by Lisa Worrall
Of course, Jenny had tried to talk to him about their new neighbours on several occasions, but Micah had shot her down every time. He had no wish to go over everything with his mother. She'd been there for the fallout last time, for God's sake, did she honestly think caring and sharing would change anything?
Micah scowled at Harry as he sat down opposite him, completely ignoring the lack of invitation. "Are you deaf?" Micah complained, gripping his beer.
"Nope, but the only way you'll talk to me is in public," Harry replied. "I know how much you hate to make a scene."
"You don't know anything about me."
"Micah," Harry sighed heavily before taking a mouthful of his drink and wiping away the foam with his fingers. "We need to talk."
Micah leaned forward and lowered his voice. "You said everything you had to say six years ago."
"Micah, please. There are things you need to know, things I should have told you before." Harry's voice held a pleading note, but Micah ignored it.
"What do I need to know? That what we had was a lie? That you never loved me? That you're married with a kid on the way? I think I'm up to speed, thanks."
"I'm not married," Harry ground out.
"Whatever," Micah spat, suddenly aware Maggie was staring at them from behind the bar. He drank the rest of his beer in four swallows and put the empty bottle on the table. "You must be confusing me with someone who gives a shit." What did he want from him? Why was he even talking to him? "Why don't you go back to your cosy little cottage with your pregnant girlfriend, and leave me the hell alone."
Micah started to push his chair but, but Harry moved faster. He snatched Micah’s wrist, preventing his escape. "I don't want to."
Harry swallowed hard and Micah couldn't help but watch the muscles work in Harry's throat. He was momentarily mesmerised by them. What the fuck did Harry mean he didn't want to leave him alone? Micah gazed at him, his world tilting on its axis, Harry's touch burning into his skin. He gazed in confusion at the differing emotions flitting across Harry's face—anger, despair, fear—why fear?
"Why did you come here, Harry?" Micah asked, inwardly cursing the catch in his voice. He stared in disbelief as Harry's eyes shone with unshed tears and he dropped Micah's wrist, then stood up. If he thought he was confused before, he was in stunned disbelief at Harry's parting shot.
"Because I needed somewhere safe and the only time I've ever felt safe was with you."
*
Micah sat Algie on his knee, holding up his wrinkled chin with one hand as he patted his back with the other. Sarah had called him in a panic earlier, sobbing down the phone. Algie wanted feeding hourly and she'd reached the point where she couldn't stand it anymore, and was definitely the worst mother in the world. When he'd arrived almost an hour ago she'd been a weepy mess, her nipples cracked and bleeding, Algie screaming up a storm and Gary flitting from one to the other with no idea what to do for either of them.
The first thing he'd done was send Gary into Winbourne for a tin of Aptamil and some Lasinoh nipple cream. Then he'd told Sarah to pull herself together, not every woman can master breastfeeding for a myriad of reasons, and she was not a bad mother because it hadn't worked for her. After that, while Sarah bathed her nipples with the warm water and cotton wool he'd given her, he trotted into the kitchen to open the fridge. He found a Savoy cabbage in the salad drawer, pulled off two of the outer leaves and took them back into the lounge. When he instructed Sarah to put the cool leaves inside her nursing bra, she’d looked at him as though he was mental, until he assured her they would soothe her uncomfortable breasts while they waited for Gary to get back.
Finally, he filled a sterilised bottle with cool boiled water and settled in the armchair with Algie to coax him into drinking some to ease his grumbling belly. He was now burping his Godson, and a much calmer Sarah stared at him in disbelief after he'd relayed his brief conversation with Harry in the pub that afternoon.
"He said what?" she demanded.
"That he needed somewhere safe and the only time he'd felt like that was with me," Micah repeated, grinning at the healthy belch Algie gave and settling him back in his arms.
"But he was the one who broke up with you," Sarah pointed out. "And what the hell does that mean, 'he needed somewhere safe'? Cryptic much? What happened after that?"
Micah shrugged and put the bottle on the coffee table beside him—Algie having dozed off. "He shot out of there like his arse was on fire."
