Chapter 21
Bilal was in the cellar when the crash came.
He startled, looking up at the ceiling as the far-off sound of chaos erupted from above. There were voices shouting, followed by the quick movement of feet and the unsettling creaking of the Manor’s seventeenth-century floorboards.
Whatever that was had to be the third or fourth terrible thing to happen in the past twenty-four hours. The first and worst of all being that his father, the only father he ever knew, was dead. A fact that he was not yet willing to acknowledge.
It was so much easier to ignore all of the terrible things that had happened when he was down here. It was easy to ignore the nausea and the knocking in his chest and the guilt in his bones.
As a result, Bilal was not planning on returning to the shit show that was clearly happening upstairs anytime soon.
If it wasn’t enough that his father was dead; in the tragicomedy show that was now becoming Bilal Button’s life, he’d somehow injured himself once again.
After breakfast he’d slipped on a piece of fruit in the kitchen, just like in the cartoons, making his already-broken bones probably even more broken, at best, or mildly inflamed at worst.
As strangers filled the Manor, he was underground in what was clearly a medical room that hadn’t been used in a while—as evidenced by the cobwebs—seated on a hospital-style stretcher, waiting for Henry to return with an ice pack.
Henry had offered to call the Manor’s off-site nurse or the family doctor, Dr. Benson, but Bilal did not like having people fuss over his well-being and told the secretary that he was fine.
After a few minutes of waiting, Bilal finally heard the sound of footsteps shuffling down the spiral staircase that led to the cellar, and let out a sigh of relief when Henry emerged. The relief was short-lived, however, as behind Henry was the last person Bilal wanted to see right now.
“Your friend insisted on following me down here,” Henry explained, holding the promised ice pack in one hand, while gesturing to the brooding face of Bilal’s ex-boyfriend, Anwar, with his other.
“He’s not my friend,” Bilal said with a scowl.
“I don’t know about that. We were pretty friendly last night,” Anwar said, folding his arms.
Henry cleared his throat, handing Bilal the ice pack while avoiding looking at either of them. “I should check on something … in a room elsewhere … give you boys space to talk. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Henry said with a nod, before scurrying out of one of the cellar doors.
His father was dead and now he was stuck in the basement with his ex. Great. It was harder to ignore all of his problems when they kept violently reminding him that they existed.
“Well done, you’ve scared off my dad’s secretary,” Bilal mumbled, trying not to look Anwar in the eye (and failing). It didn’t help that Anwar was staring at him intently, with that perfect face of his.
“Henry will be fine,” Anwar said, rolling his eyes and placing his hands in his pockets. Bilal noticed then that Anwar had changed out of his formfitting suit from last night and was now wearing jeans and an embroidered sweater with the word PEMBERLEY written on it in bold.
“You don’t know that. People aren’t just miraculously fine, you know? Sometimes you might make more of an impact than you’d expect. Something you’d know if you actually cared.”
There was a tension-filled silence then, sharp enough to sever the stitches in Bilal’s heart.
“I have a feeling this isn’t about Henry,” Anwar said at last.
“What else would it be about?” Bilal replied.
Anwar narrowed his eyes a little. “Seriously, Billy? I thought we could talk about what happened last night like the adults we both are. But clearly, I misjudged.”
The last thing Bilal wanted to do was talk about any of what had happened last night, so he did what he always did whenever he was confronted by issues he’d rather not address.
He pushed the truth to the side and let the walls of protection he’d built years ago block the brewing storm between himself and Anwar.
“What happened last night was a mistake.”
“A mistake,” Anwar repeated flatly.
“Yes,” Bilal said, wanting to appear certain. But his voice, as well as his convictions, wobbled.
“Well, if so, that was one hell of a mistake,” Anwar replied in the dry, sarcastic way he did when his own walls went up.
“Look, Anwar. It’s best we pretend nothing happened so that we can both move on.
You can go back to your life and I can go back to mine.
I don’t need you around, and you don’t need me, so what’s the point in rehashing any of this?
” Bilal wanted to sound cold and detached, but he just ended up sounding broken.
He had been avoiding Anwar’s eyes as he spoke, but in an almost-sadistic sense, decided to look into them one last time, which he instantly regretted.
Anwar’s eyes were a kaleidoscope of emotions.
