by JL Merrow
All right for Tasha to talk, Mal thought moodily half an hour later as he shut the pub door behind him and blinked in the sudden brightness.
She wasn’t the one putting her heart on the line. And she didn’t know as much as she thought she did.
The day, once he got used to it, wasn’t actually all that bright. The weather had well and truly turned. The sky was the colour of a garage floor, mucky grey with blacker splodges like the clouds had been leaking oil. They looked like they were only a rat’s whisker from leaking water too. Mal hunched in his hoody and hoped he wasn’t going to get another drenching. It was going to be a long walk up to Roscarrock House with a duff ankle. Although the William Morris–patterned walking stick he’d borrowed from Mrs. Jago’s hall cupboard (her knees gave her gyp in the winter) was pretty cool. Mal had always liked his pre-Raphaelites, especially the ones with all the knights and the big flowsy ladies falling asleep all over the shop.
A car horn beeped loudly just behind him. Mal winced—paracetamol and codeine could only do so much—and turned to see Jago in his battered old Land Rover, scowling through the side window at him. “You going up to Big Guns?”
“Uh . . .” Right. Big Guns Cove was the name of the cliffs Roscarrock House sat on. “Yeah?”
Jago nodded. “Well, get in, then. I ain’t got all day.”
Huh. “Thought you didn’t approve of them?” Mal got in quick before Jago could change his mind and drive off.
“Think I’m letting you walk up there on a sprained ankle? I’d never hear the last of it from Tasha.”
Mal grinned. “Hang about, people are gonna start thinking you care.”
“Slander and lies. You going to manage, me driving you?”
Sod it. “One little flashback and everyone thinks I’m gonna flip my shit every time I get in a car. Who told you about that, anyhow?” Not that he couldn’t guess.
“Eyes everywhere. And just you remember that.”
Pervy old sod. Keeping shtum for reasons of self-preservation, Mal focussed on not actually flipping his shit as Jago pulled out and drove along the lane.
Seeing as (a) the old bloke slowed to a crawl every time they got within fifty feet of any pedestrians and (b) Mal’s insides were tied up so tight about Jory he could barely think about anything else, it wasn’t as hard as he’d worried it might be. “Cheers, mate,” he said as Jago dropped him off at the gates of Roscarrock House.
Jago nodded. “Call me if you need a lift back.”
And then he was gone. Mal trudged up the drive, stick in hand and his heart in his mouth.
Roscarrock House was a lot grimmer close up than Mal remembered. Or maybe it was just the weather—the grey stone pretty much blended in with the sky.
Funny to think, if things had been different, Dev could have grown up in this place. Mal would never have met him, or Tasha.
Or Jory.
He swallowed and knocked.
The door was opened by a dark-haired bloke who was shorter than Mal and apparently none too happy about it. Or, well, about anything at all, by the face on him. “Yes?”
“Um. Jory?” Mal wondered where the rest of his words had gone.
Short, dark and grumpy gave him a thorough once-over. He seemed to pay particular attention to Mal’s hands which, yeah, were definitely the worse for wear after last night, scratched up and with half the skin off his knuckles. He hadn’t managed to get all the dirt out from under his fingernails either. “You’re the boyfriend,” the bloke—Jory’s brother, Bran, had to be—spat out at last.
Was he? Mal wished he was half as sure about it. Shit, how much did Bran know about last night? “Can I just—”
“I’ll tell him you’re here.” Bran turned and stomped down the hall, leaving Mal hovering uneasily on the doorstep.
What if Jory didn’t want to see him? He had every right to be pissed off at Mal.
But Bran had called him Jory’s boyfriend. Not—and Mal reckoned this was a key point and he was going to hang on to it with both hands if it bloody well killed him—his ex.
Catching sight of Jory coming down the hall sent a wash of pure relief flooding over him. Particularly when he saw how nervous Jory looked. That had to be good, right?
Or bad. Maybe it was bad.
“Hi,” Mal said, his voice coming out in a squeak.
“Hi.”
