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Alone.
Right. Of course. His boyfriend had an online interview with Park Road to join the song-writing team for some blockbuster project they were working on. Big opportunity. Lots of travel. A gateway to Hollywood.
He sat up groggily, head pounding. “Jesus.” Tenderly, he rubbed his throbbing head. Never. Drinking. Again.
He located his phone and wished Wentworth all the best for his interview. Smiley face.
Hearts came back, along with a promise to come over that night. Dad’s roped me into a boat outing right after the interview. He’s getting sentimental. Keeps sniffing about me being old enough to make my own way in life.
A funny shiver rolled down Elliot’s spine.
They were old enough to make their own way.
They were old enough to make their own way!
They stood at a massive intersection in their lives, so many possibilities, so many routes. Elliot had planned on attending university here, but if Wentworth got his job . . . He could study in Wellington. They could find a place of their own. They could continue their journeys together. They’d be one another’s biggest supporters. They could do anything. Be anything. Elliot had never felt so sure of anything in his life.
So what they were young? Wentworth was the one. Elliot loved every minute of Wentworth in his life. He wanted him forever.
God, he needed to tell him that. Needed to tell him how much he loved him. Needed to tell him he would set a bloody date! Maybe not until they’d turned twenty-five at least, but he’d burn his rule to the ground and never resurrect it again. They would talk of the future. They would plan their life together.
He picked up his phone and typed.
Not over the phone, idiot.
He deleted.
He typed again, because he had to say something. The bubbliness in him needed an outlet.
Elliot: We need to talk!
Light in his heart, if not his poor head, Elliot leaped out of bed, showered, and went in search of sustenance. He fancied some bread and an omelette with cheese, maybe some chives—
“Gah.” His mum sat in the sun-drenched armchair in the living room. She was usually in motion around the house and he hadn’t expected the chair to suddenly move like that. “You gave me a fright.”
His laughter died. Was she sniffing?
All his senses prickled. He moved toward her and knelt at the arm. “Mum?”
She looked at him, eyes watery, and reached out to touch his cheek. In the space of a second his headache was gone. Fear set into his bones. “What’s wrong?”
“I needed to wait. Until you’d finished school.”
“Wait for what?”
Dread rose up, a wave threatening to consume him, to drag him deep into the ocean. Threatening to wash him off the path he’d just opened his heart to.
“I’m so sorry, Elliot.”
Elliot had been in school debating clubs since he was thirteen. He’d quickly earned a reputation for being the school’s most persuasive first speaker. He’d coached four teams. He’d taken them to semi-finals and finals, Championships three times, and had even made a mark in a few Australia-NZ competitions. He’d rarely failed to live up to his reputation.
He was failing now.
How could he not? One half of his soul was arguing against the other.
He stared into his dresser mirror. His eyes looked darker, heavier, puffed from his own crying. His cheeks were pale, sallow. His zest for life drained out of him. He could see it reflected in his image.
He recalled his mum’s tears. Felt the ghost of her desperate hug around him, her lingering perfume.
Sick. She was very, very sick. She’d start treatments this week. The five-year prognosis did not look good. She wanted to fight.
He didn’t have to stay, she’d said. But the fear in her eyes clawed into him, squeezed his heart. It felt like it would pop.
Elliot was all she had in the world. There was no question. He was not leaving.
The man in the mirror aged ten years.
He swallowed the sore lump in his throat. “Wentworth, we need to talk.” He cleared his throat. “Wentworth, we need to talk.” His breath shook. “Wentworth, we need to talk.”
But what would Elliot say?
He listened to the arguments screaming in his head. The affirmative, the negative.
Would he tell Wentworth the truth, knowing he would stay? Because he would stay, Elliot had no doubt.
Or would . . .
Or would Elliot let Wentworth go?
In the evening, Elliot drove to the pier and parked with a good view of the docks. By the looks of it, Wentworth and his dad had just returned. They were throwing rope about, Wentworth on the jetty, beautiful, glowing in the setting sun.
Elliot had found Wentworth’s mask, a simple strip of fabric, and he toyed with the elastic, like knotting his fingers might bind him with his love.
He could be selfish. He could keep him. He could . . . make it up to him at some other point in their future.