"Wow, Maggie must have had a field day with that bit of scandal. I bet she nearly peed her knickers. Her and Doris will be turning their radar on to see who gets the juicy stuff first." She ran a hand through her hair, wincing at the movement. Her gaze became thoughtful, and Micah knew the conversation was about to take a turn. All he could do was steel himself and hope she'd not go all Oprah on him—"And how are we feeling about the dickhead's confession?"—bugger.
Micah wished he had the luxury of dozing off without comment, like Algie, but no such luck. His smile was derisive. "I don't know how you're feeling, but I'm not sure what to feel. I'm tired, confused, angry, hurt; sick of keeping this ridiculous fake smile plastered on like some kind of Halloween mask and, do you know the really annoying thing? Right now I'm torn between kicking the shit out of him and ripping his clothes off. But apart from that, I'm doing just fine. Thanks for asking."
"You know the offer to gank him is still open, right?"
"Gank him?" Micah laughed, his first genuine laugh all day. "What the hell have you been watching?"
"They're showing re-runs of Supernatural. Dean and Sam keep me company during Algie's late feed." Sarah scowled at him as he shook his head and laughed again. "Don't mess with me, Lewis. I'm beyond tired, my nipples are bleeding, my stomach has more lines on it than an afternoon in detention and there's cabbage in my bra. So unless you want to spend the night in Casualty having your head removed from your arse, now's the time to shut the fuck up."
“I never thought it was possible,” Micah grumbled, “but having this kid has made you even crankier.”
“Once you’ve shit a bowling ball then you can have an opinion on my mood,” Sarah countered as quick as a flash. “Not before.”
“I hate it when you play the uterus card,” Micah said mock-affronted. “I can’t follow that.”
“Uterus or no uterus,” Sarah said on a half-yawn. “I will always be infinitely more superior, so the real question is, why do you even bother starting a fight you already know you’re going to lose? It’s amazed me for years that you still continue to try and come out on top. Trust me, you’ll be much happier when you finally admit girls are better, end of.”
“That’s the key to your whole superiority theory?” Micah said incredulously. “Your entire argument hinges on the statement... girls are better, end of? I’ve got socks more mature than you.”
“And I’ve got some mould on the bathroom tiles more intelligent than you.”
When Gary walked into the room a few minutes later, his arms laden with shopping, he found the two of them giggling like teenagers with Algie asleep in his Moses basket. His gaze flitted from one to the other and he sighed heavily, sending them both into even more fits of laughter. Micah tried to send him an apologetic smile as Gary stomped into the kitchen, but he’d known for years that Gary had long since given up trying to understand either one of them.
After a huge glass of wine that seemed to go on forever, Micah finally kissed everyone goodbye and started on the long journey home—well, the ten minutes it took to get from one end of the village to the other. He sniggered to himself as he bumped into the lamppost—it had been more like a bowl than a glass—in his slightly inebriated state he figured it might take him a couple of minutes longer.
Unfortunately, Micah's mellowed out mood came to an abrupt end as he approached his house and saw the carton of orange juice left earlier by Pat the village milkie, wasn't the only thing waiting on his doorstep. Micah scrubbed a hand over his face, glancing around
to see if he could make it across the narrow street and over Mr and Mrs Burkes' back gate before Harry spotted him. In the three point two seconds he weighed up his chances, Micah watched Harry rise to his feet. Bollocks—should have just gone for it. Cursing his hesitation, he quickened his pace and headed up the path, closing his gate behind him. When he'd reached the doorstep Harry now stood on, Micah crossed his arms and stared at him, waiting for Harry to speak. He sure as hell wasn't going to help the guy out.
"Can we talk?"
"About?"
"Us."
"There is no us, apparently there never was."
"For God's sake will you stop playing the martyr for five minutes and just listen to what I have to say—unless you want to have a shouting match right here within earshot of your mother and half the village?"