They stood there for about three thousand years, just staring at each other. Jory looked, well, rough—there were dark circles under his eyes, his beard was due a trim, and his hair had forgotten what a comb was for. And his hands . . . “Shit, your hands are worse than mine. You okay?”
Jory glanced down at his hands, spreading them out in front of him like he hadn’t noticed that they were all scratched up, his knuckles skinned and nails broken. Cleaner than Mal’s, though. “Oh, yes. Fine. Thanks. You?”
Mal shrugged. “Better than I deserve. So, uh, that was your brother, yeah?”
“Bran. Yes. Um. Do you want to come in?”
Mal nodded, relieved, and stepped over the threshold.
Jory seemed to see the walking stick for the first time, and his face fell. “You didn’t walk all this way on an injured leg?”
“Nah, Jago gave me a lift. It ain’t so bad. Just twisted me ankle a bit, falling.” It was sort of true. It’d definitely loosened up since he’d got up this morning. “Got a bruise the size of Ireland on me thigh, though.”
“Come in properly and sit down.” Jory still seemed jumpy.
“You sure I’m gonna be welcome?”
Jory nodded. “It’s fine. Bran and I had something of a heart-to-heart this morning.”
Mal laughed nervously. “Yeah? He’s got one, then?”
“You’d be surprised. I was.” Jory took a deep breath. “Kirsty and I are getting divorced.”
“What? Shit. Is that cos of—”
“Only indirectly.” Jory half smiled. “But please do come in.”
Mal followed him down the hall to a kitchen he hadn’t seen on the tour. It was bigger than most kitchens he’d been in—even had room for a proper old-fashioned kitchen table that could seat a family of six easily, though it’d probably been years since it actually had. Jory pulled out a chair for him.
“Tea? Coffee?”
Mal shook his head. “Nah, I’m good.” Then he wished he’d accepted, cos it would’ve given him something to do with his hands.
At least they were in the kitchen. Jory wouldn’t bring him to the kitchen to dump his arse, would he? He’d use the front room for that. Keep it formal, shove Mal out the door as quick as he could.
Probably.
Jory sat down in the next chair. And waited.
Shit. Mal swallowed. “Look, I wanted to say I’m sorry. About . . . uh, about last night, obviously, but for fucking you around before too.”
“It’s . . . okay,” Jory said, his tone saying it wasn’t really okay, but he thought it ought to be. “Kirsty told me it was her fault, not yours.”
There was the hint of a question there at the end. And Mal wanted to say, Yeah, totally her, what a slapper, but he just couldn’t, all right? It wouldn’t be fair. What happened last night had all been down to him not explaining stuff properly, and if things got fucked up between Jory and her, it’d be hard on Gawen. Plus, well, he liked Kirsty, so long as she wasn’t trying to stick her tongue down his throat.
“I was missing you,” Mal blurted out. “I mean I . . . But I never wanted her. She got the wrong end of the stick, that’s all.”
Jory gazed at him for a long moment, then looked away. “I wish I knew where I stood with you,” he said, apparently more to the kitchen wall than to Mal.
It made Mal’s heart hurt.
What the hell was he going to say to that? The whole reason he’d come up here was . . . to apologise, yeah, but mainly, if he was gut-wrenchingly honest, to find out where he stood with Jory.
Could he do it? Tell Jory how he felt? And risk Jory saying Sorry mate, last night
was the deal breaker?
Then again, after last night, didn’t Jory deserve the truth?
Christ. Mal clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. Did he really have the balls to go through with it?
“I wish I knew where I stood with you.” Jory hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
But maybe it was time they talked about whatever was going on between them? Really talked, without sex or hurt feelings or near-death experiences getting in the way.
“So, what happened with Kirsty . . . Was it just the drink?” Jory took a deep breath. He should let it go, he knew he should; he was harping on about it too much, but he had to be certain. “What did happen? Exactly?”
“Think you saw it all. I mean, all of that sort of stuff. We had dinner, we had a few drinks, and then she—then it happened. And ten seconds later you walked in.” Mal looked him in the eye. “If I’d known that was gonna happen, I’d never have gone. On me mum’s life. And I tried—I wanted to tell you, it didn’t mean nothing, but you’d already gone. Wasn’t like I could jump in a car and zoom off after you, was it?”
