Jack’s just acting like everything’s cool – but he must have noticed I’m barely talking to him. “So, the hot tub pic went down a storm,” he says to me. “It’s an absolutely mint photo – looks really glamorous – laughter, bubbles, hot teens in a hot tub!”
“Good.” At least that’s something. I hope Tariq’s seen it. I hope I was laughing in the picture. It’s unlikely, but I hope it.
“Just one problem,” Jack continues.
“Uh-huh?”
“Someone reported it as being in violation of community guidelines.”
“What?” I squeal. “Why?”
Jack shrugs. “Literally. No idea. I mean, sure, you’re shirtless in it, but I hardly think your underage nipples would be considered ‘inappropriate content’.”
“There’s nothing inappropriate about my nipples,” I mutter. “What’s the betting it’s Dylan’s doing?”
“Or Tariq’s?” Jack suggests.
“Either way, you should report their shot in the infinity pool.”
Jack nods. “One step ahead of you. Did it while you were in the shower. I’m pretty sure if you squint you can see a highly suspect bulge in Dylan’s swimming shorts.”
I manage the smallest of smiles.
He’s still staring at me like there’s more.
I grit my teeth. “What now?”
“Dylan and Tariq went to a huge concert last night – Wembley, no less. Looks like a VIP box too.”
I sniff. “Good for them.”
“Apparently they’re ‘living their best lives’ and are ‘blessed’.”
Well, of course they are, because they’ve got money and freedom, and more importantly, each other. I keep going over in my head where I went wrong. What did I do, or not do, that made Tariq want to get with Dylan? I know Dylan’s better-looking than me, and I know he’s charismatic and confident, but I thought, I really thought, that Tariq liked me for me, and that maybe not being those things didn’t matter to him.
“Nate?” Jack says softly. “Are you OK?”
“I thought I was,” I reply.
The traffic gets no better, we’re hours away from where we’re meant to be, so by early evening, somewhere south of Manchester, Mum and Dad have given in and booked rooms in a motorway Travel Inn for the night – them and Rose in one room, me and Jack in another.
“We need two single beds,” I tell the lady at reception.
She shakes her head. “We only do doubles, but some of the rooms have sofa beds you can sleep on too.” She taps at her computer. “They’ve all been taken now, sorry.”
I look at my parents. “There are no beds.”
“There’s a perfectly good double!” Dad replies.
“They’re actually king size, so plenty of space!” The lady at reception smiles. “Plus, it’s fun!”
I stare at her. “What’s ‘fun’?!”
“Bunking up with your mate for the night!” She smiles again, like we’re the Famous Five. “Sleepover style!”
I can’t stop staring. What the hell is she taking about? “Sleepover style”?
“Be fun, Nate,” Mum adds. “You shared a tent.”
“A tent. Not a sleeping bag.” I turn back to the reception lady. “We’re not together. We’re mates.”
She gives me an unimpressed look. “OK.”
I look at everyone else, and everyone else, including the old couple who are waiting in line behind us, seems equally unimpressed. “What?” I say.
“Jack would make a great husband!” Rose says.
“Didn’t ask anything, why are you speaking?”
“You said ‘what?’ so I’m answering!” Rose replies.
“Anyway, get over it, Nate,” Mum says. “Sleep in the car park if you’re that bothered.”
“I mean, it’s 2020 after all,” Jack says, with a grin.
I absolutely give him one of my death stares; it’s like that boy just cannot help but take the piss all the time. Does he not understand I said that because I was being deliberately evasive? I didn’t want to come out to the girls, but I also didn’t want to totally lie. Why is that such a problem?
“Here’s your key card,” Reception Lady says, handing it over. “Breakfast from seven, check out by eleven. Enjoy your stay – I’ve put you in the honeymoon suite!”
My eyes widen.
Her face falls. “That’s a joke, we’re a motorway motel – we don’t have a honeymoon suite.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
JACK
Absolutely sick …
… of Nate’s shit.
Literally, I’m over him. I have a really high tolerance for fuckery, but Nate’s just smashed right through it.
We both stomp to the bedroom in silence, and the moment the door closes behind us, I throw my case down and I’m so ready to give Nate a piece of my mind that—
“What’s your problem?” Nate barks at me.
“Oh my actual god, what’s your problem?”
“Dig, dig, dig! All the time! I can’t take it! If I annoy you so much, why did you come on this thing?”
“Well, if I annoy you so much, why did you invite me?”
He’s right up in my face. “I. Didn’t!”
He’s sort of right, which is deeply annoying. But none of that is the actual point here. “Nate, you’ve been grumpy – well, OK, you’ve been grumpy since for ever, but you’ve been especially grumpy on this trip, and I get it, Tariq, but you’re just letting them win by being like this.”
“Well, they have won, so.”
“And, like, what exactly did I do wrong last night?” I ask.
Nate stares at me, unblinking.
“I was trying to look out for you,” I add. “Because I understand how raw this all is for you.”
He’s still just staring.
“Or maybe it’s not raw?” I say. “Maybe you’re actually cool with it, don’t care, have moved on and you’re looking for someone new? After all, it’s 2020.”
Now I get a reaction. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he says.
“It’s cool, you don’t want people to know you’re gay.”
“That’s not the case…”
“Well, except you did the same thing with the hotel receptionist just now – made a big old song and dance about how we weren’t together and could we have separate beds—”
“Oh my god, