Tribute Act

by Joanna Chambers

  “Rosie, I can’t— Oh, shit, don’t cry, poppet, please . . .”

  Mum went over to them, her angry expression morphing into one of pained concern as she put her arms round Rosie and met Derek’s worried gaze over my sister’s head.

  I glanced at Mack, sitting next to me on the sofa. He looked sad and lost and strangely helpless. Like he didn’t know what to do now.

  “Do you want to leave?” I said in a low voice.

  He nodded, his relief obvious.

  “Come on then,” I said, standing up.

  “Jonathan, love, wait,” Mum said. “Just for a minute. We should talk about—”

  “Another time, Mum,” I said, steering Mack to the door.

  “But Derek needs to—”

  “We can talk about it later,” I said firmly. Her gaze shifted between me and Mack, and I thought I saw some kind of understanding in her eyes, but she didn’t say anything, just nodded and let us go.

  We walked back to the flat in silence. As soon as we got in, I went straight to the kitchen and fetched us a couple of beers. When I walked into the living room, Mack was just standing there, staring at the floor. He hadn’t even taken off his beat-up leather jacket.

  I set the beers down, tugged his jacket off his unresisting arms, and steered him to the couch before handing him a bottle.

  “Thanks,” he muttered.

  I sat beside him. “Are you okay?”

  He sighed heavily. “Yeah, course.” Lifted the bottle and took a deep drink. Stared into space.

  “What’s wrong?” It felt like a stupid question. I wasn’t surprised he was upset, but I did wonder what in particular had him like this.

  Eventually he looked at me. “You never told me you were one of the owners of Dilly’s.”

  I blinked at him. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

  “Why didn’t you mention it? Why did you let me think my dad still owned it all?”

  “Why does it matter?” I countered, frowning.

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, dangling the beer bottle between his legs from loose fingers. All I could see was the back of his head, the defensive slope of his shoulders.

  “I felt pretty stupid when I heard. I thought we—” He broke off, blew out some air. “Ah, fuck it. It doesn’t matter.”

  My stomach sank. It did matter, whatever it was. I shifted, perching on the edge of the sofa so I could see him. In profile, he looked tired, and I wanted to reach out to him. But I couldn’t, because we didn’t ever touch, not unless we were having sex. It was against the unspoken rules we’d somehow established.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. Made myself be honest. “I suppose I didn’t mention it because I was uncomfortable about it. He’s your dad and this started off as his business. Now I own half of it and . . .” I trailed off.

  “And I don’t own any of it?” He glared at me. “You think that would matter to me?”

  “Not the money,” I said. “But I thought it might, you know, hurt your feelings. Because of the family thing.” I sighed. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”

  His glare faded. “I see.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, I get it. That makes sense. I should’ve realised it would be something like that. With it being you.”

  I burned to know what he meant by that, but didn’t want to push too hard. He seemed to be in a fragile place, and I was scared of tipping him over, so instead I just watched him, my stomach in knots.

  “Nathan,” he said after a while, still looking at his beer.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can we go to bed?”

  I had to swallow against the lump in my throat to answer him. “Yeah.”

  He wanted me to fuck him.

  He tried to make it into a fast, hard, anonymous quickie, just like he’d done that very first time. But just like that first time, I wasn’t having it. I slowed everything down, made him lie on his back when he wanted to be on his hands and knees, kissed him all over, stretched and licked him till he was a puddle of throbbing want.

  “God,” he rasped at last. “Will you please fuck me, Nathan? I need you.”

  “I need you.”

  Those words.

  I knew he only meant he needed me physically, but those words made my chest ache in the best way. I kissed him with every ounce of feeling that was in me, and when he kissed me back—not in that tongue-fucking way he’d got comfortable with, but tenderly—it felt like we must both, surely, be sharing that feeling.

  I need you.

  He was very ready for me when I finally sank my shaft inside him, his body drawing me in. I moaned into his mouth as he pulsed around me, and he wrapped his long legs about my hips, tilting his pelvis to give me the best possible angle. I rocked into him with exploratory nudges, till he gave a gasping sob that told me I’d hit what I was looking for. And then I set about nudging that spot again, and again.

  His body was wide-open to me, his arms and legs holding me close, and even then, it wasn’t enough. I didn’t just want these naked moments of sexual pleasure and orgasm. I wanted more from him, an emotional connection. So I kept my mouth on his, kissing him, watching him, willing him to open his own eyes, which he finally did.

  I love you.

  I desperately wanted to say it. It was on the tip of my tongue, but I knew it would make him run. I just knew. So I stayed quiet. I was sure, though, that he must see in my eyes how I felt about him. Must taste it in every kiss I gave him. I might as well be wearing a sign that announced to the world that he was it for me, it was so painfully obvious.

  I love you.

  When it was over, when we’d both come hard, together, he drifted off in my arms. Asleep in my arms for the first time since the night we’d met.

  I remembered his words from that night.

  “Hold me.”

  He hadn’t had to ask this time.

  When I woke up the next morning, I was alone.

  I wasn’t exactly surprised, but that didn’t stop me feeling empty when I saw the space in the bed beside me.

  I touched the pillow, still dented with the hollow that had cradled Mack’s head as he slept, only to snatch my hand away again. Jesus, what was wrong with me? This wasn’t me. I was pragmatic, resilient. I didn’t moon over anyone, had never done that over any of my boyfriends.

  The difference was, I was in love with Mack, and it was a deeper, sharper emotion than I’d ever experienced. Maybe I’d be happy if Mack felt the same way, instead of lying here, staring miserably at the ceiling.

  Fuck it. Time to get up. I had the day off and had planned to stay in bed for a while, but I couldn’t lie here any longer, brooding.

  It was the first Saturday I’d been off in ages, and I wondered what on earth I was going to do with myself. I’d got so used to spending what little free time I had with Mack, that I was at a loss. Maybe a run? It’d been a while since I’d done anything resembling exercise.

  I dragged myself out of bed, pulled on my robe, and wandered through to the kitchen. I wasn’t sure if I’d find Mack in there or not, but no, it was quiet. The living room was deserted too. Either he’d gone to his own bedroom and was still sleeping or he’d gone out.

  I tried to banish from my mind the suspicion that he might’ve just packed up and left altogether. That was ridiculous. Even so, as I ate breakfast, staring unseeingly at some American sitcom repeat on TV, my attention was elsewhere, listening for sounds of Mack getting up or coming back to the flat.

  Eventually, disgusted with myself, I dragged myself back to my bedroom and got my running gear on.

  I spent a good long time doing stretches before I headed off, making for Caerdu Castle. Once there, I would loop round the coastal path to Mother Ivey’s Bay and come back in at the other end of town. It was a decent six miles or so, starting with a punishing climb, so I’d be feeling it soon.

  The day was wintry and cold. A mackerel sky stretched above me, a ripple of grey over steely blue. As I ran uphill towards the rui
ns of the castle, my thighs burned, lungs heaving far too soon. It was easier though, once I got to the headland. The gradient dropped to nothing and as I circled round on the coastal path, on the flat now, I began to enjoy myself at last.

  The wind was strong up on the clifftops, ripping through my hair. Overhead, gulls screamed and kittiwakes circled. It felt good to be outside. Why had I let my runs slide? It was crazy considering one of the reasons I’d agreed to come home had been to spend more time doing stuff like this.

  I wished Mack was with me. I wanted to do all this stuff with him. All the ordinary, wonderful stuff that you found yourself desperate to share with a new lover. It hurt that I was never going to have that with him. Not the way I wanted anyway.

  I ran past the life boat station, and then I was on the home straight to Porthkennack, the wide, golden sweep of Mother Ivey’s Bay to my left, at the bottom of the cliffs. The beach was almost empty of people at this time of year, though I spied a few dog-walkers and a family with a couple of little kids rock-pooling. Another half mile took me off the uneven path and onto the flat tarmac road again. The buffeting wind and the cries of the gulls faded, replaced by the sounds of traffic and people.

  I brought my pace down to a jog as I made my way through town back to the flat, gradually letting my muscles cool. By the time I reached my street, I’d slowed to a walk. Scrupulously, I performed my stretches, then headed inside, feeling more centred and calm than I had in ages—until I strolled into the living room and saw that Mack was there. With Mum.

  They sat on either end of the couch, and Mum had clearly been crying. Her eyes were rimmed in black from where her mascara had run, and Mack was grim faced. The atmosphere was strained.

  “He feels terrible about everything,” Mum was saying. “He just finds it difficult to tell you—he was trying to yesterday, before Rosie interrupted.”

  Mack said nothing.

  She looked at me, her expression pleading. “Tell him, Jonathan.”

  “Tell him what?” I said flatly. I wasn’t happy to find her here, doing Derek’s dirty work—especially if she was trying to lay a guilt trip on Mack.

  “That Derek’s . . . well, he’s Derek.” She turned back to Mack. “He finds it hard to say sorry, even when he knows he’s in the wrong, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t all torn up about this! You think he doesn’t care, but the truth is, he’ll never forgive himself for leaving you.” She shook her head. “He has so many hang-ups. You’re probably not aware, but he had a difficult childhood—”

  Mack physically recoiled at that, one hand going up, palm out. “Lorraine, please stop. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “But if you understood—”

  “Mum,” I snapped. “He said no!”

  Her expression was wounded, and I added more gently, “You can’t expect him to listen to this. Not if he doesn’t want to.”

  She sighed, clearly defeated. “I know. I’m sorry.” She looked back at Mack. “I know you feel he left you behind, and I can only imagine how hard that was for you, but you deserve to know that it’s not that he wasn’t thinking about you all those years, and regretting his actions. Dylan, love, no one has regrets like your dad, but when anything comes up about emotions or feelings, he clams up. It’s like he thinks if he lets himself feel . . .” She shook her head helplessly.

  “Like he won’t be able to push the feelings back inside,” Mack finished for her. “Like maybe if he starts, he’ll completely lose it.”

  Mum blinked at him, seeming surprised. “Yes,” she said. “I think that’s it.”

  I studied Mack, wondering what had prompted those words. If they described how he felt himself, or if that was how he saw his dad. Maybe it was both.

  Mack sighed and rubbed a weary hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t know what you want me to do here.”

  Mum said, “Just talk to him. Tell him how you feel.”

  He laughed. “Tell him how I feel? Christ, Lorraine, you don’t ask much do you? I mean, Jesus, I already donated half my fucking liver to your kid! Now you want me to cut my heart out and hand it to that old bastard on a plate? No. For fuck’s sake!”

  He got to his feet and paced away to the window. I wanted to help him, but I wasn’t sure there was anything I could do. So I stayed where I was, leaning against the wall, watching.

  “You do feel something,” Mum persisted.

  He whirled around to face her, eyes blazing. “Feel something? Yeah, I feel something! I feel abandoned by him. I feel angry that the moment he met you lot he forgot all about me!” He swept his arm in my direction. “I feel resentful that he was more of a dad to Nathan than he ever was to me!”

  I swallowed against a lump in my throat and looked away, guilt and misery churning in me. In that moment, I felt his resentment like a wave crashing down on me. He must hate me. Hate all of us.

  “Nathan—” Mack’s voice was hoarse, pleading, and when I glanced at him, his expression was raw and naked, every bit of his mask ripped away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t resent you.”

  “You should. I would.”

  His gaze was bleak. “It’s not your fault. I know that.”

  “It’s not yours either,” I pointed out, because I had a feeling that, deep down, Mack thought that maybe it was. Or at least that Derek hadn’t come back because Mack hadn’t been worth the bother.

  Mum stood up then. I’d almost forgotten she was here.

  “I’m sorry I upset you, love,” she told Mack, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “I’ll give you some peace to think. Just please remember: the only reason I’m saying this at all is because I desperately want us all to be a family. I blame myself for allowing this to go on. Derek insisted it was best to let sleeping dogs lie, but I always knew that wasn’t right. I should’ve insisted he fix things.”

  Mack didn’t answer.

  “I’ll walk you out,” I told Mum.

  I went all the way downstairs with her to the main door that led out onto the street. As we stood there, on the front step, she looked me in the eye and said, “Something’s going on between you two, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t bother denying it. She knew me too well. “Yeah.”

  For a moment, she didn’t say anything but her expression was concerned.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You’re stepbrothers.”

  “So? It’s not like we grew up together. We only met a few months ago.” I didn’t bother explaining that we’d met before I ever knew who he was.

  “I know, but be prepared for people to gossip about it. This is a small town.”

  I gave a short laugh. “You needn’t worry, I don’t think this is going anywhere.”

  She looked relieved. “It’s not serious then?”

  “Not on his part.”

  My feelings about that must’ve shown, because her face fell. “Oh, love,” she said, eyes soft with sympathy. “Maybe he just can’t tell you how he feels?”

  I shook my head. “He’s planning on heading off. Soon. Once he goes, I reckon it’ll be the last any of us see of him.” My voice broke a little on the last part, and she reached for me, hugging me hard.

  “Have you told him how you feel?” she whispered into my ear, and I shook my head weakly.

  She pushed back from me, hands on my upper arms, gaze searching mine. “You should tell him,” she said. “I think he’s more like his dad than he’d ever want to admit. He’s aching to be loved, that boy. And you’re so lucky—you got so much love growing up, from me and your dad and your nanny and grandad. And from Derek and Rosie. That gives you a core of strength, you know.”

  Chest aching, I admitted the painful truth: “I don’t think he feels the same way.”

  “I don’t believe that,” she said fiercely. “But even if he doesn’t, if you let him go without saying anything, you’ll regret it one day. I know it’s hard to face the possibility of rejection, and I know you find it hard to tell people what you want so
metimes, love.” She let me go but her gaze was still intent on mine. “But if you don’t do that—don’t speak up—you might find your chance is gone.”

  When I got back up to the flat, Mack had his jacket on and his guitar case in hand.

  “I’m going to the pub,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “I told Don I’d pop down today to chat through the playlist.”

  Tonight was Mack’s debut—and maybe only—gig at the Sea Bell.

  “It’s only half eleven.” Did I sound desperate? More casually, I added, “Will they even be open yet?”

  Mack shrugged. “Don asked me to come before the lunchtime rush.”

  Yeah, I bet he did, I thought, remembering the guy’s hand on Mack’s biceps in the café and his ready smile.

  Mack brushed past me on his way to the door, and I considered stopping him, asking him to wait a minute.

  I need to tell you something.

  In the end, though, I bottled it. If I was going to tell him how I felt, I needed to think about what I was going to say.

  “I’ll see you later then,” I said instead.

  “Yeah, later.”

  After he left, I stood there, in the middle of the living room, wondering if I’d made a mistake. If I should’ve grasped the nettle, right then. But it was too late for that now.

  I showered and changed out of my running gear, made coffee, pottered round the flat. I was waiting for Mack to come back, turning over what I might say to him in my mind. Except he didn’t come back.

  It was nearly five when he texted me:

  Eating dinner at pub. C u at gig later. M

  Less than a minute later, my phone pinged again:

  If ur coming that is. U don’t have to. M

  I read those texts about ten times before I finally texted him back:

  Of course I’m coming. Idiot. N x

  Once I’d sent it, I started fretting that he didn’t actually want me there. A couple of minutes later, I got back:

  Ok. I’m on at 9.

  Not so much as a smiley face to hint at his feelings. I stared at my phone, not sure what to think.