by Anyta Sunday
William’s bedroom, he thought as soon as he stepped inside.
On the desk next to the lamp sat that book of poems he thought Vicky had given him. Now he wasn’t so sure. He took the leather bound book and really had a look at it for the first time. He sunk on the chair at the desk, the book opened on the third page, a slanted handwriting he’d never seen before telling him the book belonged to a William Paul Wallace.
God, world. Could you be for real? Sure he’d asked life to throw him a curveball—something he wasn’t expecting. Something to throw him for a loop.
But this?
Why couldn’t it have been something harmless? Better—something amazing. Like, heck, finding a winning lottery ticket or something—despite the fact he’d never played in his life. Or . . .
Why this?
And not to sound selfish— though really, that’s what it was—why did it have to happen today? He’d been so happy just hours ago, so freaking over-the-moon, and now he was falling right back to earth again.
The landing was a bitch.
Scrubbing his face with his hands, he let out a frustrated sigh. He put the book back by the lamp. He couldn’t wait any longer; he had to see Heath.
* * *
He’d never been into Heath’s hut—though he’d certainly wondered enough about it. In particular, how did the guy live; was he a mess-ball or a clean-freak? He’d have checked the place out, if only by peering through the windows, if it wasn’t for Murky. Murky’s kennel was snug against the olive hut, next to the stairs leading to the door. And the dog was always half sprawled out of his kennel.
But afraid of dogs or not, tonight he’d make it to the hut.
Balancing two cups of Earl Grey, one with milk and sugar, the way he knew Heath liked it, he moved across the yard. His pulse picked up as he neared the kennel, but he wasn’t anywhere near as freaked out as he’d thought. He kept repeating Heath’s earlier line about Murky’s biggest crime being eating Heath’s ice-cream, and it helped to get him up the stairs to the door.
Awkwardly, he tried knocking but splashed hot tea over his hand. Murky’s head jerked up as Will cursed. “Stay right where you are,” he warned the dog. “I have hot tea and I’m not afraid to use it.”
Suddenly the door opened and there was Heath: blotchy-eyed, nose running slightly and hiccupping a small laugh as he glanced at him and Murky.
But then he sniffed and disappeared back into his hut.
Taking the opened door as an invitation, and toeing his shoes off and leaving them by the door, Will walked into the tidy-ish hut. A flat screen television took up most of the end wall, atop a cabinet full of games and gadgets. He rounded a basketball and soccer ball sitting near the entrance, and a bookshelf crammed with books on Kant and Hobbes and political theory and some manga, and toward the bed that took up most of the room. The bed where Heath sat on the edge, fiddling with the brim of his cap on his lap.
Moonlight, filtering through the windows, made Heath’s skin shimmer silver in the otherwise dark room.
Heath dropped his cap beside him and reached for a tissue on his side table. After blowing his nose, he dared to glance at Will.
Again, the need to take Heath in his arms, and tell him it was okay, almost overwhelmed him.
“Tea for me?” Heath asked.
He handed him the tea and put his own on the crowded side table. Sinking to his knees, he knelt before Heath. Not close enough to touch, but so he could see Heath’s bowed face.
Heath swiped both eyes quickly. “I’m all good, you know.”
“I should have paid more attention to you telling me to leave,” Will said. A moment of silence. “I’m sorry about your brother.”
Heath sipped his tea. “Sugar, too. You know that? Thanks.” Then he breathed out, heavy and deep. “I should have told you.”
And despite the fact he’d thought exactly that not long before, now he was shaking his head. “No. I mean, maybe, but, I understand too.”
Heath placed the tea next to his own on the side table and picked up the cap again. “It happened about a year-and-a-half ago, June 17th. William—he went out to walk Murky. This drunk son-of-a-bitch was walking home—he tripped over Murky and rounded on my brother. Witnesses said he yelled that William should keep his fucking dog under control. My brother snapped back that if the guy could walk in a straight line, it wouldn’t have happened.”
Heath lost control of his voice and it cracked. And just like that, Will found his hands on Heath’s thighs, sympathetically rubbing back and forth.
