Not Letting Go Page 2

  “Josh?” Bradley sits up, wrapping his arms tight around me. His alcohol soaked breath is warm against my cheek. “Josh, he'll be okay. He'll be okay.” He keeps saying it, like it'll make a difference. “Shit, I didn't know.” His hands move to my shoulders and he presses a wet kiss behind my ear. It's supposed to be a comforting gesture, but pathetically I grab at it, turning my head to crush my lips to his in a sloppy, drunken kiss. His mouth opens with surprise and then his tongue slides wetly against mine. His throat makes a strange sound, as he falls back against the bed, pulling me down with him.

  All the time he's kissing me, my head feels uncomfortably tight, stuffed full with unshed tears. When I open my eyes, I'm looking through a fish-eye lens, everything but Bradley blurred around the edges. His hands are sweaty against my exposed skin, where my T-shirt has ridden up, and he's holding me so tight against him it's obvious he's not experiencing the same problem he had with Mia.

  And then he mumbles something against my lips. “Josh,” he says. “We shouldn't... we shouldn't....” His hands push me away. “I didn't mean for....” He shakes his head. “That shouldn't have happened.”

  I turn away from him, making a desperate lunge for the bin before losing the contents of my stomach into it.

  * * * *

  I lift my head cautiously and my eyes open to slits, the bright green glow from the clock gradually forming numbers: 11:48. I'm lying face down, my arm hanging over the bucket that's been put next to my bed. I catch a glimpse of the slimy contents, before closing my eyes again to face the ache behind them. Each painful beat brings back half-formed images and words—shimmering turquoise liquid, “my dad… cancer,” arms around me, Bradley through a fish-eye lens, “shouldn't have happened….” I try to grab at those thoughts, to pull them together and make some sense of last night, but they slip away like smoke, except for the last one which throbs over and over in my head, “shouldn't have happened.”

  I stagger to the bathroom to take a long, frothy piss before turning to the sink and splashing water over my face. Just looking at my toothbrush almost sets off my gag reflex, so instead I shove my face under the running tap, turning my head to let the cold water rinse my dry mouth.

  I pad downstairs to the kitchen and sit on one of the breakfast bar stools, laying my head down on the kitchen counter. The faux marble top is cool and comforting against my cheek.

  “How you feeling?” Mum's voice comes from the doorway.

  I don't lift my head. “Like shit.” I can't form the words to tell her that my whole world has fallen apart.

  “Serves you right.” I hear a loud sigh. “For God's sake, Josh, I never want to see you like that again.” She comes over and rests a hand lightly on my back. I would usually duck away, but I don't have the energy. “Look at me.”

  I crack my eyes open, just enough to make out an orange halo of hair. “Were there drugs at this party, Josh?” Her hand rubs against the knobbly bones at the back of my neck.

  “Nah.” I can't help winding her up a bit. “Well, just a bit of heroin.”

  “Oh, honestly!” I regret being a smartarse because she lands a slap on the back of my head. It's as gentle as a brush from a sparrow's wing, but it still sets off the pounding again. “I'm not kidding Josh. It's dangerous drinking like that. You could have choked on your own vomit. You should be thankful to Bradley that he got his mum to collect you, although from what Bonnie said, he was in just as bad a state as you were.”

  “Is that how I got home?” I ask, my lips almost dribbling the words against the breakfast bar.

  “See!” she says. “You can't even remember. Anything could have happened to you. I don't suppose you remember throwing up in Bonnie's car, do you?”

  “Oh God,” I groan.

  “So, you know what you need to do today, don't you?” I don't answer her, but she fills in for me anyway. “You need to give Bonnie a call, apologise, and offer to clear up the mess.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And when I say call Bonnie, I mean, call Bonnie. Not Bradley. She wasn't happy last night, Josh, and who can blame her?”

  My fingers are fiddling with the paperwork on the counter. I brush my thumb backwards and forwards over it, in a soothing rhythm in time to the throbbing pulse in my head. A pile of bills and letters and leaflets. That stupid yellow one that changes everything is in there somewhere.

  “Mum?”

  “Yes?”

  “Has Dad got cancer?”

  Her fingers stop kneading at my neck.

  “Yes.”

  “He'll be okay though, won't he?”

  There's a long pause. “He's starting his treatment on Thursday next week.”

  It's not what I asked her.

  * * * *

  I have to look up the number in Mum's address book. I never call Bradley at home, always his mobile, so I'm pretty sure it won't be him that picks up the call, and thankfully I'm right. Bonnie doesn't sound as pissed off with me as I thought she would, which is a relief because she can be pretty scary sometimes. “I've cleaned up the mess already,” she tells me, and I'm glad she can't see the way my face reddens at the thought of her scrubbing away my puke from her pristine seats. “But if you want to do something to make up for it, you can come and join Bradley doing the outside of the car this afternoon. He needs to get back in my good books more than you do, and the car needs a good clean.” The way I feel at the moment, clearing up vomit would have been a preferable option to facing Bradley, but I can't very well say no.

  He's already started by the time I've cycled round. Dressed in shorts and an old grey T-shirt, he offers me a quiet 'hey,' before he casts his eyes down to the foamy bucket on the ground and picks up a sponge to pass to me.

  I take it without a word, and start soaping the bonnet of the car. Bradley does the side, and somehow we manage to time it so we don't need to squeeze the sponges into the bucket at the same time.

  It's another hot day, the sky virtually cloudless, and the rays of the sun feel good warming my skin. The dull ache in my head finally lifts, leaving just the one in my chest that has nothing to do with drink.

  Eventually, the only part of the car not covered in foamy bubbles is the back, which means we have to work on it together. I start by soaping the boot, while Bradley scrubs at the bumper.

  It's Bradley who breaks the silence first. “How's your dad?”

  “He's got cancer,” I tell him. “I mean, I thought he did, but yeah, he definitely does.”

  “Shit,” Bradley says. “I'm sorry, mate. But you know, I'll bet he'll be fine. Look at Katie Saunders’ mum. She had cancer and she's fine now.”

  “Yeah,” I say. I don't mention Zach Stone's mum. She died last year.

  When I've finished the boot I crouch down to run the sponge over the bumper, just as Bradley does the same. Our hands touch, and as if there's a static shock between us, we both snap back immediately.

  “Sorry,” Bradley says.

  “S'okay,” I tell him.

  “Josh?” He stops what he's doing and for the first time today looks me directly in the eye.

  “Yeah?”

  “Last night, what happened…. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean for it….”

  “S'okay,” I say again. “It wasn't you anyway. I was so drunk and when you hugged me I just…. Can we forget about it? Go back to how we were?”

  He shakes his head. “I don't know.”

  My heart drums an uneven rhythm against my ribcage. I've lost him.

  He's still looking straight at me. “Josh?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you gay?”

  It doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore, so I square my shoulders, look into his eyes and say it out loud for the first time. “Yeah, I'm gay.”

  “Okay.” He lets out a shaky breath. “And um, do you like me? You know, like that?”

  I can't deny it. Not after last night. The least Bradley deserves is my honesty. “Yeah, I do. But it doesn't....” My voice
trails off before I tell him it doesn't have to change anything, when we both know it does.

  For a moment, he just stares at me, his grey eyes wide. And then, he tips his head forward and kisses me lightly on the lips. It's a chaste kiss, so different from yesterday's. It's beautiful and gentle—a promise of friendship that means the world to me. So this time, I'm careful not to grab at it. I close my eyes and take what he wants to give me, nothing more. When I open them, he's looking at me, a grin on his face that dimples his cheek. He laughs. “You're allowed to kiss me back, y'know.”

  “Huh?”

  “You can kiss me, you dick.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean....” He leans forward again and crushes his lips hard against mine. This time my mouth opens to his tongue for a second before I reluctantly push him away.

  “Bradley, please don't mess with me.”

  He looks taken aback. “How am I messing with you?”

  “What happened yesterday. And now this. I don't get it.”

