Page 112 of Everything That Kills Me
Martin slipped his hand over Paulo’s mouth.
“It’s okay,” Zeph said. “I’m not going to freak out if I hear the name Jack.”
He’d not hidden that Jack hadn’t been in touch. It hadn’t taken long before they figured out Zeph had been dumped. He’d gone to work at the garden centre every day, done his job, but he’d had no calls from Jack and he’d not gone out in the evening. Paulo had asked him if he’d wanted to talk but he didn’t. There was nothing to say that would make this better.
“He didn’t deserve you,” Martin whispered. “Find someone who’ll give you their heart and want you to keep it.”
Don’t make me cry.
Zeph managed to hold it together until they’d left, then he sat on his bed and wept.
Since Jack had left him in France, Zeph’s world had not been fun. All the joy he’d felt with Jack, every moment filled with wonder, pleasure, excitement…it had been so overwhelming that to suddenly be deprived of it had left him depressed and broken. Jack had warned him. But how were you supposed to stop yourself falling in love? How could you protect yourself against that?
Even with Jack’s words still ringing in his head, Zeph wished he’d told Jack that he loved him.But he couldn’t carry on like this. He had to make a decision. What would hurt the most? Missing Jack or pretending not to miss him?
Maybe he should he glad he’d not told Jack how he felt because knowing it wouldn’t have been enough to persuade Jack to stay was almost too much to bear.My love wasn’t enough.His stomach churned and he rushed to the bathroom and threw up.
He had to change. If he wanted to achieve his other goals, the ones that were attainable, he had to stop hoping Jack found him again.
Zeph slid back quickly into academic life. There was little he didn’t enjoy in the subjects he was studying. The more complex the problem, the more focused he became. He made sure there was no time to think of stuff other than work.
He didn’t care that his social life was a disaster. He’d been asked out a couple of times and made excuses. He hadn’t joined any clubs until he’d been pushed to do so by Professor Mark Tysdale, his computer studies lecturer and supervisor. The club was calledWe’re not Hackers,though that was exactly what they were. Professor Tysdale asked him to report back on the group. Zeph hadn’t wanted to at first, but he’d been persuaded. Being a spy made him uncomfortable.
Sometimes he managed days without thinking about Jack.
Other times he made excuses for him.
He’d left Zeph in France because his cover was about to be blown and he’d had to go to Thomas. Better for Zeph not to know.
He’d left Zeph because Thomas was in danger.
He’d meant to come back but something had stopped him.
Zeph had many theories.
Whenever life seemed to be approaching normal, he’d see something or remember some little thing that pushed him off track. The only way to keep going, to get over this was to harden his heart, not ever think about Jack, to concentrate on what he was learning and strive to do the best he could, be the best he could.
That was the plan.
People stopped asking him to join them for coffee. He didn’t go to the pub, never went to parties, didn’t eat in Formal Hall. He worked, he played the college piano until his fingers ached, he wrote horrible, whiney poems and songs about loneliness, wallowing in self-pity, and deep down, he knew he was still waiting. It sometimes enraged him. Not just anger at Jack—who could have at least fucking called—but at himself. But he couldn’t help it.
He wasn’t happy.
He just kept breathing.
Half-way through the Michaelmas term, he was called to see Professor Tysdale. An appointment at seven in the evening was unusual. Zeph assumed he wanted details of what the hacking club had been up to. Not much: trying to find software vulnerabilities in a travel company, looking for holes in encrypted chat systems, reading their girlfriends’ messages, trying to get into a nuclear plant’s HR records. Zeph had ensured they failed at that.
When he knocked on the door of the professor’s room, a stranger was waiting.
“Sorry,” Zeph said to the dark-haired man, and started to back out.
“It’s me you’re here to see. Close the door, please. Take a seat.”
Zeph hesitated, then did as he was told.
“My name’s Adam Penshurst. Mark tells me you’ve been working with theWe’re not Hackersgroup.”
Oh shit.Was he in trouble? Were the others in trouble? Had he missed something? Zeph nodded. He’d quietly persuaded some members of the group from going too far, though most of them were digging into sites for fun, to show they could, not to cause problems.