The tension rolled off Harry in waves and, judging by the expression on his face, Micah knew he'd have no problem airing a whole pile of dirty washing in public if Micah pushed him. If it weren't for the fact Jenny would never forgive him for making the Lewises a topic of village conversation, he'd have told Harry to fuck off. As it was, he did the only thing he could do—he jiggled the key in the lock, kicked the bottom left hand corner and opened the door. He motioned to Harry to go inside and then followed him, closing the door behind him. As an afterthought he slid the top bolt across. Turning around he noted Harry's raised eyebrows at the gesture and he looked at him with disdain, ice dripping from each word. "My mother has a key."
"Ah, right."
"Kitchen's at the end of the hall," Micah pushed at Harry, who seemed rooted to the spot. "I keep the vodka in the fridge. If I've got to listen to you spouting platitudes, I'm gonna need a drink."
"Thanks."
Micah followed Harry into the kitchen and walked straight to the fridge. He pulled out the half empty bottle of Smirnoff and an unopened carton of orange juice. After closing the fridge door he turned to the cupboard above the work top and took out a glass.
"Um… I might need one of those, too." Harry's request was tentatively made, and Micah responded by taking down another glass and slamming it onto the glossy black surface. He poured generous measures of vodka into both and then topped it off with orange juice, noting his unwanted guest had already made himself comfortable. He picked up both drinks, and sat down opposite Harry at the small kitchen table. He slid one of the glasses to Harry across the varnished wood, and swirled the contents of his own around to mix them before taking a healthy swig.
"Is this going to take long?"
Harry shook his head at Micah's aggressive tone and shrugged. "Depends how often you interrupt."
"Please, go on." Micah made a motion as though he were pulling a zip across his mouth, then unzipped it to add, "I'm all ears," and zipped his lips closed again.
"Very mature," Harry muttered under his breath, but still loud enough for Micah to mishear, to which he testified by flipping Harry off. "Wow," he huffed out a joyless laugh. "I thought that when I finally had a chance to explain myself to you I'd be cool and collected." He held a hand out in front of him and Micah saw how his fingers shook. "I'm trembling—but then you've always had that effect on me." Micah kept his gaze on Harry's, not willing to give an inch. Not wanting the man to know he wasn't the only one affected by their nearness.
"Well, I guess I'm just gonna say what I came here to say." Harry cleared his throat, took another mouthful of vodka and set the glass down. "God, I've practised this so many times… okay…. Remember how you always asked me why I was never ready to make our relationship public? Truth was, I was ready, right from the start, right from that stupid karaoke night. But there were things you didn't know about me. Things I should have told you, but I wanted to keep you separate from that part of my life. I didn't want what we had to be tainted by it."
Micah frowned in confusion. Tainted? What things? What part of his life? He studied Harry's demeanour, noting the hunching of his shoulders and the way his gaze kept flitting between Micah's face and his own hands. How his knee had started up a rhythmic rise and fall as though he were pressing on a nerve, and the way Harry seemed to constantly lick his lips as if his mouth were drying out between words.
"Have you ever heard of Harold Wainwright? Of course you have, who hasn't, right?" Harry mentioned the name of the well-to-do member of parliament and Micah nodded. As Harry said, who hadn't heard of him? The man practically lived in the public eye, manipulating and courting the press as he saw fit. Whenever he'd seen him on the telly or in a newspaper, Micah hadn't liked the look of Wainwright, with his upper crust accent and dead eyes, like a shark's. But what the hell did he have to do with anything? He didn't have to ponder the question long. "He's my father."
"He's your what? You don't even have the same name!"
"Boyd is my grandmother's maiden name," Harry said, drawing circles on the table top with his finger.
"When I started uni I didn't want anyone to know I was related to one of the government's staunchest homophobes. I didn't really think that would go down too well, especially when I was one of the abominations—said with quotey fingers—my father spent most of his time petitioning against. Not that my father would have…" Harry trailed off and stared at the table. He sighed heavily, colour rising in his cheeks.
"What?" Micah asked.