  He shakes his head. “Yesterday was my fault. I know that. The thing is, I've felt like this about you for ages and I was pretty sure you felt the same. I wanted to talk to you about it at the party. I guess that's why I got so drunk. I was shitting myself in case I'd got it wrong. But then when you told me about your dad, it's like everything was all messed up. You needed a friend, and I didn't act like one. I'd wanted to kiss you for so long that when I started it was like I couldn't stop, and I dunno, it shouldn't have been like that. I've thought about it so many times, but yesterday it just wasn't right.”

  “You've thought about kissing me?” I put my hand up to rub at my chest, where it suddenly feels tight. “Really?”

  He shuffles back and sits on the wet ground, hanging his head down with pretend embarrassment. “Seriously Joshy, I'm always thinking about it. Why else do you think I have to cover up when your mum comes in, in the mornings?” The dimple in his cheek deepens. He catches my fingers in his soapy hand. “So what do you think?”

  “About?”

  “About us?” Us. Fucking hell.

  “Do you think we can make a go of it?”

  The truth is, I don't know, but at least this time when our lips meet, neither of us pulls away.

  * * * *

  “How did it go?” Mum asks, when I finally get home. “You were ages!”

  “Huh?”

  “Bonnie's car? Nice and clean?”

  “Oh that, yeah, it's good. She seemed okay about it. She wasn't even that angry. I think she'd already taken it out on Bradley.” Bradley. The name sounds different coming from lips that have been kissing him all afternoon. How long has it been since I last saw him? Twenty minutes? Far too long.

  “I'm going up to my room.”

  “Okay.”

  I race upstairs, and flop straight down on my bed, taking my mobile out of my back pocket. I'm going to call him, but there's something I want to do first. I check my Facebook feed. 'Bradley Holmes is In a Relationship.' Oh yeah. I drop my head to the bed and smile against the mattress. He's beaten me to it.

  Part Two

  Not Letting Go

  I've just reached Lieutenant II on Black Ops when she tells me. She doesn't say a word. Not out loud. Just knocks quietly on my door, and without waiting for me to answer, walks in. She looks at me, her face all pinched, her eyes bright, and I know. I know.

  I shift on the bed to let her sit next to me, and she gently pats one of my socked feet. She's wearing her Owl and Pussycat jumper. That's what Dad calls it. Called it. He bought it for her last Christmas after she'd been to have her colours 'done,' by some life coach or something. She came back telling us that pea green was 'her colour,' because it's supposed to go well with red hair. Mum calls herself a 'proud ginge,' even adding bright coppery streaks to her natural, already vibrant red. I've inherited her pale skin and a dash of freckles across my nose, but thankfully, not her hair colour. No need for me to march at a Ginger Pride rally! I'm not sure if she wore her Owl and Pussycat jumper today especially, but it's nice that she did. A souvenir of our last Christmas all together. I wonder if Dad noticed.

  She reaches out and squeezes my leg. “Julie's coming round,” she says. “Just Julie. Mike's staying at home with the twins. They're too young. They won't understand.” I nod, and wish I was three years old instead of seventeen.

  She looks at me. “Are you okay?” she asks, and I nod again, closing my eyes for a moment, waiting for a tsunami of grief that doesn't come. My heart still beats at its usual pace, the air in the room—lightly fragranced with Mum's rose perfume, mixed with a sharp tinge of antibac—still makes its way in and out of my lungs. Nothing has changed. I'm still the same Josh Roberts. An insignificant speck on planet Earth.

  The first thing I want to know is, “can Bradley come round?”

  For a moment she opens her mouth to say something, and I think she's going to say no, but then a tight smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “Yes,” she says. “If you want him to, then I think that would be nice.” The mattress moves a little as she stands up. “Do you want to come downstairs? Julie'll be here in a minute. I'll get the kettle on.” Of course, a cup of tea.

  My hand rests on the phone by my side. “I'll just call Bradley,” I tell her. “And then I'll be down.”

  She's about to go out when she turns to me, her fingers fiddling carelessly with the sleeve of her Owl and Pussycat jumper. “We'll be okay, love,” she says. “Just us. It'll take a while, but we'll be okay.”

