Be My Best Man

by Con Riley

  There’s proof in the way his grip tightens before releasing only to skim from Jason’s waist up his torso. It finally settles when his hands span Jason’s shoulders, squeezing as if he likes what he feels. There’s more evidence when he breaks off to pant, “I’m need to check. This is a date?” like he’s worried Jason might want him here for some other reason.

  “Well I didn’t ask you over to talk about clothes.”

  Vanya gets back to kissing again, both hands on Jason’s face now, if very gently, like he’s wary of pressing too hard on bruises that a stranger wouldn’t know had ever been there.

  He’s sweet when he stands on tiptoes to kiss the skin where Andrew’s knuckles landed. Then he’s serious until Jason gives into his urging to dip his head so he can inspect his face from close up. The press of his fingertips where bruises once blossomed is so slight it shouldn’t be as affecting as the kiss that follows. Still, Jason has to brace against the counter to keep his balance.

  Vanya’s smile is shaky as well when he eventually pulls back, his lips reddened like they tingle the same way as Jason’s. It’s more than the hint of chilli he added to the sauce that’s done that. It’s the result of kisses dragging over a day’s growth of stubble. Vanya’s lips part, like he’s about to speak again, only this time Jason moves first, both hands gripping an arse cheek as he lifts him onto the counter to kiss him from a different angle. He tugs Vanya’s shirt free from the waistband of his jeans, mapping the skin that he bares from back to ribs to stomach, where he thumbs at his fly button.

  It’s not that Vanya stops him, exactly.

  It’s more that he suddenly stiffens, his body rigid instead of pliant at the same time as his phone chimes. Vanya kisses him again very quickly before slipping down from the counter.

  “Sorry,” he says while pulling his phone from his pocket. It’s clunky, Jason notices, instead of smart and slim like his own—another retro item, no doubt, which must be the height of fashion.

  Jason watches as Vanya tucks in his shirt while reading a text. “Sorry,” he quickly repeats. “Forget something. Have to make call….” He dials and then speaks quickly in his own language, turning his back on Jason, who overhears muffled shouting. It’s a very quick conversation that leaves Vanya rattled, his face shadowed when he ends it.

  “Is everything okay?” A hundred thoughts flit through Jason’s mind.

  Who the hell had that been?

  And who the fuck were they to yell at Vanya like that, as if they were worried?

  He’s been in this same spot too many times in the past to keep quiet.

  “Was that your boyfriend?”

  “What?”

  Jason blunders on, blurting the truth that he lived with for years before he got wise to Garry. “Because if you’re seeing someone already and that was him, we’ll call this quits right now.”

  “Call quits?” Vanya inches closer.

  “It means we’ll stop seeing each other.” He shakes his head. “It’s not dating if you’re already taken. It’s cheating. And it’s no fun for me if you’ve got someone waiting at home, especially if they have no clue what you’re doing.” He’s had enough of that crap to last a lifetime. “I… I’ve been there, that’s all. And I’m not interested in a repeat performance, no matter how much I want you.”

  Now Vanya stands beside him, his expression guileless. “You want?”

  Of course he does, but he sticks to his guns. “Not if you’re seeing other people.”

  “Was Kaspar, not secret boyfriend.” Vanya’s face is so expressive, hiding nothing. “He is upset because I’m forget a very serious promise, so I’m make him another.” Something in his expression firms when he says, “I’m definitely want you too, Jason Balfour.” His next kiss is fleeting. “But I’m promise to come home on last train.”

  Jason gets lost in the next kiss Vanya offers, warm and enthusiastic, Vanya’s grin a little goofy when it ends, and Jesus Christ he’s gorgeous.

  Instead of feeling low at their date ending too soon, Jason goes ahead and plans the next one. He taps the design on his drafting table. “I leave for York tomorrow to supervise the start of a restoration for my biggest client. Then I’m going back to Riversmeet for the weekend.”

  “Riversmeet?” Vanya carefully tests out the word. “Place where you grow up?”

