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“I’m sorry,” I replied evenly. “I thought you might appreciate a new face and some company. And he’s curious about you. I apologise if he got on your nerves.”
Matt stared into the fireplace. “No, not at all. Far from it. Seeing him was a shock, that’s all. He…I…”
He shook his head, almost in wonder, as he searched for the right word. “Fuck, Alex. He wastoo much. Too much like you when you were around that age. He’s sweet. And serious. He has a kind of…earnestness, exactly like you used to have.”
Matt smiled up at me then, an undiluted, genuine smile, for the first time since I’d stumbled upon him. “And it might have been concussion blurring my vision, but he’s practically your double. I expect people tell him that all the time.”
“They do.” I chuckled. “He’s thrilled about it, obviously.”
“There’s worse people to resemble.”
I stared into the fireplace, determined not to read anything into that. “You might not see him again,” I confided. “He’s gone to bed in a huff. I’m crap at this parenting thing.” I filled him in on my aborted interaction with my son.
“He’s got a girlfriend—Chloe—and I shouldn’t say this, but I don’t like the sound of her.”
Matt laughed. “Well, if you’ve told him that, then of course he’s going to be pissed off.”
“I haven’t told him. Samantha—my ex hasn’t either. But I’ve met her, and she’s quite er… grown-up, for want of a better word. She’s cool and streetwise. Which is fine and everything, but he’s still a boy.”
“He’s about six-feet-two, Alex! And looks capable of growing a beard! Which is a hell of a lot more than I could achieve at that age.”
I bit back a smile. Lithe, teenage Matt had had skin so smooth, and such pretty features, that in a wig and a dress he’d have easily passed as a girl. I kept those observations to myself. His good mood might not last, and I enjoyed having someone to talk to.
“Yes, I know he looks like a man on the outside, which is probably why this older girl likes him, but he’s still just a kid. He’s still only sixteen. I mean, he’s obviously discovered the opposite sex—he has a poster of someone called Selena Gomez on his bedroom wall, wearing next to nothing. But Selena’s hanging above his treasured Lego model of the Millennium Falcon, and slightly obscured by his prized collection ofHow to Train Your Dragonbooks. He’s not ready to fathom women.”
Matt huffed out a laugh. “You sound like someone’s dad.”
I groaned. “God, I wish teenagers came with an instruction manual. I haven’t got a bloody clue how to be a good parent to a man-child. Little kids are much easier. This older stuff—I’m making it up as I go along.”
“From what I’ve seen of him, you’re doing a decent job. I wish someone had cared as much when I was his age.”
Which kind of put my trivial spat with my son into perspective. Ryan had two parents who loved him unconditionally, even if we no longer loved each other. We took him to afterschool clubs, helped with his schoolwork, fed him homemade pizza, and bought him new Nike trainers. A young Matt Leeson used to count himself lucky if there was spare change for the electricity meter.
“You fell for someone from the wrong side of the tracks when you weren’t much older than Ryan.” Matt’s voice was low, his gaze trained on the dying embers of the fire. “Didn’t do you any harm, did it?”
I thought about that for a moment. It depended on what he defined as harm. Had I been seduced into a downwards spiral of drink and drugs? No, of course not, but then Matt hadn’t been that kind of boy. Rough around the edges, yes, but not degenerate. I didn’t imagine Chloe was either; it was entirely possible my impressions of her were a massive overreaction. Teenage girls were a foreign species—both now and twenty-five years ago. But had Matt caused me harm by ruining me for anyone else? Sometimes I wondered if he had.
I couldn’t hold back another day. “Matt,” I began, “Are you okay?”
I gestured to his bodily injuries, although they were only the beginning. I had a feeling he hid some much bigger bruises on the inside. He’d given me nothing at all to work on. I didn’t know if he was single, married, divorced, a father, out of work, out of prison, on the run, or even head of a multinational conglomerate.
“You know. I mean, are you in trouble or something? Because if you are, then…”
He shook his head. “No. I’m not in trouble. You don’t need to rescue me.” He indicated to his battered face. “Wrong place, wrong time, that’s all. I might have had a couple of drinks and been a bit mouthy with the wrong person. Or in this case, several homophobic people. Apparently, I don’t know when to stop.”
“I find that very hard to believe.”
His puffy lip quirked a little. “I probably shouldn’t be allowed out unchaperoned.”
“Do you have a chaperone?” His answer suddenly felt very important, more important than all the other answers I still searched for.
“No. I don’t.” He sighed, then shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “Ugh. I feel weird and spinny again. Getting out of bed was a bad idea.”
His complexion had turned even paler than when he’d joined me. “I’ve seen plenty of concussion. Not just through work, but rugby too. You have to take it very easy for a few weeks.”
His eyes fluttered closed and he sucked in a deep breath before letting it out through his nose. In a moment, I’d help him back to bed, if he’d let me.
“I…um…I might not have been the easiest of patients,” he murmured, still with his eyes closed.
