Page 87 of Crying in the Rain

“We’ve done that once before,” Kris reasoned.

George tutted. “OK, wise guy. Boyfriends that aren’t each other.”

Now Kris grinned. “You said the B-word, in public. Twice.”

“I did, didn’t I? Guess we’re both finally getting it right.”

Ade and Shaunna were on their way back with the drinks, and the sight of Ade laughing and chattering away made Kris’s heart pump faster. “Yeah,” he said, his voice quivering from the effect Ade was having—alwayshad—on him. “I guess we are.”

29: Out

Ade

Ade only neededa quick shower and had promised to be back at the pub within the hour. Kris was meeting him there—the first time Ade would be accompanied by his boyfriend to a work do.

My boyfriend.

What an extraordinary feeling, not to mention going on a night out with peopleheknew. On reflection, that was probably what had made him most anxious about attending Dan and Adele’s engagement party. He’d been to after-show parties, birthdays, weddings, funerals—the whole array of social functions—as someone else’s partner, since they were Fergus’s friends, colleagues, family. Never Ade’s.

But the party hadn’t been like that. He’d met all of Kris’s friends, and they were lovely. Two weeks on, Ade was settled back into his apartment and starting to enjoy life again. Tonight, Kris was staying over; tomorrow, they’d take the train to his place and stay there. It was uncomplicated, safe, and very liberating.

As Ade speed-walked home, he tallied how many nights out he’d missed during the past eleven years—colleagues he’d never had the opportunity to wish well, Christmas parties that kept the station in gossip for months while he listened on, no idea how much of it was true and nothing to contribute. Because that was the thing with abusive relationships; the physical side was tough to endure, but the psychological part was what really beat him down. Being isolated from his friends, having to tell lies and make excuses for why he could never be a part of the social whirl—he needed to remind himself of that, in those moments when the what-if reared its ugly head. What if he’d let Fergus come back? The honest answer: he’d have been stuck in that same rut, and he’d have lost Kris.

He cleared the stairs in twos, the sound of Mary’s TV audible in the hallway outside their apartments—a sure sign that Benny was keeping her company for the evening. They were an unlikely couple, what with Mary’s hearing being as keen as it was and her intolerance of noise of any sort, and Benny’s loud insistence that his hearing aids were working perfectly well.

Once inside, Ade set the shower running and went to his bedroom, grabbing the closest shirt and pair of trousers from his wardrobe and laying them out on the bed. As he turned to leave, he glimpsed something that stopped him in his tracks. On the bedside table, where he had left it weeks ago, was his tablet, fully charged and switched off. He hadn’t made a single checklist since he came home from Julia’s. He hadn’t needed to. And that felt good.Reallygood.

Back to the bathroom, grinning like an idiot, Ade showered quickly, ran a razor over his already smooth chin and slapped on cologne, still hissing with the sting as he returned to his room and pulled on boxers and socks. He picked up the shirt and slid one arm into a sleeve, but then stopped and shook his arm free, leaving the shirt where it landed. He opened the wardrobe again and eyed the grim selection—greys, blues, blacks—all the crappy dull clothes Fergus had considered acceptable, and that was about the best he’d get out of him. He was never ‘handsome’ or ‘alluring’ to Fergus; just acceptable.

Ade about-turned and dropped to his knees, reaching under the bed for the storage bag he’d stashed there long ago. It was the sort that vacuum-sealed, so the contents were no doubt horrifically creased, but it wouldn’t take long to iron a shirt, and it was worth it. Tonight, he would be stepping out as himself, not Fergus’s shadow.

Unzipping the bag, he watched in wonder as the contents expanded, almost as if they were living, breathing things. He knew exactly which shirt he wanted for his rebirth and lifted away one garment after another, each triggering happy associations long forgotten, until there it was. He shook it loose and studied it for a moment then clutched it to his chest, overwhelmed by how much he’d missed it. It wasn’t until he had the iron in his hand that he realised he was crying.

Of course, the shirt was terribly outdated, but that didn’t matter. This was the one he had worn for five minutes, at most, on the night he’d been told he looked like a clown and nobody would ever take him seriously or find him attractive if he dressed like that. In the years that had passed since, he’d believed Fergus’s cruel words, and even in those rare moments when his mind attempted a coup, he’d never had the confidence to test that assertion.

But tonight he could handle it. He would wear the shirt, and if people mocked, he’d just laugh it off, maybe even explain to them why he was wearing something old enough to have come from a vintage boutique. It might clash dreadfully with whatever Kris was wearing, but so what? He was celebrating with his friends—and his boyfriend—on a work night out. It was the best feeling in the world.

With the shirt ironed and given a quick spruce with fabric freshener, Ade returned to his bedroom to finish getting ready, using the tips of his fingers to scoop up a little of his new styling wax—Shaunna’s recommendation—envisaging that it would be in his favour to keep his hair as goo-free as possible for the private afterparty.

While he hated to compare, it was hard not to when the differences between Fergus and Kris were so stark. Where Fergus was brutal, Kris was gentle. Other than his temper, Fergus was robotically rational, whereas Kris was over-emotional. But the one that really stood out was the physical contact. Outside of sex, intimidation and violence, Fergus had touched Ade sorarely he could recall every single occasion. Kris, by contrast, was constantly seeking out a hand to hold or stroking Ade’s arm or playing with his hair.A fully paid-up associate of the Ginger Appreciation Society.Ade laughed at his reflection. He felt great, and his self-confidence had grown enough for him to like the person laughing back at him. He was ready for a good night out.

Without further ado, he collected his phone, wallet and keys and headed out to the hall to put on his coat. There was a knock at the door.

“Hold on a sec,” Ade called, pausing to fasten his coat. Mary didn’t miss a trick, and it was kind of sweet, although it could be a bit of a pain when he was in a rush, as she did like a chat. With any luck, she’d see he was on his way out and leave whatever it was she wanted to tell him until the morning. Ade opened the door, breath drawn, words at the ready.

“Hello, Adrian.”

For a few seconds, Ade stopped breathing entirely as he stared in horror and disbelief at the man standing before him, an arm raised, hand casually resting on the doorframe, widening his posture, staking his claim.

“You aren’t heading out, are you? I hoped we could talk.”

The question, as always, was phrased to lead Ade to give the required answer.Not happening.“What are you doing here?”

“I told you. We should talk, but in private.”

Ade shook his head, no.

“Adrian, come on. There’s too much past for us to simply walk away.”

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