Pain, sadness, hurt, and rage all swirling around in the endless gleaming dark brown pits.
Bilal hated hurting Anwar, but it seemed it was all he was ever good at doing.
“Okay, Billy. We can do that,” Anwar said in a voice too calm for Bilal to process at first. When he finally did, Anwar was already on his way out.
“Anwar, wait,” Bilal said, pushing himself up from the gurney to stand, wincing as all the broken parts of him shifted.
Anwar stopped by the staircase and glanced back at Bilal expectantly.
Bilal blinked at him, the words he desperately wanted to say out loud now lodged in his throat. So he resorted to what was easiest. “You forgot your, uh, trophy in my room.”
Anwar’s eyebrow arched in response. “You have my address. You can mail it to me after the brunch, or pass it along to your father to give to me, seeing as I’ll be around here a lot more now that I’m the new Prodigy of the Year and all.
” Bilal felt a twinge in his chest at the casual mention of his father.
“Or you can keep it. I don’t really care.
” Anwar sighed and looked away from him.
“I’ll see you around, Bilal,” he said, then disappeared from Bilal’s line of sight, the sound of Anwar’s gentle footsteps traipsing up the metal staircase once more, as he walked away for what Bilal feared would be the last time.
After a few moments of watching the empty space where Anwar no longer stood, Bilal soundlessly shifted back on the bed and buried his face in his hands. Cursing himself internally, he wished he weren’t so good at making a mess of his life.
At the sound of more footsteps, he turned, hoping against hope it was Anwar again, wanting to give Bilal another chance at saying what he actually meant and not what stupidly tumbled out of his mouth whenever he spoke.
But it was Henry, watching Bilal from the corner, like a shadow, and with a weary, pitying expression.
Bilal didn’t feel embarrassed at the prospect that Henry had overheard his exchange with Anwar.
The Button children had gotten used to the fact that Henry knew almost every intimate detail about their lives.
Since Henry was their father’s right hand, his eyes and ears were all over the Manor.
Yet, the secretary never seemed to disclose his or his siblings’ dalliances to their father.
Bilal wasn’t even sure his father knew or cared that he was gay and had been dating the newest Prodigy of the Year.
All his father ever concerned himself with was whether they were brilliant.
Bilal had never had to worry about being disowned for liking boys.
Instead, he spent most of his childhood worried about being scorned for not placing in the top three nationally in his sport.
His father was progressive, in a weird way, he supposed.
“How are you doing?” Henry asked in a gentle tone.
Bilal wasn’t sure if Henry was asking about how he was doing in general or about his injury, so he gave the answer he always gave. “I’m fine.”
Henry paused before speaking again. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Bilal replied, agitated by the way Henry was staring at him. Like he was a bird with a broken wing or something.
“I know that it has been … a very, very difficult morning for you … for all of you. It’s just … I would understand if you weren’t fine,” Henry pressed on. “You know I’m always here, if you needed to talk about anything. Anything at all.”
Bilal knew Henry meant that sincerely—Henry was always sincere. But he also knew that no one could help him now. Not after the events of the past year, and especially not after last night.
“I assure you, I am fine, Henry.”
He didn’t look convinced. “How’s your leg?” Henry asked, switching gears, still trying to get an answer out of him as he glanced down at Bilal’s cast.
Not as bad as my love life, apparently, Bilal thought, but didn’t say. He didn’t think Henry would see the humor in it.
“Better,” he lied. It would probably be wise for him to use the ice pack Henry had brought, but he decided he’d just have to learn to live with the pain.
From above, he could hear voices rising and guests shuffling around the foyer.
“What was that sound from before? The crash and the banging?” he asked as he glanced up at the ceiling.
“Oh, that? There was a small incident upstairs. Nothing the police can’t handle, I’m sure,” Henry said, waving away his concerns. “Are you ready to head back up? I can help you with the stairs?” he continued.
Bilal nodded, even though the thought of returning upstairs made him feel dizzy. He wasn’t ready, but he also couldn’t hide forever.
Henry helped him up and over to the stairs, slinging Bilal’s right arm over his shoulder as the two ascended the steps slowly.
When they finally emerged into the foyer, Bilal could immediately tell that the so-called small incident, as Henry had put it, hadn’t been small at all.