  “Yes.” Going back this soon was his parting promise to both Andrew and Chantel. He points to a nearby watercolour painting. It’s a very simple picture capturing the gold stone of the cottage in a way that’s warmly perfect. “It’s about the best place on the planet,” he says while thinking of one thing that might improve it. “Why don’t you come with me?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  For the first time since arriving in England, time flies instead of dragging. Vanya’s mornings start with texts asking how well he slept, his afternoons punctuated by Jason’s lunch-break musings. They’re written snippets of a conversation bridging the hours until Jason calls from his hotel room every evening. Each new text fixes Vanya in place regardless of where he receives it—tripping over kerbstones or getting bumped by annoyed shoppers barely registers each time he fumbles to get his phone out.

  By Thursday, he’s conditioned by the sound of incoming texts like Pavlov’s dogs drooling for their dinner. He’s hungry too, the moment he hears his phone’s chime, only for words rather than food, as long as Jason types them. A story unspools between them as the week progresses, Vanya reading each line over and over, working hard as he types to translate Russian thoughts to English.

  By the time Jason should be catching his train to come home on Friday, Vanya’s wound tight by excitement that snaps when he gets a final message, slumping like a puppet with severed strings onto a couch when he reads its content.

  I’m not coming back.

  Not today, anyhow. :(

  Anna must spot the way Vanya’s smile suddenly falls from where she washes her hair in their kitchen area, shivering as the cold tap splashes. “What’s wrong?” She only hesitates for a moment before grabbing a towel and coming closer to read over his shoulder. The water dripping from her hair onto his hand is icy. “Is that from your client?”

  “Yes.” That sounds wrong the moment he says it. “I mean, no.” If he closes his eyes, he can still picture Jason waving goodbye from his front door all over again, his hair mussed and shirt untucked after a final embrace that almost made Vanya miss his last train.

  There’s nothing professional about what they’ve started together.

  All of it feels personal.

  “He’s not my client anymore.”

  “That’s what Kaspar tells me.” She traces the pattern on the couch cushion, her fingers probing a gash in the fabric before she stands. “He also mentioned that you’re going away with him tonight.” She gathers items from her windowsill collection, threading a needle as she kneels to make a repair, her gaze flickering upwards for a moment. “I think Kaspar’s worried about….” Her last words come out in a rush. “About you going anywhere with strangers.” She looks down again, needle a flash of silver as she stabs it into fabric. “I overheard when he called you. He was uptight until you got home. I think he was worried something terrible had happened to you… again.”

  It’s almost warm where they sit, the couch pushed close to the window where late-autumn sunlight puddles weakly, but Vanya’s blood chills like the damp swing of her hair as it brushes his knuckles. “He told you what happened to me?”

  “Not exactly,” she admits as she sews, her head still bent, each jab of her needle through cloth pricking just as sharply as the thought of Kaspar sharing his deepest secrets. “He was upset when you didn’t check in like you promised. I asked him what the big deal was.” She quickly explains, “He only told me enough for me to know that he has reason to worry.” She keeps her head lowered as she stitches, her movements swift and practiced. “You know I assumed you were related, don’t you?” She shrugs when Vanya doesn’t answer. “The way he stuck s
o close to you at the hostel was one of the first things I noticed about him.” Her glance up is as swift as her needle’s progress, a quicksilver flash of a smile he might see as sympathetic if he wasn’t close to hyperventilating. “But you’re not related,” she continues, “so I asked why he needed to check up on a grown man.” She shuffles a little closer. “He changed the subject pretty quickly, so I left it, but I want to tell you something.” There’s nothing but compassion in her direct gaze. “I don’t know what happened to you, but I do know what it’s like to be scared.”

  They sit in silence for a long moment.

  “Something happened to you?”

  She nods her head slightly, her fingers brushing against his. “I chose to get out rather than stick around for more of the same, and once I made that decision, London seemed a good option. It has some of the best design schools in Europe, so here I am. If I work on my portfolio, I can apply for a place next year as long as the rules don’t change, like I keep reading, and we all get sent home.”