  I hear the soft tread of her feet on the stair carpet, and pick up my phone. There's a small photo of Bradley on the home screen, one I took of him on a trip to Thorpe Park last summer. His hair's all messed up from the ride we've been on, and there's a massive goofy grin on his face that's every inch Bradley. Even though it's only just over a year ago, I can see how he looks a bit older now. He's filled out a little and he wears his dirty blond hair a lot shorter. I tap on the photo. I automatically tap on text, and my fingers hover over the keyboard, wondering what to put. I flick back to his picture and press call. He picks up straight away. “All right?” he says, and I tell him yes, even though it wasn't a question, and it isn't the right answer anyway. “What you up to?”

  “Nothing much,” I say. “My dad died.”

  There's a long pause before he says anything, and what he does say is “Shit.” Shit.

  “Fuck, Joshy. When?”

  “Just now.”

  “Shit,” he says again. “Are you okay?”

  “Can you come round?”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. Can you?”

  “Yeah. Hang on....” The sound on the other end becomes muffled, before he comes back to me. “My mum's gonna drop me off. You sure that's okay? You know, is your mum all right with me coming round? If not then, I dunno... I can....”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I already asked.”

  “Oh, okay. I'll um... I won't be long.” There's a long pause—so long I check to see if he's hung up. “Joshy?” he says, his voice shaky. “I'm sorry.”

  * * * *

  He doesn't ring the doorbell, just gives a soft knock against the door. I wonder if it's some unspoken Morse Code for 'someone died.' Mum and Julie look at me. “It's Bradley,” I tell them, even though they know.

  Bradley's mum, Bonnie is there too. She hasn't got changed from work, and it strikes me how smart she looks, in her winter coat and heels, rather than the thick anorak and boots she usually has on for the football run. Bradley stands on the doorstep with her, looking awkward, like I have to invite him in or something.

  “Josh, we're all really sorry,” Bonnie says. “Is your mum there?”

  “Yeah sure. Mum!” I yell, instantly breaking the rule of hushed whispers in the aftermath of death.

  When Mum comes, Bonnie keeps the tone of her voice much more appropriate than mine. “Sue, we're really sorry. If there's anything we can do….” It's what people say.

  “Thanks. We'll be ok
ay.” She blurts it out so quickly, I have no idea if she really believes it. It's what people say.

  “Well seriously, if you need help with anything. I don't know, shopping, lifts for the boys, anything, just let me know.”

  Mum nods. “Thanks, we will.”

  Bonnie takes a deep breath, and lightly touches Bradley's arm. “Bradley, tell me when you want picking up. It can be as early or as late as you want.” She shoots a look at Mum, to make it clear that it's up to her how long Bradley stays.

  “Thank you,” Mum says. “We'll let you know.”

  Bradley and I go up to my room, and I close the door, even though it's against the rules. It's something Mum and Dad had to think about quite a lot when Bradley and I first came out as a couple. She told me that they weren't sure how to deal with it, especially because Bradley had slept over on the camp bed in my room for years when we were just mates. In the end, they came up with the rule of leaving the door open. They thought it was a fair compromise, seeing as they probably wouldn't have let a girlfriend sleep over in my room at all. As it turns out, Bradley and I often have time alone in the house anyway, so the open door rule is no biggie. Except for today.

  Bradley sits on the bed, just where Mum was when she told me—or didn't tell me—and I sit beside him. He puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me towards him. “I don't know what to do,” he says, and all I can do is nod, because I don't either. “Do you want me to hold you?” He wraps his arms tight around me. The chill February air still clings to his jacket, but he feels warm and safe, and all I can think is that we've never really hugged before. Not like this. Not without kisses and urgency, and hands all over each other, both of us listening carefully for the creak of the stairs. He reaches a big hand up, and threads his fingers through my hair. “Joshy,” he breathes. “I'm so, so sorry.”

  We snuggle back on the bed, and I rest my head on his chest. I close my eyes and listen to the gentle thud of his heartbeat, as his fingers brush lightly against my cheek. This... this is real love.