‘Ignore them,’ I mutter when I catch up, but he doesn’t acknowledge me.
Without a word, he shakes me off and rushes past the school gate.
I follow in his shadow, knowing that in this moment there is little I can say to calm him.
Usually I know instinctively how to ease his anger, but I can’t cut through the grief.
And when one feeds into the other, I don’t stand a chance.
He was like this all the time when I first met him in primary school.
Withdrawn. Quiet. The new kid who kept everybody at a safe distance.
He was mourning, though I didn’t realise it then.
The expression he wears now, every trace of emotion banished, is the same one his parents wore when they used to pick him up from school each day.
It was Dad who told me, and he probably heard from Miss M, who has a way of knowing everything about everyone in Lombard.
He said that Simo had had a brother, but that he had died in an accident.
He said I shouldn’t ask Simo about it unless he brought it up first. To this day, Simo hasn’t mentioned his brother once.
One more thing to add to the list of things we don’t talk about.
Our feet carry us to the street where Simo lives, but instead of passing it like we usually do after school, he stops beneath an apple tree on the corner. When he speaks, he barely looks at me.
‘See you tomorrow.’
He’s down the street before I get the chance to nod. I watch him retreat, and try to convince myself that this is not a dismissal. I continue to the town’s main junction alone, where the cafe is waiting.
I drop my bag in the flat, which feels quieter than I’m used to.
Normally, when Simo needs time to think, he’ll disappear into my room, into one of his books for an hour or two, until he’s back to his old self.
I like knowing he’s in there. Dad and Simo are like hands on a clock; they set my rhythm, give structure to my days.
It’s only recent events that have thrown things.
To drown out the silence, I turn on the radio and climb on to the wide window sill.
Tove Lo’s voice spills from the open-plan kitchen into the lounge, but I’m too caught up to follow the lyrics.
From where I sit, I get a view of the junction: the awning of our cafe right below me, the empty pet shop on the next corner, a convenience store diagonally across, and Betsy’s flower shop to our left.
Townsfolk and tourists shuffle along the main road, and I observe their comings and goings, until I realise what I’m doing.
I’m waiting for Simo to appear and I tell myself to stop.
I need a distraction, and I’ll find it downstairs, in chit-chat with customers and wiping up spilt coffee.
My toes graze the floorboards when my gaze snags on the windows of the pet shop.
The place has been boarded up for a year, causing much debate in town.
Mayor Pickering thinks it looks like a drug den at the very heart of Lombard, but there’s no point in taking the boards down until a new owner has been found.
So now people, mostly kids, glue posters and stickers to the slats, which, in Pickering’s defence, does look sketchy.
I wonder what it is that’s pulled my attention, until I spot a new addition, a drawing of something in black marker.
It’s hard to decipher the writing at the centre of what I believe is a heart, so I use my phone camera to zoom in – and almost fall off the window sill.
Once I’ve recovered my balance, I find the heart again.
As I try to keep my hands from shaking, I stare at the picture on my phone.
It’s grainy and out of focus, but the letters are clear.
Heat travels up my spine and covers my back in little pinpricks. I sit, motionless except for the beating in my chest, and stare at the initials enclosed by the heart. A couple of random letters, a basic outline – it could mean anything and be about anyone.
But it’s impossible to miss, and I’m terrified.
I’ve barely recovered from the trauma of the noticeboard, and now this.
I’m not naive enough to believe that my and Simo’s initials have coincidentally appeared in a place that’s visible from almost every angle of my home.
The method might differ, but the effect is worse.
The noticeboard might pass as a prank blown out of proportion, an innocent mistake by the town council, but the heart is no accident.
It’s intentional. Shame pulses through my body, knowing that my feelings have been splashed across town, not once, but twice.
‘What are you doing?’
I nearly jump out of my skin. Dad is inches away, like he’s appeared out of nowhere.
‘Don’t sneak up on people like that! It’s not cool!’ I shout, and lock my phone screen, hoping he hasn’t spotted the picture.
‘Sneak? I called your name twice. And these floorboards, they creak like a haunted house. There’s no point in sneaking.’ He sweeps a strand of hair out of my eyes, and from the way his hand lingers, I can tell he’s picked up on my mood.
‘Sorry, I was . . . thinking,’ I say.
‘’Bout what?’
‘About coming down to the cafe to help out,’ I reply, trying to keep my tone light.
‘Did you finish your homework?’
‘No,’ I say, instantly wishing I’d gone for a little white lie instead. But there aren’t many rules in this household, and one is that we tell each other the truth.
‘Then you’re not helping out.’
My eyes return to the boarded-up windows opposite.