“That was the last thing he said, before an unlucky punch knocked him back. He fell and hit his head against a concrete pylon. And that was it. As simple a thing as that. One punch. One.” He swallowed, Adam’s apple jutting hard. “Murky came back home. William didn’t.”
A tear dropped onto Will’s hand. “Sorry,” Heath said as he attempted to wipe it off. Will stopped him clutching his hand and squeezing.
“It’s okay. I’ll—I’m going to find someplace else to live. I won’t be a problem here anymore. It can’t be easy having me here.”
“Yeah. But that’s the thing. Since you came it’s made Mum the happiest she’s been. But it’s not real. It’s not healthy. And then, last week—something triggered her and she was back to lying in bed and taking anti-depressants.”
Will thought back. He remembered the morning Vicky had raced away after dropping him off at uni. She’d gone quiet after eying his box of office stuff. William, the box had on its side.
Oh God. That’s what did it.
Everything—everything—made sense now. Right from the start, with Heath not wanting to put his baggage in his room. In fact he never dared to be near his room. Ever. He always—at the most—knocked, and when Will opened, he’d find Heath halfway down the hall.
And Murky—how much Vicky disliked the dog as though she held a grudge against him.
Jesus. Even that first interview over the phone. He should have thought it was weird how excited Vicky got after he’d said his name.
And the way she only ever called him William.
It was all there and he failed to see it.
He stared at Heath’s smudged tear on the back of his hand, glistening slightly where the moonlight hit it. If he wasn’t here that tear wouldn’t have existed at all, would it?
He nudged closer, coming between Heath’s legs and dragging his hands up his thighs to circle around his waist. He needed to hug the guy, so dammit, he would. He tightened his grip, his head coming to rest against the man’s chest. Heath’s breathing hitched and then his hands were holding Will against him, seeking the comfort he offered.
“I should have told you,” Heath said again.
Into Heath’s thin t-shirt, Will spoke, feeling his hot breath bounce back to him. “I wish I’d known. I was angry today. At dinner—before Vicky said what she did—I already knew. I was so angry no-one had been honest with me, because . . . because I like you and your mom and I wouldn’t want to hurt either of you, but that’s exactly what I’m inadvertently doing by just being here. I mean, you both see me as a replacement for your brother or something—”
“I’ve never thought that,” Heath said, pushing himself from Will. “No one—no one—could ever replace my brother.” He looked at him square in the eye. “I never saw you as a brother. I’ve wished like hell that you . . . that you could be you by any other name.”
The sentiment was bitter and sweet at the same time, but mostly it was hopeful. Heart beating faster, he found himself talking. Like with Vicky, he spoke from the soul. But he should have stopped himself. Should have used his head instead. Because what he said came out wrong. “Do you see me as maybe something more?”
“More? More than my own brother? Fuck you, Will.”
He drew back, dropping his hands to his side. “I just meant, you know—with that kiss—”
“Bloody hell. It meant nothing, okay? Nothing! You’re too fucking pretty for me.”
“But the coffee
date and lunch today, I thought—”
“My mum just wanted me to put in an effort all right? She was giving me shit for us not hanging out!”
“But—”
“That’s all it was. Fuck.” Heath dropped back to the bed, palm grinding his forehead. “Please, just go.”
Go. Yeah, he got that. Already at his feet, he made across the room. Shit, why’d he have to say it that way?
Just as he reached the door, he turned back. “Heath, look, I’m—” sorry, he wanted to say. But Heath cut over him.
“Go!”
So he slipped out of the hut, darted past Murky and made it to the front porch, his cell already dialing Candice’s number. “Hey,” he said when she picked up, “about that offer . . . ”
* * *
Of course Rory had to be the one to open the door. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Here to see Candice.”
Rory eyed the bag he carried and then Candice as she hurried into the hall calling his name. “Oh, I get it,” he said. A grin crossed his face and he fisted Will’s upper-arm. “You’re doing Candy-cane. Nice. Guess I should apologize for thinking you were a gay wanker.”
