by JL Merrow
“So are you.” She kissed him again, this time on the lips, and that was okay, yeah, a bit weird maybe, but then it got more intense, and that wasn’t what he wanted. Not really. Mal was just trying to work out how to cool things down without hurting her feelings when he heard a voice.
“Kirsty? Gawen said—”
It was Jory.
Jory. Mal pulled back from Kirsty so fast he nearly fell off the bench.
Jory was standing in the doorway from the house, hanging onto the doorframe like it was all that was holding him up.
Staring at them.
There was a horrible silence. All Mal could think of to say was It’s not what it looks like. And when did anyone ever believe that?
Jory’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I . . . Never mind. I’ll go.”
Before Mal could come out with a single word, Jory turned on his heel and left.
Mal stumbled to his feet, knocking over his half-full glass of cider which he’d left on the decking at the side of the bench. It didn’t break, which was good, wasn’t it? Thinking of omens and stuff. “I gotta go after him.” The warm cotton-wool haze from the alcohol had left him completely, but his head was still fuzzy, and how fucked up was that?
About as fucked up as his life right now. But he had to talk to Jory. He knew that much.
Kirsty grabbed his arm. “Wait a minute. You told me you and Jory weren’t a thing.”
“We’re not . . . Not exactly. Ah, shit.” Mal raked his hand through his hair.
“We get detention for swearing at school.” That was Gawen, poking his tousled blond head out the back door at them. “Why’s Dad gone already?”
“He forgot something,” Kirsty said. She was still holding on to his arm, and Mal didn’t want to wrench it away from her in front of the kid, but he had to go after Jory.
“Look, I gotta go. I’m—”
“I think he’s gone now. He came in his car.” Gawen was watching them with a weird detached curiosity, like he was going to write it all up for English class later, maybe under the title of How Adults Fuck Stuff Up.
Kirsty’s hold loosened, and Mal legged it round the side of the house to the front.
There was no sign of Jory or the Qubo.
Mal sank onto the pebbles in despair, his face in his hands. “Shit, shit, fuck.”
There was the crunch of footsteps. “You going to tell me what all that was about?” Kirsty’s voice was thin and tight.
Christ, where to start?
He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up big time.
Shit. He didn’t deserve to live. The look on Jory’s face . . . Mal scrunched his eyes shut, but it only made the image clearer.
Jory’d been so hurt.
It was the classic fucking bisexual cliché, wasn’t it? Can’t trust a bi bloke, they’ll always cheat. And with the bloke’s wife, for fuck’s sake.
“Christ, I’m such a shit,” he muttered into his hands.
But . . . he’d been so lonely, and she’d been so warm, and kissing her had made him feel close to Jory in some totally twisted way. He’d liked her. He’d really liked her. It hadn’t been the same—not remotely—as him liking Jory, but for thirty seconds, he’d got confused. And that had been all it took.
And now what the hell was he going to say to Dev when he got here? Yeah, met your uncle and he was all keen to get to know you, but then he caught me snogging his wife and now he’ll probably slam the door in your face just for being a mate of mine?
He didn’t deserve mates like Dev.
He didn’t fucking deserve anything.
“Come on inside. I’ll make some coffee.” Her voice was softer now, and a hand dropped onto his shoulder and squeezed.
Mal stood up. “No. I gotta go.”
He couldn’t stay here, not where it’d all gone so arse-wipingly wrong.
Mal started walking down the road, and Kirsty didn’t follow him, thank God. He needed to clear his head. Somewhere no one was going to find him. Christ, he wanted Tasha—but how the bloody hell could he tell her he’d fucked up Dev’s one chance of getting to know his mum’s family?
At least one thing they had a shedload of around here was empty space. People always said Cornwall was heaving in the summer but it was bollocks. Away from the tourist bits, there was no bastard there. Mal turned his steps in the direction of Mother Ivey’s Bay. He wasn’t sure exactly where he’d come out, but it didn’t matter, did it?
What did matter anymore?