Something twisted unpleasantly in Jory’s chest. No, he’d made absolutely certain Mal had no chance to explain himself. But, damn it, it had hurt seeing Mal with someone else.
“What would you have said if I’d stayed?” he asked in the end.
Mal stared at him, wide-eyed, like a cornered rabbit. Or any other small, rodent-like creature.
Jory met his gaze, and attempted a half smile of reassurance. He wasn’t sure he succeeded—but it seemed to do the trick in any case.
“It’s . . . Shit.” Mal looked away for a moment and ran a hand through his hair, then turned back to Jory, seeming more fragile even than right after the car incident. More fragile than Jory could have imagined. “I like you. Like, a lot.”
Jory’s hand clenched into something resembling a fist without consulting him. It sounded good . . . But Mal hadn’t finished. Jory could tell. “But?” he prompted.
“But . . . I’m scared, okay?”
“‘Scared’?” Jory repeated stupidly.
“Yeah . . . Look, I know this is gonna sound like a really crap ambition to you, but it’s all I ever wanted to do, right? Drive a Tube train like my dad. It’s the only job I ever done, apart from when I started out in customer service cos you have to, cos they only advertise the drivers’ jobs internally. I thought it was gonna be my life, sorted.” He screwed up his face as if he was in pain. “Go on, laugh.”
Jory was too busy wondering exactly what all this had to do with them. And wanting to hold Mal until that pained look had vanished forever. Was touching allowed? Oh, to hell with it. Jory grabbed Mal’s hands where they rested on the kitchen table, folding them both in his own. “I’m not laughing. But I don’t understand . . . What are you afraid of? You mean, that you won’t be able to get over the . . . one under and get back in the driving seat?”
“Yeah. There’s that. But then there’s . . . Oh, shit a fucking brick.” Mal pulled away from him, closing his eyes tight shut. “There’s you.”
“Me?” Jory’s heart appeared to have taken up cliff diving. Did Mal mean . . .?
“Yeah.” Mal looked up at him from under his tousled hair. “All that crap I said about not wanting us to get into anything serious . . . Well, it’s bollocks, innit? Not the wanting. I mean, the actual thing. Ah, shit. It’s too late. I already— You know.”
“You’re . . . serious about me?” Jory’s heart leapt. That was . . . But he could celebrate later. For the rest of his life, if he had his way. Mal was what was important right now. “Then why not?”
“Because I can’t deal, okay? I can’t deal with it ending.”
“Then we won’t let it end.” Jory tried to put all his conviction into his voice.
Mal was shaking his head. “But you got your kid and your new job coming up, so you ain’t gonna want to move to London, even if I did get me old job back, and Christ, I wouldn’t ask you to. But if, well, if you wanted me to stay down here, what the sodding hell would I do? I’ve only ever been good at one thing, and that’s driving trains, and I fucked that up too, didn’t I?”
“You didn’t fuck anything up,” Jory said fiercely. “It wasn’t your fault. There was nothing you could have done.” He was torn between jubilation that Mal had actually got so far as to think about them having a future together, and frustration that Mal had seemingly argued himself out of it before it had even started.
“I don’t just mean . . . See, me dad’s had his share of that sort of shit, and he never . . . never made a big deal of it. Just got back on with the job. And here’s me signed off work for six months and throwing a fucking wobbly every time I sit in a car.”
“That’s not true. You coped when Jago Andrewartha gave you a lift up here, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but—”
“You’re not your father, Mal. No one ever is—I know for a fact I’m bloody well not mine. You can’t judge yourself like that. You’re not a failure just because something affects you differently than it would him.” Jory leaned forward cautiously, afraid Mal might bolt, and laid his hands gently on Mal’s. “You’re more sensitive than he is, perhaps. Is that supposed to be a bad thing?” He took a deep breath. “From everything you’ve said to me, it’s your mother who’s been the greater influence on you.”
Mal gave a bitter half-laugh, but at least he didn’t pull away again. “Yeah. Proper mummy’s boy, that’s me.”