"My first memory is of my mother falling to the floor, her blood dripping onto the marble tiles where his signet ring split her lip. She was always so fragile looking and I remember wondering why she didn't smash into a million pieces like glass, she hit the floor so hard." Harry took another drink and forced a half smile to his lips. "It's funny the things that go through a kid's mind isn't it? Anyway, let's just say my father was very hands on with my mother and me, but she became adept at hiding the bruises, both hers and mine. She bore the brunt of it all, because she would put herself between us and protect me the only way she knew how, with her body.
"My mother fought long and hard to get him to agree to my attending Nottingham, and I mean that in the literal sense. She told him I needed independence. He gave her a fat lip. She told him I wanted to be a teacher. He punched her to the floor. She told him it would put him in good graces with his constituency. He kicked her black and blue. She told him how revered he would be if he was seen to be sending his son off to become a man of higher learning—to give his son the opportunities denied him by his own father. He bruised her kidneys and left her pissing blood for a week. In the end she somehow managed to convince him it was his idea and what a fine one it was, and his parting shot was to rip out a handful of her hair and tell her I could go, but only as pre-law. No son of his was going to be a pansy-arsed teacher." Harry ran a hand through his hair and the movement opened a locked drawer in Micah's mind labelled… how soft Harry's hair felt as it brushed against my skin. He shook his head and the drawer slammed shut.
"But when we met you were in the teaching programme." Micah was having trouble getting to grips with the tide of information spilling from Harry.
"My mother's idea. As far as my father was concerned, I was pre-law. Only she and I would know I was following my dream," Harry replied.
"I'm sorry he hurt you and your mum, Harry," Micah said, his heart heavy. "But what does it have to do with us?"
"Because he found out," Harry replied, his voice barely audible.
"About us?" Micah didn't know why he asked when he knew the answer.
"About all of it."
"What happened?"
"What do you think happened?" Harry stared at Micah in obvious frustration. "At graduation, when you were having your picture taken with your mum, one of the jocks passed me a note, instructing me that my father was waiting for me in the teachers car park, and that my mother was with him. My gut told me he knew, I just hoped it was only the teaching." Harry downed the rest of his drink.
"Mum had tried to cover up the bruises, but the beating was too fresh to hide. There was a lot of screaming and shouting, mostly him. I could handle his thre
ats to me, but when he threatened you and your future, he knew he had me over a barrel. My father is a devious and violent man and some of the people he has dealings with wouldn't hesitate to do whatever he asked of them for a price. I knew that, and my father knew I knew. I never wanted to hurt you, Micah, but I didn't have a choice. If you'd been hurt because of me, or your chance at a career had been ruined, I'd never have forgiven myself. Don't you see? I had to keep you safe."
"I think I need another drink."
"No, you don't," Harry snapped. Micah flinched when he launched himself off the chair and sank to his knees in front of him, grabbed and held one of Micah's hands between both of his. "I'm not finished. Micah, I picked Little Mowbury because of you. You'd told me so much about the place, I felt like I knew everything about the village and everyone in it. You've no idea how excited I was about coming here to spend time with you and your mum after graduation—the chance to be part of a normal family, even for a little while. But my father ruined everything. Have you any idea how hard it was for me to know you believed I didn't love you? I did. I never stopped."
Harry lifted Micah’s hand to his cheek and Micah felt the scratch of Harry’s stubble against his palm. His heart beat frantically and his head began to spin. What was Harry saying? He lied to keep him safe from his father? Came here because of him? Still loved him—what? It was too much information to process. He tried to grab onto one of the gazillion thoughts fighting for supremacy in his head and make some sense of this mess, but Harry's lips pressed to the inside of his wrist made it hard to think of anything at all.
"I'm sorry," Harry murmured, rising high on his knees and shuffling even closer. Micah swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat as Harry leaned in and laid his head on his shoulder, soft dark hair brushing against his cheek. "So sorry."
Micah closed his eyes at the feel of Harry's breath, hot on his skin, sending a shiver of anticipation down his spine, his toes curling in his shoes. "Harry," he managed to gasp. "Please, don't." Okay, his addled mind had finally had some explanation as to why Harry had broken it off with him, but when it came down to it, what did it matter? Harry was still having a baby with the serenely beautiful woman fast asleep in Lilac Cottage. "I can't—"