CRAIG
CRAIG
“I envy you, Choirboy.”
Straightening up off the bistro’s wall, I startle Mikey enough that if he didn’t still have a hold on the door, his butt likely would have met the pavement.
“Craig? Shit !” The strap of his backpack slips from his shoulder as he whirls on me. He’s just finished his shift, dressed all in black, a tie loose around his collar. And for the briefest instant, I catch a glimpse of his lost-puppy appeal. “What the fuck ?”
“I envy you so goddamn much, and you don’t even deserve it.”
Pitch-dark eyes rake over my face, bewildered. Then, glancing all about himself, he lets go of the door and hesitantly steps out to join me on the street. “Um…Thanks?”
“You’re no better than me,” I keep talking. “You’re mouthy and awkward, and there’s nothing remotely special about you whatsoever. Yet, you get to have everything I can’t, so easy.”
It wasn’t my intention to hunt Mikey out. My brother is who I planned to confront. The words rolling from my tongue right now have come from nowhere.
I parked Roxy outside Alex’s house (and there she remains), I got out and crossed the road to his gate, but I could not make that final move to knock on the door. Because it would’ve felt like salt on a freshly opened wound if he refused me again, and if he did agree to hear me out, what then? What would I even say? The stakes felt too high, the risk far too great.
So, instead…
Instead, I walked away. And kept on walking.
“A far healthier way to deal,” Sebastian has told me before. Although, I don’t think walking-to-avoid-facing had precisely been what he meant.
I put one foot in front of the other over and over again until I lost count.
I stopped when I failed to escape my head.
Now, here I am, lurking outside Citreena’s, half a bottle of JD down. And I’m feeling no less exposed, like the ‘mistake ’ I so rashly made has been tattooed over every last inch of me, the damning truth of it laid bare for all to see. I’m also cold, my jacket left behind ( again ) in my rush from the farmhouse. The chill night air is seeping bitterly through my thin shirt — still a little damp in patches — and Mikey is staring as though he’s not quite sure I’m human.
But this scrote’s opinion of me doesn’t matter. My head shakes as I unscrew the lid of my bottle, lifting it to my lips and swigging a mouthful. “You were caught kissing a boy, just as I was.” The words continue coming. “It became this big scandal, and you drank yourself stupid, same as me.”
“I’m actually expected… elsewhere,” he cuts in. “So—”
“Except,” I don’t let him finish. “You come out, and it’s like, level complete or some shit, you’re instantly accepted by the whole wide world. You win Tate. You keep Lyndsay. You’re free of Tinwell. Top score.”
“Is there a point to you telling me this, Craig? Or are you just—”
“I came out today.”
“Oh.” He blinks. “Wow. Okay.”
I take another drink. “Yeah. It felt pretty goddamn incredible.”
“Con…gratu… lations , I guess?”
“Nope. Not even close. Because once a fuck up, always a fuck up, right? The guy I want isn’t mine to have, and acceptance won’t ever happen for me.” My pitiable tone grates on my last nerve. “There’s nothing I can do about it. There’s nowhere I can go and nobody I can talk to.”
I can sense Mikey’s deliberation of what harm might befall him should he just try to walk away, even as I begin to see double of him with my next sip. He finally caves, though, taking pity on me with a resigned sigh and a nod. Too late, I realise he’s pried the JD from my fingers as he returns to the bistro’s entrance and pushes the door. “I must be mental!”
My bottle disappears into the pocket of his bag. He presses himself back, letting me pass by into the inviting warmth, and it’s not until I’m confronted by the many occupied tables of happy diners that it occurs to me how ludicrous this situation might very well be. The rich smell of food has my stomach grumbling. I can’t be sure when it was I last ate, but I doubt I can keep anything down.
“While I go score a strong, sobering coffee and see what leftover cake there is,” Mikey says at my shoulder, the door closing us in. “You can find us a table. One in open view of witnesses would be best, thanks.”
“Whatever,” I shrug him off.
We part ways, and I hear him joke familiarly with the girl behind the counter as I weave through to a small, vacant table along the back wall. It’s a spot openly visible to the whole dining room but tucked away enough to be safe from the casual notice of any outside passersby. From one extreme to another, the soft light and low chatter feel altogether too stifling.
Five minutes later, two steaming mugs of black coffee are slid onto the table in front of me, followed by a thick wedge of what appears to be carrot cake topped with thick creamy frosting.
I look up from my fidgeting hands. “Do you appreciate how good you have it?”
Mikey settles into the seat opposite, claiming one of the mugs. His backpack clunks to the floor at his feet. “Maybe you should eat first,” he flicks a finger at the plate. “Clear your head a bit.”
“Seriously, though, do you?”
