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“Fin . . .”
I lift my eyes to the reflection of that stupid cap he always wears. It’s a mask. It’s an easy way to keep Tom thinking he’s a typical bloke. I drop my gaze to his saddened eyes under it. “I accept you, Eth. Whatever you want to do, whoever you want to be.”
He looks away, grimacing. “Dad’s not perfect, Fin, but he does love me. He loves you too.”
“He tolerates me.”
“No. That’s not true. If you knew—” He cuts himself off.
I swing around. “If I knew what?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me, Ethan.”
“The dickhead who bullied you end of second term?”
I want to shrink at the mere mention of it. My cheeks are blazing. “Kinda hard to forget.”
“Dad got him expelled.”
I’d wondered why he suddenly disappeared. I’d been so relieved at the time. “He did?”
“Yes. He might not show it how you’d like it best. But he has your back.”
“Okay. So why won’t you tell him you’d prefer early childhood education over economics?”
Ethan walks out of my room. One of the kitchenette cupboards slams.
I wince and stare at blurring words.
Later, I find him up on the turret, leaning against the parapet, searching the darkening skies.
“I’m sorry.”
His breath comes out in a foggy sigh. “You’re right, Fin. It’s just hard to hear. When I get back from Europe, I’ll tell him.”
The mention of Europe again has my stomach diving further toward my knees. I slouch against the turret wall next to him. “It’s just I know you’ve been babysitting the neighbours’ kids and lying to everyone about it.”
“I never lied to you.”
“I never asked, because I wouldn’t let you lie to me.”
“You’re too smart. You’re too . . .” He swallows. “You’re my best friend.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Laughter jolts his body and suddenly I’m wrapped in his soft, rivery scent. “It’s getting cold out here. Let’s head inside. I need to read with you.”
I am a recluse at present & do nothing but write & read & read & write
K. Mansfield, Letter
We finish exams. School’s over.
I keep working on my reading and writing. Like it gives me the power to
slow
d o w n
t
i
m
e.
And it seemed to her that kisses, voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow inside her.
K. Mansfield, “The Garden Party”
The weekend before Ethan leaves, he’s invited to a mask party.
All the seventh-formers are going. A big farewell thing. It might be the last they see each other as a group until reunion.
Ethan insists I come along.
I’m not sure I can handle it. Not without crying my guts out at some point.
“Rush and Maria will be there too,” Ethan says, like this will make it all better.
“It’s at Rush’s holiday house. He has to be there. And third wheel? No thanks.”
I’m sitting on the edge of Ethan’s bed, rubbing my palms over the textured quilt. Cat fur sticks to my fingers and I pick it off.
I wonder if the next time I vacuum our floor, Ethan will already be gone.
His hiking pack sags on his armchair, waiting to be filled for his next adventure. I wish I were small enough to stow away inside it, like Mrs Norris is doing. Her purr is loud between us.
Ethan finally decides on a button-down shirt and shuts his wardrobe. He lays the crisp cotton on my lap, grabs the hem of his black tee and draws it off over his head. His words muffle. “You won’t be third wheel. I’m there, remember.”
“You’re there to hang with your class. We both know I won’t see you half of the night.”
His toned, tapered stomach ripples, and the scar at his hip from his fall down the cliffy bank shines under the light.
Instinctively, I touch the scar.
He jolts; my fingers skim over his hip and catch on the waist of his jeans. “Does it ever hurt?”
“The scar? No.”
Ethan’s warm scent washes over me as he bends down and electricity sizzles through my body. It always feels this intense when he’s close. I’ve gotten used to ignoring it mostly, but it’s harder tonight, on the cusp of him leaving. I’m not entirely in control of myself.
He plucks the shirt from my lap. The gentle weight sliding over my hardening groin makes me gasp.
Oblivious, Ethan pulls his shirt on and I bolt to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I grip myself, shoulder braced on the tiled wall. Another thing I’ve gotten good at: silently jerking off.
He knocks as the last rope spills into my hand. My heart races and I flush quickly and wash up. “Yeah?” I call out innocently.
“You’re not locking yourself in the bathroom like you did on your birthday. If you don’t want to go, I’ll stay here with you.”
I throw open the door and he’s standing there in his buttoned shirt, grinning. That stupid dimple I’ll miss so much pops.
