Page 4 of No Kind Words

The young homeless guy looks up at me. He’s thinner than he was the last time I saw him. “Sorry for disappearing. I thought I had a place to stay. Turned out to be another drugged-filled squat. I don’t do that shit anymore.”

“Come on in. I’ll order some food while you get washed up. What do you want?”

“Pizza would be great.” He enters the house, drops his ratty backpack, and heads to the bathroom. I’ve been helping this kid out for about a year now. He reminds me of what could’ve happened to me. He says he’s eighteen, but I have my doubts. He’s still so fragile. He was thrown out for being gay, then fell into the trap so many kids do: drugs, selling blow jobs for food or somewhere to stay. I help him out as much as he’ll let me.

I grab some clean clothes for him, a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. I keep a few things here for him just in case he shows up. He never stays more than a night and is usually gone by the time I get up. He always leaves a thank-you note. It will be the same tonight.

I was right about Roddy. He did his usual bug-out in the morning. As much as I worry about him, I know he won’t accept any money from me, and I must respect that.

Tonight, there’s no sign of him, and after a shower, I order Chinese, grab a beer from the fridge, and wander to the sofa, snagging my laptop again. Instead of opening it, I flick on the telly and search through Amazon and Netflix until I find something to keep my mind occupied enough not to want to look for anything to do with Calston Cove. I pick MasterChef and enjoy the irony of tucking into a huge bowl of fried rice and sticky chilli beef while culinary art is being made on the TV.

I successfully make it through the evening without Googling anyone I used to know. Friends like Drew and Ivan. Did they ever give me another thought? Did they assume I’d gone to university and like so many other kids never come back?

It’s not until I get into bed that I let the memories of the last few weeks I lived there flood my mind. How Dad refused to let Mum take me to the hospital, that I was locked in my bedroom with only my mum to help me clean the wounds, doped up on the diazepam the doctor prescribed for her. More than a handful of scars cover the front of my torso, and a mess of criss-cross scars on my back from the buckle are ugly and raised because they should’ve been stitched. As much as I refuse to be a victim, I’m more than a little conscious of them when I meet a guy I want to take to bed, keeping my shirt on as much as I can. Hook-ups and Grindr work best. There’s no need for questions.

By Friday, I’m ready to cancel the whole trip and stay far, far away from Devon, but Maeve is keeping me from backing out of the whole weekend.

“Jet, sweetie, it’s time to get this out of your system. Plus, you know this practice is perfect for you. It’s been so long I doubt people will recognise you. And if they do, that’s not a bad thing. If you want to do this, having people you know around you will be fun.”

“When did you get so wise?” I laugh and wrap my arms around her shoulders. Thankfully, the queue for boarding is short, and we board quickly. The flight takes less than two hours, so we should be at the house Maeve found by about seven o’clock.

“Do you need your satnav? I thought you’d know the way,” Maeve asks as I put the address in the rental BMW’s GPS.

“There are bound to be new roads and layouts. I can’t be arsed with getting lost. I want a beer and something to eat. Have you got the code for the key to the house?”

“No, the guy said he’d meet us there. He lives in the town.” She makes herself comfy in the leather seat. “I approve of your choice of car.”

Chuckling, I drive out of the car hire’s car park. “That’s good to know.”

Maeve looks at the scenery, commenting on how different it is from the Scottish countryside. I’m too busy trying not to get worked up before I get to the house. As I drive into the town that was my home for eighteen years, it’s hard not to cry. I’ve missed being here. The scent of the sea immediately acts as a time machine, and I’m transported back to where it all started, with one man, one person I’ve never been able to forget. I’ve never found a connection with another as much as I did with him all those years ago. Is he even still here, or has he left, found a new place to be himself? That was all both of us wanted. Would I recognise him? Would he recognise me? I’m a different man at thirty-three than I was at eighteen. I was merely a boy then. He’ll be forty now, but I doubt he’s lost his looks.

“We’re here, hon. Do you want to sort out the house?”

She pulls out her phone and searches for the contact number. It rings a couple of times. “Hi, is that Ivan?”

I don’t listen to anything else. All I can think of is the kid I knew at school. Will he recognise me?

The room is busy with a mix of men, attractive and available single men, all here to meet someone. I don’t usually go for these sorts of meet-and-greets, but I’m tired of being alone. I want someone looking for a relationship, but all the apps seem to be focusing on hook-ups. I’ve had enough of swiping right. This agency has a reputation for success, so hopefully, I’ll meet the right man. After all these years of holding on to the idea of Jethro returning, I’m ready to find my forever man. He’s never come back, and he never will. It’s time to change and look for a man ready to do the same as me—settle down.

A man, maybe a little younger than me—not a problem—looks around the room. When he sees me watching him, he raises his glass of red wine. That’s all the invitation I need to walk over.

“Hi.” He smiles and holds out his free hand. “I’m Jamie.”

“Benny.” I shake his hand. It’s warm and smooth and as firm as it should be. No wishy-washy grip from him. “Do you come here often?” I groan at the banal opening question but am pleased when he chuckles.

“Is that a chat-up line that works for you?” He sips at his wine, but the corners of his mouth are flickering up in a cute smile.

“If it did, I don’t need to be here.” I gesture at the room of single men, smiling, even though my cheeks are bound to be pink.

“Fair point.” He’s attractive, with dark hair curling a little around his ears like it’s due a cut, but it suits him.

“So, is there a line that will work?” I ask. A pale pink blush rises on his cheeks.

His mouth lifts, and a dimple appears. Yep, I’m interested in this guy. “A simple invitation to dinner usually works for me.”

“Would you like to? Have dinner with me, I mean.” I have a drink of my wine while he slowly looks up and down my body. I feel conscious of my soft stomach. Years of being a baker has taken its toll. I vow to get back to Brodie’s exercise classes.

“I would,” he replies without expanding. He pulls his phone out of his back pocket. “When would you like to go?”

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