“Craig…”
“My mum used to ask me that. Any time she felt I was unreasonable . Such a loaded question, right? As if I couldn’t appreciate my birthday trip to Paris while wishing for Alex there with me instead of Gary . As if being grateful for my fancy education means I can’t also resent the cost of it.”
“At least drink your coffee.”
“Perhaps, a better way to phrase it would be: Are you happy with what you have? But even that’s problematic. So many greys to factor.”
“You’re not making a whole lot of sense.”
“Happiness is just such a deeply flawed concept, you know? Subjective. Unstable. Too readily influenced to sour.”
There’s a deep furrow between his brows as he turns away, glancing toward the door. The bistro is emptying out fast. I guess it must be nearing closing time. He taps his thumb off the tabletop—once, twice, three times—then sighs. “Is it Tate?”
A conspicuous absence of irrationally boiling blood, hearing that name from his mouth, causes me a moment’s pause. “What?”
“This. I won’t talk to you about Tate.”
“Tate’s talked to you about me, though?”
“Enough.”
“About how I blamed him for screwing me up, right? How I just can’t let it go?”
“Enough!”
“He’s talked to me plenty about you—his long-lost childhood friend, his missing piece.”
The cheery couple at the table behind him start readying themselves to leave as his eyes snap back to mine. “I mean it.”
I hold his stare. “So do I. Even when you weren’t here with him, you were with him—like his shadow in the shade. And when you came back to town, the way he reacted, I could’ve almost believed you to be a god.”
“Listen, Craig, whatever you and T—”
“No, Mikey. I need you to listen.” He moves to push his chair back, and I catch his wrist before he collides with the lady edging out at his back. “Please?” I lean in. “Tate and I, all that we had together was the shade. It was loneliness and anger and want.” My grip tightens. “Does that really make me a threat to you?”
At the clench of his fist, pulse drumming an agitated beat against my fingertips, I release him. He immediately puts space between us. He doesn’t get up. “As if you ever make an effort to be anything but.”
“Yeah. Well. I’m not exactly practised at expressing myself.”
“You hit me in the face the first time we met, and you’ve since almost hit me with your car. Seemed plenty expressive enough to me.”
I drop my gaze back down to the table. He’s not open to hearing me. Not like Ashleigh would be. Or Judy. Or even...
Drawing my coffee in closer, I finally give in to taking a sip. It scalds my tender lips, a bitter tang on my tongue. I wish I wasn’t drunk. Weak. Hasty. I wish I wasn’t here. No matter the low stakes, I’ve already lost grasp of where I meant for this exchange to go. Mostly, though — mostly, I wish I wasn’t too much a coward to challenge Sebastian on what he said. I frown at my mug. “You know those dreams?”
“We only have ten minutes until close, Craig.”
“Performing on a stage to a full audience?”
“Then I’ll really need to get going. I wasn’t lying before; Tate’s waiting for me.”
“When you’re in the spotlight, and you look down, and you realise you’re completely naked? That’s me now. All the time.”
The note of silence that follows is broken only by the busy hustle of servers around us clearing tables and righting chairs. I catch a waft of someone’s aftershave as they pass close by and hear a clatter from behind the kitchen door. The few remaining diners are being tactfully shooed, the low-lighting switched to full-beam.
It’s not Mikey’s voice that next responds.
“Caught off-guard without a script.” A heavy hand lands on my shoulder, jolting me upright. “No lines. No cues. No curtain call.”
I don’t miss Mikey’s wince as I whip my head around. “What the…?”
Standing behind my chair and looking down at me, Derek nods his head. “Evening, fellas.”
It’s immediately apparent that this encounter is in no way a coincidental one. My mouth gapes open, but I’m stumped for words. I swerve back to slam Mikey with an accusatory glare.
“Sorry, Craig.” He almost looks it. “I texted Derek when I was getting the coffee.”
“And here I am, ever happy to oblige.”
“Why?” I grind out.
“You ambushed me. I didn’t know what to expect. Still don’t, and I can’t stay.”
An incoherent grunt escapes my clenched teeth. Of all the people he could have called for backup—it could nearly be comical if I weren’t so disturbed—he’s reached out to the one person who rattles me just as much as I do him.
“You can trust him,” Mikey drives his knife home. “Okay? Derek’s been a great support to me since I came… to, uh, understand I needed it.”
A pinching squeeze to my shoulder holds me in place as Derek lowers himself to a crouch at my side. I warily turn to him. Even flashing his face-stretching grin and expressing no sign of offence taken, he’s intimidating. “I have a night free of plans and an incurable hero complex.” His brows lift, cautioning against interruption. “And I can promise you my full, unconditional confidence with whatever you might be feeling the need to unpack.”
The forceful jerk of my chair dislodges Derek from his haunches, and I bolt to my feet, flicking the full force of my glare back on Mikey. “Fuck you, Choirboy!”