“I am—” but Candice cut over his ‘a gay wanker and love it’ comment.
“Come on in! Rory, let him past, and aren’t you meant to be at Macaroons?”
“Not till tomorrow.” Then Rory waggled his brows at him and moved out the way. “Go get that Candy.”
Throwing her arms around him, Candice sighed. “So sorry about the Wallaces’.”
Rory, about to retreat down the hall, paused and looked back over his shoulder. “What about the Wallaces’?”
Candice ignored him. Yeah, he liked this girl. “Do you think they’ll be okay?”
Will closed his eyes briefly; there’d been so much pain in Heath’s eyes. Fuck, and he’d had to go making it worse. “I honestly don’t know. Heath was pretty upset.”
Rory was right by their side, his green eyes boring into him like if he tried hard enough, he could read his mind and get the answers himself. “Heath’s upset?”
Candice rounded on him. “This is none of your business.”
Rory shook his head. “Actually, it really is.” He looked back to him. “Did something happen with his mum? Fuck!”
Without waiting for an answer, he had his cell out and was dialing a number. “Hey man, it’s me,” Rory’s voice was soft, unlike Will’d ever heard it before. The guy bit his lip, frown deepening. “When you get this, give me a ring, yeah? Actually, fuck that. I’m coming up there right now. Be there in ten.”
Keys jangled and without a second glance, Rory was out the door and down the path.
Candice tugged his arm, pulling him into the kitchen. Bearded Doug was sitting at the table reading the paper, but he left to ‘study’ when they came in. “Sit,” she said, pointing to the bench.
Not wanting to sit on the bench, he leaned against it instead. Candice pulled out a bucket of ice-cream and two spoons, and climbed onto the bench, sitting there cross-legged next to him.
“I was intending to eat this punnet by myself,” she said, cracking open the lid to the goody-goody-gumdrops ice-cream, “but you look as shit as I feel. So I’m guessing you need some too.”
“Darn right,” he said, taking a spoonful. “So, what do you need it for?”
“Oh, you know,” she said, slowly scraping a thin layer off the ice-cream, “just apologized to Sig and completely got shut-down.” She attempted a laugh, but her shoulders shook as if it was a cry instead. She cleared her throat. “You?”
“My big, effing mouth. It never fails to screw me over. Never.”
“You know what?”
“No. What?”
Candice jumped off the bench and dug around in a cupboard. She came back with some vodka. “I think this ice-cream needs a kick, what-do-ya-say?”
Vodka, eh? He didn’t usually drink—hated the taste of alcohol. It’d been years since he’d had more than a sip of something. But damn, right now it sounded like the best plan. He wanted so badly to forget this night ever happened. Forget he’d screwed up again. Vodka seemed a fine way as any.
“Sounds like a plan, Candice. Bring it on.”
The problem with rarely drinking was it only took him two drinks to get drunk. And it turned out drunk Will was not a fun drunk. Instead, he was spilling his guts to Candice about how much he liked Heath. Like, really liked Heath.
Thankfully, Candice was much the same as him ‘on the booze’ as she called it, so it evened out. “I mean, it’s not like I want him for myself, you know? It’s just he deserves someone amazing. Harriet was only ever amazing in the looks department. Sig should have someone amazing in all departments.”
They’d migrated to the lounge where they were sprawled on the couch. He rested his head back on the couch. “You don’t want Sig for yourself?” He rolled his head to look at her. “Who are you trying to convince?”
She sighed. “Me?”
“Is that working for you?”
“Not at all.”
Candice pulled her hair into a messy bun, missing parts that hung over her shoulders. “Maybe I should dye my hair,” she said. “Maybe he’s just not into gingers.”
“Your hair’s fine. Don’t touch it. Besides, I don’t think either of us should change to be liked. We’re freaks and we love it, we deserve to be liked for who we are.”
“Well that’s all nice on paper, isn’t it? In real life it sucks. Don’t you just want your prince already?”
“Wizard, in your case.”
Her smile grew. “True.”
Will grabbed his drink from the coffee table and took another gulp. “So, sufficiently drunk yet? What’s your canvas about?”
She shoved him with her foot, laughing. “Charming. Real suave. Forget it.”
“You don’t even want to tell me to make me feel an incy-wincy bit better?”
“No. If I have to suffer my Sig woes, you have to suffer yours.”
“I don’t like you one bit.”
“Join the Sig club.”
* * *
He’d never drink again. Ever. Ever.
For one, meeting the bastards at Student Accommodation services with a hangover made his head hurt that much worse. Okay, so there was nothing available for him at the current time—they didn’t have to bellow it out three times as if he were deaf or something. Jesus.
But worse than the disappointment of being homeless, was what he found on his cell phone that morning. His outbox had three messages stored in it from him to Heath—all of them apologizing for his Big Stupid Mouth. If it didn’t make him feel embarrassed enough that he’d sent the damn things—there was a lot of whiney groveling—it made him feel worse that by that evening he hadn’t received a single message back.
It was feeling like shit that he’d rung up about two ads posted on a student board looking for roomies.
He made his way down the George Street driveway of the first interview he’d scored. Not three feet from the door and he wanted to turn around. Empty beer bottles and smashed glass lined the path leading to what might be his home-sweet-home until next semester. He shuddered, skirting past some plastic that looked suspiciously like a condom poking through the ground. But he wasn’t getting close enough to find out for sure.
Three knocks on the fog-glassed door and it was yanked open by a guy with heavy sideburns, in his early-twenties, scratching at a tuft of chest hair poking out of his singlet. “You the guy for the room upstairs?” The guy looked behind Will. “Where’s your shit? I’ll help you lug it in.”
“I thought this was an interview.”
“Interview, eh?”
“Yeah,” he said, glimpsing trash all over the hall floor and smelling rancid, stale beer.
“You good for the 85 bucks a week?”
He nodded, trying not to retch.
“Good, interview over.”
Oh yeah. Over. That’s for sure. Because no wa
y in hell would he force himself to live in this hovel.
He rang Candice, heading back toward her place. “Yeah, I’m going to need to crash at yours a while longer.”
A little while longer turned out to be the next week and a half. Actually, it was split between crashing on either Candice or Sig’s floor. Their clean, vacuumed floor that smelled relatively fresh.
But God, searching for a room was fruitless—only one place sounded marginally livable, but when he’d arrived, two Rottweilers had growled him right back down the drive again.
He banged his head on his desk after his most recent phone interview, with a chanting Buddhist. It was only him in the office, so he didn’t care it was theatrical. But man, he just wanted a place to sleep. A bed to sleep on, since Sig and Candice only had king singles.
“You all right there?” came Eric’s amused voice from beside him.
He looked up. “I thought you left for home for the evening.”
“I wish. Got to fix a bug in my software, test it, then maybe I can escape. What’s with you?”
Will shrugged, feeling a twang in his shoulder. “At this rate, I’m still going to be homeless for my birthday this weekend. At twenty-seven, I thought I’d be together enough to have a residence.” Actually, go back three years and he’d thought by this time he’d be married and have started a mortgage on his own place. Now he was slumming it on friends’ floors. “And whoever said sleeping on the floor is good for your back was delusional. I’m so”—he twisted his head until his neck popped—“stiff.”
Eric cocked his head as he smiled, the spiral tattoo under his ear glowing under the lights. “I have a king-sized bed if you want to sleep with me.” Immediately, his cheeks bloomed with color and he stuttered. “Ah, I didn’t mean . . . I just—”
Will leaned back, grinning. A small part of him suggested he play along with the slip—maybe instead of being miserable about Heath, he should try something new—see if sparks didn’t evolve. Unfortunately, the majority of him didn’t like the idea. It rather liked to cling onto the thinnest string of hope things would work out eventually, instead. Completely stupid, considering the guy hadn’t even acknowledged his apology.
He winked at Eric. “I gotcha. Don’t worry.”