Page 14 of Maybe
But not as interesting as Ezra, whose dark eyes under those criminally long lashes never left mine, and whose mouth managed to curl into a suggestive smirk even as he sang a melancholic love song about hope and loss andnothingnessto a city of strangers. Or perhaps he was singing it solely for me. In that deliberate, lazy way he’d always had, he teased out every beautiful, sad note, made each one count. His distorted guitar hit the lows like an ocean swallowing a life. Or a lover’s sweet caress.Too cool to be forgottenwas the hook, so obviously not dedicated to me, but, yeah, a nerdy dork could dream.
And I did. Like Gerald had never existed, I ordered another drink. Alone at my table, but at the same time back in my teenage bedroom, lying on my bed. Lost to Ezra.
CHAPTER 5
EZRA
“Fitz-Henrys don’t have dreams, Isaac—we have goals. Set your alarm so you can write your spellings out again before school. Until you know them by heart. And no television tonight. Make a start on reading that English lit. text instead.”
The grumpy dweeb trying his hardest to get into Isaac’s pants gave up and left. Stand still for long enough in the city, you got a sense for things, learned to read people. Him and Isaac were on a date, perhaps their first, perhaps not. Isaac didn’t seem devastated when the guy left. Good; not only was Isaac out of that bloke’s league, but they weren’t even playing the same sport.
Had our father had been aware of his favourite son’s proclivities? Unlikely, I concluded, although he might have chosen to overlook them, seeing as everything else Isaac achieved met with his approval. Especially if Isaac was discreet. What I’d observed in the last ten minutes and my hazy recollection of his car, his shirt—fuck, his hideous beige shirt(had he learned nothing as a kid from his big brother?)—and his manner told me he was.
Isaac's lack of any interest in the dweeb pleased me more than it should. But now he’d spotted me, would he leave too, or wait until I took a break?
Eventually, the hecklers got bored and wandered off. I didn’t care either way. I played my songs, played them well, and earned my money. No place for ego in this game. Name calling and trash talk didn’t bother me half as much as a dog cocking its leg on my guitar amp or kids trying to nick my cash. Adjusting my strap, I strummed the fiddly opening riff ofSnowby the Chili Peppers. Was I showing off? Maybe. But when I glanced across to the café, under the guise of twiddling a tuning peg, Isaac hadn’t moved, as if he’d erected a fence of stillness around himself.
When Isaac strongarmed me out my father’s memorial service, I’d informed him I hated him and everything he represented. And it was true, sort of. Except it was the kind of hate making me want to stab him through the heart, then rush to his side to staunch the wound. Isaac, with his solemn frowns and his disapproving lips: the best of things and the worst of things. My nemesis. My brother. My friend. My enemy. My worst fucking nightmare. And, the night after that horrific trip to the solicitor’s office, the subject of a vastly inappropriate erotic dream. What the fuck was that about?
Regardless, if all of that wasn’t the very definition of a complicated relationship, then I’d like to see a better one.
All I knew was that my two-hour set was drawing to a close and Isaac was still here. And, me being me, I could only handle it by behaving like a twat. “Who shat in your boyfriend’s Shreddies?”
I slid into the recently vacated seat opposite and helped myself to a swig of Isaac’s drink. Acting obnoxiously was infinitely preferable to admitting my life was dull, and thathaving Isaac back in it, in some form or other, was one of the two best things to happen to me in approximately ten years.
Then I pulled a face, because… holy fuckballs…flavoured sparkling water. “Really, Isaac? You actually chose this off a menu? Who the fuck drinks this piss? It tastes like TV static.”
“What the hell, Ezra.”
He said my name weakly, shaking his head with his eyes closed, as if he couldn’t make up his mind whether he was pleased our paths had crossed again or not. Fair enough. Must be difficult staring into the face of the person whose comfortable life you stole.
“And Gerald’s not my boyfriend,” he added. “He’s a… an optometrist… someone I met online. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Ah.” I felt a flip of relief. Isaac really could dosomuch better. “I get it. Gerald the optometrist has been side-lined into the friend zone, but you haven’t broken the news yet. He’s become a non-sexual entity, like a desk or a wheel. Or crappy sparkling water.”
I was babbling, trying to be smart, trying to hate him, trying not to let him know I was hoarding every detail of his pinched, irritated face in case he told me to bugger off.
“Why didn’t you get in touch, Ezra? You had my address and my place of work. You fuck off for ten years, reappear shitfaced, then fuck off again? And who decides I’m on a date because I’m having a coffee in the middle of the afternoon with another fucking bloke?”
Ah, there it was. I’d forgotten how easily he flushed when he was annoyed. Just to piss him off, I grinned at him. “Any more fucks to give, Isaac, or was that your last one being set free?”
“Can you answer the question? I think most people might have hung around, maybe contested the will, sought legal advice or, I don’t know, said yes to half when I offered it and passedon their bank details. Last time I looked, busking didn’t pay that well.”
Seemed Isaac had developed a backbone as well as strengthened his moral compass in my absence. And had been thinking about me. Worrying, maybe.
“An optometrist, eh? I bet sex with an optometrist is a scream.” I put on a stupid voice. “Is this better, or worse? And now? Better or worse?”
Isaac’s lips didn’t twitch. Frankly, I thought it was a bloody funny joke, especially off the cuff whilst I was trying not to retaliate with a few home truths of my own.
“Don’t distract me.” Isaac huffed. “For fuck's sake, I need answers, Ez.”
I blew out a long breath. My usual flurry of smart comments deserted me. “Yeah, well.”
“Yeah, well?”he responded incredulously. “Is that all you’ve got?”
Isaac had one of those open faces. He didn’t play games, didn’t manipulate, wind up, or bullshit. He was incapable—his honest features gave him away instantly.
“You know it’s dodgy money, made from dodgy investments, don’t you? I mean, it’s clean now, sitting in solid FT 100 funds. But it wasn’t always.”