“Bollocks,” Jory said firmly, startling Mal into looking directly at him. “You’re not exactly hiding behind her skirts by coming here, are you? I was talking about your interest in history and legend. The way they fire your imagination. That’s what I think you get from your mother.” He’d wanted to add, your intelligence, but was wary of seeming to criticise Mal’s father.
“Yeah, well. I let her down, and all.”
“Have you asked her if that’s what she thinks? Because from what you’ve told me about her, I very much doubt it.” Jory drew Mal closer and wrapped his arms around him, wishing he dared pull him all the way onto his lap. “You should think about counselling, you know. It might help.”
Mal shrugged. “Had a bit back in London. Just . . . the woman kept wanting me to talk about it, and that’s the last thing I wanted, innit? Felt like a total wuss, sitting in her office snivelling into a box of tissues for an hour a week.”
“Maybe she wasn’t the right counsellor. You could try again with someone you get on with better . . .” Mal grimaced. Jory frowned. “It doesn’t make you less of a man, you know, accepting help when you need it. You didn’t hesitate last night, did you? You realised you needed help, and you made sure you got it.”
“Yeah, but . . . that’s different, innit? I was stuck in a hole in the ground.” Mal made a face. “And I never said I don’t feel like a stupid prat about it.”
“Good.” Jory almost laughed at Mal’s shocked expression, but an unexpected burst of anger flooded through him, drowning the brief impulse. “For God’s sake, walking on the cliffs in the pouring rain, in the dark, while drunk, in a place where you know the ground’s given way at some point in the past already? That’s pretty much the definition of being a stupid prat.” He took a deep breath. “But calling for help? That was not being a prat. And definitely not stupid. So will you at least think about it? Getting another counsellor?”
“I . . .” Mal hunched into himself for a moment, then straightened in Jory’s arms. “Wanna do a deal? I’ll have another go at seeing someone, and you give the Tintagel trip another try? With, uh, me, I mean. I’ll try not to flip out this time.” Mal gave a weak smile with more than a hint of desperation in his eyes. “Good job we’re both used to me fucking stuff up, innit?”
“Stop putting yourself down.” Jory squeezed him tight. “And remind me to point you to some reading on toxic masculinity.”
“Oi, you ain’t a teacher yet. No handing out homework.” Mal’s smile strengthened and warmed
Jory’s heart absurdly.
Then it faltered again. “Yeah, but still . . . how’s it gonna work? You and me living hundreds of miles apart?” Mal studied the surface of the table.
Jory leaned forward and took Mal’s face in his hand, encouraging him to look up. “We don’t have to sort out all the details right now. You’re here for a while longer, aren’t you?”
Mal nodded. “Six weeks was the plan. I’m not even halfway through that.”
“Well, then. We can see how it goes. See what works for us.”
“And if it don’t?”
“We’ll make it work.” To hell with it. Jory pulled Mal onto his lap. “If you go back to London after that, I can still travel to see you. And you’ll get your counselling, or whatever it takes so you can do your job again, and then you’ll be able to travel down here easily. Or we can meet in the middle, or anywhere we want.”
“What if I never get okay to be a Tube driver again? And I keep on being a wuss about getting in cars and stuff?”
“If it comes down to it, there are jobs here. Um, mostly concerned with the tourist industry, but it’d be a start. Something to do while you think about the next step. Or, well, I don’t think the museum has filled the vacancy I’ll be leaving yet.”
“Don’t you have to know stuff to work in a museum?”
“You’d be amazed at the number of serious historical discussions I haven’t had since I started working there. But you could read up on naval history. You’re bright enough—for God’s sake, you’ve read the Morte d’Arthur. Most people take one look at the archaic language and decide to watch the Disney film instead.”
“I ain’t saying it didn’t take me a while.”
“But you did it. And anyway, that was just an idea. If you decide to leave London.” Jory kissed him because he could. “Whatever it takes, we’ll make it work.”
He felt the tension go out of Mal’s body, and wanted to punch the air. He’d done it. He’d convinced him.