Every time someone walks past, I expect them to spot the heart, but nobody pays it any mind.
I can only hope that it doesn’t stand out for anyone else like it does for me, because as desperate as I am to cover it up, it’ll have to wait till tonight. I’d pull too much attention otherwise.
‘You sure there’s nothing on your mind?’ Dad asks. He grabs two cartons of oat milk from the cupboard, which means the cafe’s run out again.
‘There’s loads on my mind,’ I mutter, because there’s no point denying it when he reads me so well.
Dad leans against the fridge and waits until I’ve put my thoughts in order. I remember the promise I made him, that Simo and I would stick together.
‘You said that I shouldn’t push people away. But what if it’s not up to me?’
‘You mean, what if you’re not the one doing the pushing?’
If it was anyone else, I’d be frightened to be such an open book, but with Dad, it’s soothing to be understood, to know that I don’t have to hide. I shuffle into the kitchen and slump against him.
‘Mm-hmm,’ I hum into his chest.
‘Tell me what you did last week, after the message appeared on the noticeboard.’
‘School,’ I reply, unsure what he’s getting at.
‘And after that?’
I take a second to think. After school, I went home and so did Simo. But I hated the feeling of being alone with the mess in my head. Knowing that Simo would feel similarly rubbish, I thought it was wiser to stick things out together.
‘We ended up going to Sheila’s, to the bookstore. But that was last week.’
Now, following days of hoots and wolf whistles whenever we’re seen together in the school hallways, it looks like he prefers being alone.
And I can’t blame him. I’m the reason our names appear on boarded-up windows.
The lid I used to keep my feelings bottled up wasn’t screwed tight enough.
They spilt out when I wasn’t paying attention.
I’m the reason our friendship is starting to fracture.
But I will do anything in my power to ensure that we stay together.
‘You’re his best friend. That hasn’t changed. If he needs space, that’s only natural.’
I frown, because the whole needing-space thing has never applied to me and Simo. I do my best thinking with Simo around. And when my thoughts are too scattered, Dad is there to put them back in order.
‘But it can’t hurt to remind Simo that you’re here if he needs you. It’s easy to forget that you’re not alone when you’re lost in your feelings.’
‘So, I should remind him?’ I ask.
‘Gently,’ Dad says.
I set the paper bag on the doormat and return to my bike.
Dad let me bake a cheesecake, and I did my homework while it was in the oven.
Before I left with a huge piece, he also handed me a takeaway bag of diner food.
Call me delivery boy, because here I am, texting Simo that he should check the front door.
I swing myself on to the bike just as the door opens.
Simo looks from me to the bag by his feet.
He’s in shorts and a T-shirt so faded I can see every line of his torso if I stare for too long, which is hard not to do.
He looks disgruntled, but I can’t tell whether he’s mad or if he’s just woken from a nap.
Like a puppy, he only gets cuter when he’s moody.
‘What’s this?’ he asks, and takes a sniff inside the bag. His expression brightens.
‘Emotional support food,’ I explain.
‘Who says I need emotional support food?’ he retorts.
‘If you don’t want it, I’ll take it ba—’
‘Is that cheesecake? Did you bake me a cheesecake?’
‘It was leftover,’ I lie, feeling self-conscious and stupid. No better way to disprove the rumours than to bake a cake for the boy I’m allegedly in love with. Well done, Luca.
‘It’s still warm,’ Simo notes. I shrug and push myself off the kerb. ‘Am I meant to eat it all by myself?’
‘I’ve seen you eat, Simo. I know you can do it.’
‘That’s not the question, is it?’
With the bag in his arms, he retreats, leaving the door open.
I’m still puzzling over the meaning of his words when he taps his knuckles against the kitchen window from the inside.
I roll my eyes, but only because I’m trying to hide a smile.
By the time I’ve placed the bike against the fence and closed the door behind me, Simo is back in the hallway.
He hands me the cheesecake on a plate with two forks.
He’s so close now I can see the pillow imprint on his cheek.
I grip the plate tighter, fighting the urge to smooth the wrinkles away.
So much for ‘allegedly’. I’m fooling no one, least of all myself.
But I don’t need Simo to be my boyfriend.
I don’t need Simo to be in love with me, ever.
I only need him to need me a little. I need him to want me in his life, the way I want him in mine.
Which means he can’t find out about the heart.
We laughed it off the first time, on the classroom floor under the tables, but we’re past the point of pretending it’s a joke.
He’ll keep shutting himself away until he’s completely out of reach.
‘You look like you could use emotional support food too,’ Simo says, and heads up the stairs.
‘When don’t I?’ I mutter, and follow him to his room.