A pause, the fridge tick. He keeps his hand on the table, still not reaching.
‘Now go home and think about it.’
And the brass, on its own steam, because my body has stopped consulting me: ‘No.’
He goes very still.
‘Ewan.’
‘No, I mean—’ I swallow. The word has come out too fast and too rough, but it is not wrong. That is the terrifying part. It is not wrong. ‘I mean I heard you. I heard all of it. I know what you’re asking me to do. I know what you’re trying not to ask me to do.’
His hand is flat on the table.
‘Then go home.’
‘I don’t need time to know whether I wanted this.’
‘That is not the question.’
‘It is part of the question.’
‘Not the whole of it.’
‘Fine.’ My voice shakes once and then steadies. ‘Then the whole question is: do I understand what this costs you, do I understand what it could cost me, do I understand that it can’t be normal, or public, or easy, or fair, and do I still want to be here, now, with you, knowing that?’
He says nothing.
The fridge ticks. Somewhere outside, a car goes through rainwater too fast.
‘Yes,’ I say.
His eyes close for one full second.
‘That is not a decision I can let you make because I want the answer.’
‘Then don’t. Let me make it because it’s mine.’
He opens his eyes.
‘You are angry.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are frightened.’
‘Yes.’
‘You are eighteen.’
‘Yes.’
‘And I am still responsible for what I do next.’
‘Yes.’
The word sits there between us. Not permission. Not absolution. Something smaller and more dangerous: agreement.
He pushes back from the table.
