Page 143 of Boyfriend Material
There was one of those silences that made you miss screaming.
Then Miriam was glaring at me with what I was shocked to realise was actual contempt. “How dare you try to tell us how to speak to our own son?”
“I’m not. I’m just pointing out the blindingly fucking obvious. Which is, you’re making Oliver feel bad for no reason.”
“Step down, Lucien.” David stood up, which lacked a certain amount of impact because he was nearly a foot shorter than me. “We’ve known him a lot longer than you have.”
No use turning back now. “Yeah, that doesn’t change the fact that you’re being arseholes.”
Miriam did that you-have-nearly-made-me-cry look again. “Oliver, what on earth possessed you to bring this man into our home?”
There was no answer from Oliver. Which was fair enough because, honestly, I was asking myself the same question.
“Leave him alone.” I…shit…I might actually have roared. “Fine, you don’t like me. Well, guess what? I don’t care. I care about the fact you’ve invited my boyfriend to a garden party and seem to be getting off on torturing him. And clearly he’s too nice or too beaten down from years of this shit to tell you to go fuck yourselves, but I’m not. So…um. Go fuck yourselves.”
I’m not sure what reaction I’d been expecting. I mean, obviously it would have nice if they’d turned round and said, “Gosh, you’re right, we’ll go away and rethink our entire value system,” but I think that ship had sailed at around the point I told them to go fuck themselves.
“Get out of my house” was David’s predicable and, in context, not unreasonable reply.
I ignored him, and slid off the arm of the bench to plant myself in front of Oliver. He wouldn’t look at me. “I’m sorry I’ve fucked this up. And I’m sorry I’ve said ‘fuck’ so many times. Especially when you’ve been so amazing whenever I’ve needed you. It’s just”—I pulled in a shaky breath—“you’re the best man I’ve ever met. And I can’t sit by and watch other people make you doubt that. Even if they’re your parents.”
Finally, he looked up, his eyes pale and unreadable in the summer sunlight. “Lucien…”
“It’s okay. I’m going. And you don’t have to come with me. But I want you to know that…that you’re great. And I don’t know how anyone could think you’re not, y’know, great. And…like…” This was impossible. It would have been impossible if we’d been alone in a dark room. And here we were with a half-dozen people staring at us “…your job is…great and you’re really…great at it. And you look great in blue. And…” I was getting the feeling this could have gone better. “…I know I’m not your family and I know I’m just some guy but I hope you can believe that I care about you enough that…you can believe…what I’m saying about you now. Because it’s…true.”
I fully intended to say my piece and walk out of there with my head held high and whatever was left of my dignity. But, yeah. Didn’t happen.
I panicked.
And ran like hell.
Chapter 47
I hadn’t got very far—not even to the point of having to worry how I was going to get out of Milton Keynes—when I heard footsteps. I turned to see Oliver gaining on me rapidly. Seriously, it was embarrassing how fit he was and I wasn’t. I had no idea what he was thinking, partly because everyone has the same face while they’re running, but mainly because there was no way to tell how he was going to have taken that. The fact he’d come after me was a good sign, right? Well, unless he wanted to have a go at me for being rude to his parents.
“Oliver, I—” I started.
“Let’s go home.”
Did that mean “let’s go home because you’ve made me see my parents are emotionally abusive and I don’t have to stand for it” or “let’s go home because you’ve embarrassed me so much we literally have to leave town”? Even his nonrunning face wasn’t helping.
Not really knowing what else to do, I got in the car and had hardly clicked my seat belt into place when Oliver pulled away with the sort of reckless disregard for safety that I usually associated with, well, me. We got halfway to the end of the road with Oliver noticeably exceeding the speed you were supposed to stick to in a built-up area and paying way less attention to lane discipline than even I was comfortable with.
“Um,” I tried. “Should you be—”
He swerved to avoid an incoming cyclist and I yelped.
“Okay, getting actually scared now.”
With a screech and a grinding of gears, Oliver ploughed the car up the kerb and hit the brakes. Then he folded his arms across the steering wheel, laid his head against them, and burst into tears.
Oh shit. For a second or two, I tried to do that British thing where you pretend nothing untoward is happening in the hope it’ll sort itself out quickly and amicably, and then you’ll never have to talk about it again. Except Oliver wascrying, and not stopping crying, and this was definitely a boyfriend job—one that, as an aspiring boyfriend, I was failing hard at.
It didn’t help we were in a car, both of us responsibly wearing seat belts, so I couldn’t even inadequately hug him. Instead, I was reduced to inadequately petting his shoulder like he’d come third in a primary-school sack race. And I desperately wanted to say something supportive but “don’t cry” was toxic bullshit, “it’s okay to cry” was patronising, and “there, there” had never made anybody feel better ever in the history of emotions.
Eventually Oliver shook off my hand and turned to face me. He had that red, puffy serious-tears look about him that filled me with a hopeless desire to make everything better for him. “I wish,” he said, with a valiant effort to sound Oliver-like, “I wish you hadn’t seen that.”
“Oh my God, it’s okay. Everybody cries.”