  “That won’t happen.” Months of observation suggest London runs on the sweat of foreign nationals.

  “I hope not. Until then, I make alterations to mass-produced wedding dresses instead of making my own, and I wait tables in the evenings. That might be all I ever achieve here. I might never get to college. It’s not exactly how I pictured my future.”

  That all resonates so much that the hairs at the nape of his neck rise. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not.” Her voice firms. “It’s not how I pictured because it’s going to be better. I mean, I hated that I didn’t feel safe in my own country, and then I hated feeling the same way in the hostel, but I refuse to put up with it. I’m making progress. We both are, Vanya, and we can both be successful. So yes, it’s boring sewing hems in a backroom, but at least it lets me practice.”

  Her nail scrapes along the neat stitches she just made. Even sitting this close, Vanya can see they form a perfect silken spine holding the gaping rip together.

  Her own backbone straightens as she says, “I’m lucky I get to work while I wait, and I’ll pay back that good luck when I start my own business.” She pats Vanya’s hand very gently. “You’ll be able to work soon too. Maybe go back to college and build a real future. That’s got to be worth taking a few risks for.”

  Vanya shakes his head.

  “It’s true,” she insists. “I know you thought earning some cash was a risk, but I took a much bigger risk by trusting Kaspar after… after what happened to me. But that’s how we recover. We take small risks—like small stitches—until we’re sewn back together.”

  Vanya nods at a description that sums up his whole year, his throat too tight to say so.

  “So Kaspar will just have to accept that you might need to do the same thing. Take some small risks with your not-a-client. Let him spoil you for a weekend. Kaspar will get over it. Besides….” Colour flares in her cheeks, scarlet like the thread twisted around her fingers. “I plan to keep him busy by taking some risks of my own while you’re not here.”

  Two texts arrive with a pair of loud pings—a reprieve from hearing about his roommates’ sex lives.

  Dom must have a death wish, says the first text.

  The second text is just as cryptic. I fucking hate asbestos.

  “Do you know what this word means?”

  “Asbestos? No, I don’t,” Anna admits. “Let me look it up.” She gets her smartphone, and they sit closer together, the wet ends of her hair dark gold against the red couch. “Who is Dom?”

  “A very important client. He has all the money.”

  “Ah, asbestos is a fire retardant. It says here that many older buildings have it in their walls and ceilings.” She warily eyes the discoloured ceiling tile above them. “So what does he do for this client, exactly?”

  “Jason? I think he preserves the oldest parts of buildings.” He strains to recall what he overheard in Hyde Park. “Something about getting the right permits and special permissions? I’m not exactly certain.”

  He fires off a quick reply. You found asbestos?

  Jason replies just as swiftly. Yes, it’s a pain in the arse to get rid of and dangerous to work around.

  “He’s right,” Anna says after she googles again. “This website says it’s killed lots of people who inhaled tiny particles.” Her nose screws up. “It’s a horrible way to die, according to this page.” Hearing so must do something to Vanya’s face. Anna backtracks quickly. “I’m sure he’s fine. It says here that only trained specialists can remove it.”

  Vanya texts back. Is dangerous for you?

  His phone rings in his hand. Jason speaks as soon as he answers. “I’ll be fine. It’s just taken some time to track down some specialists and report it to Health and Safety. This is why I always like to be on site at the start of each project. There’s no knowing what will turn up. So that’s why I’m delayed, but I think I’ve got it covered. I could make it back on Saturday if you still want to come to Riversmeet with me?” He pauses as if expecting Vanya to say no.

  Vanya does his best to keep up. “If I’m still want to go?”

  There something very gratifying at how quickly Jason says exactly what Vanya’s been thinking for days. “I really want to see you. Will you still come even if I’m a day late? I know it’s a long way to go for a short visit, but—”

  “Yes.” The fingers of Vanya’s free hand move without permission, finding Anna’s. He holds on tight as he asks, “Which ticket do I buy?” He still has every penny of his personal shopping payments. Spending some on meeting Jason seems somehow redemptive.