He found himself heading up the cliff path towards Roscarrock House. And that was a fucking joke, that was, because Christ, after this evening, there was nobody in that house who’d let him in. Unless they planned on shoving him straight through the house and off the cliff the other side, that was.
Maybe he’d even let them.
It’d started to rain, big splats soaking through his T-shirt and making him shiver. He didn’t stop walking, though. At some point, his phone vibrated, but he ignored the call. If it was Tash, he’d end up having to tell her what had happened, and he couldn’t face that. If it was Jory . . .
Nope. Definitely couldn’t face that.
Fuck, it was getting dark. To be more accurate, it’d pretty much got dark. The rain was coming down harder now, drenching his shirt and running in trickles through his hair and down his face like tears. He should probably stop and find shelter.
Like that was an option. What was he going to do? Bang on the doors of one of the cottages? Break into the one Dev and Kyle had rented and should have been in by now? Besides, if he stopped walking, he’d start thinking, and he just couldn’t deal with that. Not now.
Mal carried on walking. Up the hill, and past Roscarrock House, and fuck, Jory would be in there, wouldn’t he? Thinking Mal was a total fucking bastard.
He’d be right.
It was so dark, Mal could hardly see the edges of the road. If some git came driving down here with no lights on, he’d be a goner.
“Shit!” Mal screamed into the night. Anything to make the pictures in his head piss off and leave him alone. The rain took his words and drowned them.
If someone hit him, would they care? Would it fuck them up like it’d fucked him up? Or would they get over it, like a normal person would?
Like his dad would?
He didn’t so much see the lay-by as notice a change in the darkness at the side of the road. This was where they’d come, him and Jory. It’d all seemed so easy, going down that tunnel. Fun. Going somewhere nobody else knew about—not Dev, not Tasha, not his mum and dad. Nobody. He’d loved it on that beach at the end of the tunnel. It’d been like the rest of the world hadn’t existed, just for a while—until Jory had brought him back to earth with a big, messy splat by talking about his family.
Mal stood there for a moment. Rain from his hair ran down his spine and into his kecks, making him shiver. Christ. Where was he even going? At least the tunnel had fucking well been dry.
Sod it. Mal turned into the field. Straight up until he hit the gate, right? He could do that.
He hit the gate literally, walking bang slap into it in the dark and the pelting rain, but that was okay. He was pretty much numb by now. All he had to do was walk on some more until he found the hole. And not fall down it, because that’d be a fucking stupid thing to do.
Mal climbed over the gate, because he bloody well could, and carried on walking. His foot turned a few times on the uneven ground—where was a proper pavement when you needed one?—but he managed not to break an ankle.
Visibility was down to Har har, you’re screwed, mate. Christ, he was going to miss the tunnel, wasn’t he? Probably spend the whole night walking around in the rain, if he didn’t go straight off the cliff. The buzz from all that cider had left him, and now he felt so. Fucking. Tired.
Maybe he should go back? But if he carried on this way, he’d get to Roscarrock House, right? He was on their land. And then there’d be lights, and he’d know where he was, and he’d be able to .
. . to call a cab, or Tasha, or fuck it, Dev, even. Except no, he couldn’t call either of them, could he?
Because he’d fucked everything up.
Water was trickling down through his hair, into his eyes, making them sting. God, he just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up . . .
And then the ground gave way.
It shouldn’t have hurt so much. Not like this. Not like a knife in Jory’s chest, slowly twisting every time he thought of Mal and Kirsty in each other’s arms—and the image of them together was seared into his brain.
Mal wasn’t his. He’d made that plain days ago. Jory had no call to be feeling so devastated. So betrayed. Why shouldn’t Mal and Kirsty . . .?
Oh God. Jory scrubbed at his eyes as he stumbled into the Qubo. He needed clear vision to drive. There was no Mal to save him from hitting stray pedestrians now, either real or imaginary ones. It wasn’t far, back to Roscarrock House. He’d almost walked from there to Kirsty’s, instead of bringing the car. Christ, if he had, he’d have got here, what, twenty minutes later?
What would he have walked in on then? Would Mal and Kirsty have been upstairs in bed? Maybe they’d have heard Jory knocking, would have sprung out of bed, tried to put on a front.
Maybe they wouldn’t have. After all, what claim did Jory honestly have on Mal?
But he’d hoped—
Jory cut off that line of thought viciously. He was driving. His eyes needed to be clear, damn it.
He somehow made it back to Roscarrock House without hitting anything, then sat, for a moment, in the car. Why the hell had he even gone out tonight? So he’d been lonely, stuck in a too-large house with a brother and sister who didn’t want him. So what? He could have phoned someone. Christ, he could have gone on bloody Facebook.
It seemed like he’d barely kicked off his shoes and slumped into an armchair before there was a ring at the doorbell. Jory ignored it. He wasn’t in the mood to be polite to people.
Then it occurred to him it could, possibly, be Mal, and he scrambled into the hallway, only to see Bran beat him to the door and open it as Jory skidded to a halt.
Bran’s body, and the angle of the door, shielded the caller from Jory’s view.
“Oh, hello. Everything all right?” Bran sounded surprised but not shocked. It wasn’t Mal, then, standing just out of Jory’s sight.
“Yeah, fine, but I need to speak to Jory, okay?”
Kirsty?
“Come on in, then.” Bran gave Jory a suspicious frown as he left them in the dubious privacy of the hallway.
Jory couldn’t blame him. Kirsty’s face was flushed, and her hair wilder than usual. God alone knew what he himself looked like.
Jory’s jaw clenched as he met her gaze. Christ, what was she about to say to him? Ask for a divorce so she could be with Mal? Or was Mal just another of her flings, easily left and soon forgotten? Anger and pain were making his heart ache so badly, he couldn’t even tell how much was for him and how much for Mal.
“Is Mal here?” she asked.
“What? No. I thought he was with you. In all senses of the word,” Jory added bitterly. He caught a strong smell of alcohol on her breath, and fury flared. “Christ, did you drive here?”
“Screw you. You are not my keeper. I got a lift from Sam next door, is that all right?”
“What about Gawen?”
“He’s twelve years old. I think he can manage in his own home for half an hour. Sam’s missus is gonna look in on him if we’re not back soon.” Then the fight seemed to go out of her, and she slumped back against the wall. “I’m not sleeping with him, okay?”
“What? Sam?”
“Mal. Nothing happened. Hardly even a snog. And it wasn’t his fault. We’d both had a bit much to drink, and I thought you and him weren’t a thing.”
Jory found his voice, although it didn’t sound much like him when he spoke. “No. We’re not.”
“No? Cos that’s not how you’ve been acting. Either of you.”
“I . . .” Jory had to look away. “Mal doesn’t want a relationship. Not with me.”
“Shit.” Her tone softened. “I’m sorry. Honestly. I’d had a few drinks, and Mal’s fucking lovely, so I kissed him. That’s all.”
She made it seem so easy. So natural.
But then, it probably was, for her. If she wanted something—someone—she just went ahead and took it, or them.
“You must have had some idea, though. How I felt about him. You saw us together.” He couldn’t help the bitterness coming through. She’d always been able to read him so effortlessly.
Her turn to look away. “Christ, Jory, you of all people ought to know I make shit decisions.”
“Because I was one of them?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Does Gawen know you feel that way?”
“Fuck you, Jory Roscarrock. No, he doesn’t, and if you ever tell him one word about it, I’ll—”
“Of course I’ll never tell him! What the hell do you think of me?” Jory spun and looked away. When he spoke again, his voice sounded broken to his own ears. “What do you think of me? Do you really hate me that much?”
“I don’t hate you. Not at all. You’re a sweet bloke. You should be happy.” She was crying now. He could hear it in her voice. The alcohol, he told himself savagely, and even tried to believe it. She sniffed. “I just . . . It was never supposed to be like this, you know? My life. I was going to do so much. I was going to go everywhere. And then I had Gawen, and he was sick so much when he was tiny . . . And I love him to bits, I really do. I’d die for him, no questions, no second thoughts. But he’s not like me. He’s like you. And sometimes I look at him . . .”
“And you can’t help resenting us.”
“You.”
Jory turned then and gazed at her tear-streaked face.
She shrugged. “I can’t resent him. He’s my little boy. My baby. So it all has to go on you.”
Should he be angry with her for that? Jory didn’t quite have the heart. “And that’s why you kissed Mal?”
“That’s not . . .” She glanced up at the sky. “See, you think everyone’s like you. Like, they think before they do things. Must be nice. Some of us just . . . I didn’t look at you and think, ‘Wow, posh boy, nice shoulders, bet he’s a virgin. I’m gonna change his whole world.’ Maybe that’s why I did it, but I didn’t know it back then. Maybe it’s fucked up. But it’s how I am. It was like that tonight. I didn’t know I was being a bitch. Not then.”
Was that really how people thought? How they acted?
Was that how Mal thought?
He’d said the same thing, the first time he’d kissed Jory. Something about it being fucked up.
Kirsty was speaking again. “It was never meant to be anything, me and him. Just a bit of fun. A bit of comfort, on a lonely night. Don’t blame him for it. He’s had a rough time, with what happened at work and all.”
“He told you about that?”
She nodded. “Think he was glad to get it off his chest. But you knew, right?”
Stupid, to feel hurt that Mal had confided in her. A better man would be glad Mal had been able to talk about it—glad, even, that he’d found someone he could have uncomplicated fun with, as he seemingly couldn’t with Jory.
Jory wasn’t a better man. “Where is he now?”
“He left.”
“But where did he go? Back to the pub?”
Kirsty shook her head. “Thought he’d come here. After you. He was really upset.”
“No. He wouldn’t come here.” Kirsty raised an eyebrow at Jory’s firm tone, but he wasn’t feeling up to explaining it all. “He must have gone back to the Sea Bell.”
“Right. Well, when you see him . . . Go easy, yeah? Wasn’t his fault. And I think you’re wrong, for what it’s worth. About him not wanting a relationship.”
Jory didn’t—couldn’t—believe it, but there was no point arguing with her.
Again, she seemed to see straight through him.
“Don’t you dare tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about. You didn’t see him after you left. Like you tore his heart out and took it with you.”
She was being overdramatic. Mal didn’t feel that way about him.
Did he? Oh God. Was this Rafi all over again? “Kirsty . . .” Jory stopped.
She gave him a questioning look.
“Why did we never get divorced?” he asked.
Kirsty shrugged. “Because you never bothered, and I don’t care. What? I never have, you must know that. There’s a reason I treat our marriage like a joke, and that’s cos it is one. And it’s not just us. When did a bit of paper ever make a difference to whether people care about each other or not? The fact that people like you and me can get legally wed shows how fucked up the whole marriage thing is. If it hadn’t been for your big brother going all Victorian on us, I’d never have got married to anyone. Would you?”
Jory had never really thought about it. Had never allowed himself to think about it. He was starting to realise what a terrible mistake that had been. “I want us to do it. Get divorced,” he added hastily.
She snorted. “Don’t worry, I didn’t think you meant anything else. Fine. You sort it, I’ll sign it. Long as you don’t try and pull a fast one about custody of Gawen.”
“No. I don’t want his life to change at all.”
“Good.” She was silent a moment. “You should have stayed here, when he was little. I know it wasn’t what we agreed—fuck knows, it wasn’t even what I wanted, back then—but you should have stayed. He needed his dad, and you were off getting your degree from your posh college, collecting more letters after your name than were bloody well in it, and what was it all for?”
“I don’t know.” Jory took a deep breath. “If it’s any consolation, I think if I’d stayed, we’d have ended up really hating each other.”
“Yeah. Fuck it all. Sam’s waiting, and I’m going home to bed. You gonna find Mal? Tell him I’m sorry, and I hope he’s okay.”
After she’d gone, Jory grabbed his jacket—then stopped, irresolute. Should he go and find Mal? Or should he just leave it for the night? Let them both calm down?