Chapter 18
So here I am, having a barbecue under the most English sky one could imagine: grey and threatening rain and thunder.
I don’t even know why I’m surprised. It’s almost as if the weather knows when a Brit has planned time outside, and makes it a point to rain it off.
But I came ready, with a raincoat and long sleeves and a secret umbrella in my backpack that I will get out the moment a drop hits my face.
Who cares if Ford’s friends will think I’m uncool?
Warmth spreads in my chest as I look at the long pants and black wind jacket that Ford is wearing.
I’m sure he’s got an umbrella hidden somewhere as well. Always prepared. I adore him to bits.
Ford’s friends are not of the same opinion, though.
They’re all dressed for what could be a boat party in the Mediterranean, with bathing suits, naked chests and flip flops.
When we arrived Ford gave me a quick round of introductions; this is the cricket team; This one lives upstairs, and we walk to the bus stop together sometimes; this is Adam, his best mate from rugby.
“You must remember him, right?” Ford winks at me and I want to kill him.
That’s Vicky and her group of surprisingly chatty friends, and that’s Mae who plays the cello and the rest of the orchestra are here too, somewhere. Everyone blurs into a crowd of people who adore Ford and hug him and give him best wishes.
When the socialising is done, Ford grabs a plate for us to share and finds us a spot to hang out and hide from the party.
“You should ask her out.”
Ford gives me a look and I cannot stand to look at the perfect way his reddish curls frame his face. His beard is longer now, and it almost hides his dimples. I hate it, I want it gone.
“Who should I ask out?” Ford asks me and I point a finger briefly, before dipping a sausage into the ketchup on the paper plate.
“Whom,” I correct him, taking a small bite while attempting to balance a bottle of beer under my armpit. Disgusting.
I’m drinking today so that I don’t start smoking.
This time, I really am trying to quit. Cigarettes and weed and everything else.
I haven’t bought a pack since last week and I’m quite proud of myself.
Of course, Monday afternoon doesn’t count.
That’s when the twins had called to tell me Erik got a black eye from fighting Daddy back and I had to smoke twelve cigarettes in a row before I could start breathing again. Whatever, as I said. Doesn’t count.
“I’m not interested,” Ford says.
“You’re literally never interested.”
Ford pauses, thinking over my words. “Drink,” he commands pointedly.
“Fuck.” I exhale. “I swear to-”
“It is words such as literally and like that will kill the English language.”
I grunt at his impersonation of me and never in a million years will I admit that it’s spot on.
The way he imitates my voice, bending his perfect British accent to match my imperfect one.
The mocking angle of his head, the way he shows his teeth at the end in an irritating smirk.
How many times have I said those same words to him?
I watch as he takes a sip of his beer in sympathy and then another one for good measure. Is it his third beer? Or the fourth? He’s been drinking a lot. He licks the foam of the beer off his upper lip, and the motion sends a shiver down my spine.
“You are, like, literally so annoying.” I push him, just to see what he will say next.
He frowns, probably searching his brain for some Ash-approved comments. “You started it. When we were about nine.”
Fair, I concede. I give in and drink.
Ford takes a piece of bread, and I offer the grilled sausage to him.
He shakes his head. “I’m quitting meat, man. Shit’s fucked up.”
More bread, more beer. How he’s keeping his shape, I will never know. With a sigh, I glance across the garden. “So why don’t you wanna ask her out?”
Ford scoffs. “Dude.”
The person in question is a girl, currently DJ-ing in a corner of the backyard.
Her music provides a beating soundtrack to the gathering.
Ford said he knows her but has never really spoken to her before.
Her long dark braids are swinging at her waist. With shimmering skin, white teeth and lips frozen in a blissful smile, she’s breath-taking, effortless.
She’s precisely Ford’s type, and as soon as I realise it, I want to disappear.
This girl is a reminder of everything that I’m not: confident, nonchalant, gorgeous.
A girl. And she’s a reminder that I will never kiss Ford again, because Ford is straight, painfully so.
Still, I want him and the thought makes our entire conversation a lot worse. I keep looking at him, and eventually, to please me, he shrugs. “Maybe I will.”
“You would be the perfect couple.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be the perfect couple with her.”
“Why not, is she one of Vicky’s friends? I thought you two were old history.”
“No, Ash, I don’t give a shit that she’s Vicky’s friend.
” He raises his voice and the veins in his arms look ready to pop, making me flinch.
He’s gotten so big in the last few months, I’m surprised his pants aren’t ripping with the muscles he’s been growing.
A part of me wants to ask him about it but that would be admitting to myself that I am into it and worse of all, that I’m unhappy with the way I currently look. Same old lanky Ash.
“Okay, gosh, calm down. It’s so annoying when you get like that.”
“Like what?”
I mumble some words, not liking where this is going. But Ford keeps looking at me, waiting for me to spell it out.
“You get a little intense sometimes. When you’ve been drinking.
” I shove the words ‘aggressive’ and ‘violent’ down my throat because Ford is nothing like that.
He’s nothing like Daddy, or like Martin when Edwin stole his black sneakers.
The more muscular Ford gets, the kinder his eyes become.
The sharper his jawline, the softer the curve of his dimples.
“Sorry. I just…” And there it is again, the soft look of my best friend. My straight best friend. I have to remind myself often, these days.
???
They warned me, Morgan and Preston. “We don’t fall for straight men.”
At first, it was an empty warning. We’d go out, a straight man would hit on Morgan and she’d shoo him away. When I’d ask her about it, she’d blessed me with a pearl of Morgan’s wisdom.
“That straight boy can’t handle who I really am. Only a few can.”
I don’t exactly know what she meant. From the day I’d met her, I knew: Morgan was a girl.
It didn’t matter to me what gender she was born, it didn’t matter that her mother thought her transition would send her to hell.
Morgan was the girliest woman in my life.
She loved being a woman and dreamed of rights, of equality.
But as naive as that sounds, I also knew her life wasn’t a walk in the park.
Preston and I fight every day to be who we are but Morgan fights even harder. And so, as her friends, Preston and I protect her. We play her bodyguards at the club, drive her home after midnight, and we shield her from the straight boys that can’t handle her.
And speaking of straight boys… It was Preston who first asked me if I had a crush on Ford. I’d just come back from a trip to Sheffield to see him and according to Preston, I could not shut my fucking gay mouth.
What a crazy question that was. Of course I did not have a crush on my childhood best friend.
“You just look at him like he’s hung the moon, every star and every planet in the galaxy.”
“That seems a little excessive. And inaccurate.”
Preston had raised a brow at me. “Is it, Ash?”
Yes, it was. Ford and I’d been friends our whole life.
I knew that the only rule stronger than “don’t fall for straight boys” was “don’t fall for your best friend.
” Sure, we had kissed, ages ago. Twice. And I thought about kissing him sometimes, but not nearly as much as I used to.
Almost never, actually. Never thought about Ford when I went out with a boy, never thought of Ford when someone on the street had hair the right shade of red or had dimples.
So yeah. No falling. No falling for anyone at all.
???
“Okay, you really spaced out there.” Ford has been talking to me for a while so I shake away Morgan and Preston and their silly recommendations.
“Sorry, my bad. You were saying?”
“How did you know you were a bottom?”
That knocks the wind out of my lungs, and in a panic I drop the paper plate and the half eaten sausage on the grass. I widen my eyes and focus them on Ford. My ears are ringing. In the distance, the rumbling of thunder. “The fuck?”
Without losing a beat, Ford blinks and runs a hand through his messy hair. In this light the shade of red looks particularly dark, almost chestnut. I want to run my own hands through it, feel the curls between my fingers.
“I’m asking you how you knew you were a bottom?” Ford repeats calmly.
Suddenly it doesn’t matter that it’s a cold August day. Suddenly it’s scorching and I’m burning everywhere, and surely my face must be bright red. I want to peel the raincoat off my skin but a gush of wind hits my face.
“I’m actually… Hum, why are you asking? It’s not always the same, uh, sometimes I do… Why do you want to know?” I can’t help but babble like a teenager, and this is not how I usually speak with Ford. This is my best friend. There must be a reason he’s asking me. I need to focus.
Ford takes a sip of his beer, bending down to pick up the food I’ve dropped. I look at my feet, where the ketchup has made a stain on my white shoes.
“Been thinking.” Ford shrugs, seeming almost reluctant to continue this conversation. A twinge of guilt hits me for not giving Ford my complete attention, for selfishly thinking about my feelings rather than trying to understand his.