I can’t detect anything in his eyes that says he knows about the noticeboard. But if he only speaks to his siblings in another country and newcomers looking for seaside homes, he might not know.
‘Yes, sorry, lost in a book,’ I say.
‘That’s OK, Simo. Just don’t forget your homework, yes?’
I never forget my homework. But that doesn’t stop him from reminding me every day. He means well; after all, even though Mum is the primary-school teacher, he’s the one who has always helped me at school.
‘No Luca today?’ he asks, catching me off guard.
‘I – no. Maybe later.’
‘OK, just let me know when you leave. I’ll be in the garden.’
I’m certain he doesn’t know. It’s not like he’d confront me. He’d take the opposite approach, avoiding a conversation until the situation either resolves itself or is overshadowed by a more urgent problem that must itself be ignored.
I see the way my parents treat Luca. They’re polite, but they use this politeness to keep him at a distance. They wouldn’t utter a bad word about my best friend, but that doesn’t mean they don’t hold prejudice against him – and his dad. It’s like they suddenly forget to act like normal people whenever they come face to face with someone who’s gay. I’m not sure if it’s because they’re scared they’ll say thewrong thing or whether they disagree with homosexuality as a whole. And I don’t know that I want to find out.
The thought stirs something in me, a slow burning in my gut that makes me feel fiercely protective of Luca, despite everything that’s going on. I’m not my parents. I would never judge a person because of who they are.
I take out my phone and open the chat with him. A second later, I lock the screen, drop the phone in my lap, only to sigh and reopen it. My fingers hover inches from the keyboard, caught between the desire to pull Luca close and to push him away. That’s when the call comes in. The vibration sinks into my bones, shakes me out of my stupor. I pick up on the second ring.
‘I know where they’ll leave us alone.’ Luca’s voice in my ear fills me with relief.
‘The island?’
‘Better. Meet me in five? Bring your bike.’
I race past the coffee shop without stopping. It takes Luca only seconds to pull up next to me. We head up Main Street, past the last bus stop in town, before we’re surrounded by fields of green and gold. I have an inkling where we’re going, but for now I want to drink up the freedom that comes with leaving Lombard.
Luca’s shirt flutters in the breeze, melds itself to his ribcage. The wind plays with the pearl pendant I gave him, like it wants to steal it off his body, but the chain holds fast. We ride in silence, and neither the cows nor the sheep grazing in the fields pay us any attention. Now that I’m gaining distance, it’s almost possible to believethat today didn’t happen. That’s how absurd this whole scenario feels.
We take a turn on to a gravel path and arrive at a huddle of barns nestled around a well. Anton, the town mascot, is grazing in his paddock and watches us as we stack the bikes against a wall. He’s a Highland bull, with a thick orange coat, and a crown of two lopsided horns, one short and thick, the other curving upwards. For some reason he was abandoned by his herd, so the town adopted him.
We skip past the antiques shop and enter a building in the shadow of an oak tree. In an instant, I’m enveloped by the scent of paper and dust. I meet Luca’s gaze, his eyes so blue they glow in the half-light, and a smile lifts my face. He knows me better than I know myself. Knows what I need when I don’t.
‘I brought the new reading list,’ Luca says, and unfolds it.
‘I’ve memorised it,’ I tell him.
‘Of course you have.’
I make my way deeper into the bookshop. It’s three floors, divided into fiction and non-fiction only, and organised by surname. Mostly. Random stacks are found in almost every corner, piled beneath armchairs, crammed on the top of the shelves and scraping the ceiling.
Sheila, the owner of the farm and its shops, only stocks second-hand books, but she’ll order in new copies where there are gaps. I swiftly track down Shakespeare and Austen, but it takes me longer to unearth the translated works and poetry collections. Not that I mind. I pick up random books and check for handwritten dedications or forgotten bookmarks. If they grab my attention, make me wonderabout the people who left a part of themselves imprinted on the pages, I take them home, even copy them into my notebook. They’re like stories within stories, these traces of people who once held the book I’m holding now. Dreaming up strangers’ lives keeps me from thinking about my own.
I don’t know how much time passes, but when I emerge again, Luca is folded into a wicker chair with a cat in his lap, both of them dozing. I don’t make myself known, instead I take the moment to look at him. At first glance, he seems at ease, deep breaths stretching his shirt as his chest expands, front teeth peeking through the gap of his lips. I don’t let my attention linger there and soon discover the telltale sign of stress: the raw edges of his nails, bitten down to the flesh. If it hurts me to see it, it must hurt him twice as much.
I almost wake him to tell him that I love him, right there and then. I want it to be a casual affirmation, a promise that I’ll always have his back. I see other guys do it, exchangeI-love-you-bros!like the most natural of goodbyes in the school car park. But it wouldn’t land right, the meaning twisted by the insinuation on the noticeboard. Now it’s a three-word landmine at the base of our friendship. It makes me regret that I’ve never said it before. It makes me wonder why I never did.
Luca opens his eyes, halfway at first, then they widen with astonishment.
‘That’s . . . a lot of books, Simo.’
I look down at the stack in my arms. ‘I got copies for you too.’
‘I don’t need any.’
‘Yes, you do.’