  “Ticket?” Jason sounds distracted, other voices audible in the background.

  “Yes. For which station?”

  “Oh, Moreton-in-Marsh.” The change is Jason’s tone is familiar now, warm like Vanya’s surprised him. “But you don’t need to buy a ticket. I’m doing that online for both of us right now.” He interrupts Vanya before he can insist on paying his way. “You don’t need to pay for a thing.” Someone calls his name in the background. “I should be paying you for your time. Your weekends must be busy. You won’t have to cancel any clients, will you?”

  Clients?

  It’s a reminder of a false pretence that Vanya regrets ever starting.

  “No. No other clients.” He comes to an instant decision. “You were very last one.”

  “Oh. Did you get a new job? I didn’t know you were—” The background demand for Jason’s attention gets louder. He must cover the receiver with his hand. His next, “I’ll be right there,” is muffled until he returns to their call. “I’ve got to go. Just be there, okay? At Paddington on Saturday? I’ll text you the details.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good.” Jason lowers his voice. He says, “I can’t wait to see you,” and a thread that’s looped between them all week suddenly pulls much tighter.

  Vanya gets to the station much too early, waiting for so long he spots a pattern in the passengers who spill from each train.

  The first to disembark wear business-like apparel, intent on the next stage of their journey. They stride past where he lingers, on their way to high-powered weekend meetings.

  Next, he tracks the progress of harried mothers herding fractious infants. They too have intense focus, steering their offspring away from the steep drop at the edge of the platform. White-haired seniors who hold tight to walking canes or to each other follow, gaze focused on the floor as if each step might trip them.

  The last train to pull in follows the same pattern, until a group of children pour out. They assemble for a head count before they wind snakelike between kiosks, looking everywhere but where they’re going.

  Like he did on arrival, the children wonder aloud at this station’s vaulted ceiling, cooing to the pigeons that perch among its rafters. Each child holds the hand of another, all wearing T-shirts advertising something called a stage school. Vanya watches a supervisor, who could be the same age as him. He counts heads again bef
ore bending to tie a shoelace, only a few feet from him.

  Vanya overhears their conversation, children and adults alike excited about the West-End theatre they’ll visit. This is a big treat, their supervisor reminds, requiring the very best behaviour. Vanya can’t help smiling as the children agree while fizzing with excitement, but his chest tightens at the same time.

  These kids aren’t a dissimilar age to the ones he’d be teaching right now if things had been different.

  Perhaps he drifts too close. The supervisor turns like he can feel Vanya watching, his shoulders squared for trouble. The way he puts himself between Vanya and the kids spikes a surge of panic that only increases when a man in uniform leaves the ticket barrier to head their way, his eyes narrowed.

  The newspapers at home justified his beating by saying his proximity to young kids was asking for trouble. A gay teacher would only taint his pupils by association. His attackers did society a favour.

  Do these people somehow see that same danger?

  Vanya backs up fast, his heart stopping when someone grasps his shoulder, only to restart when Jason says, “Hey, you made it.”

  Maybe Vanya’s hug is a surprise, but Jason only returns it until his death grip lessens. “Hey,” he says again, more in concern this time. But he doesn’t push Vanya away, waiting instead until his grip loosens some more. “You okay?”

  “Yes,” Vanya quickly lies. “Was just looking—” He cuts himself off abruptly. Looking at children hardly sounds like a normal way to spend time, especially when explaining will only lead to questions about a teaching vocation he hasn’t mentioned once while playing personal shopper. He uses straightening Jason’s shirt collar as an excuse to stay close. “Was just looking for you.” He touches the fabric of his shirtfront. “This is smart.”

  “I went shopping while I was in York.”

  “On own?” Vanya’s glad he listened to Anna’s urging and let her loose on his own clothes. The shirt he wears fits so much better for her neat alterations, smarter too now she’s replaced its cheap plastic buttons with crystal ones that sparkle.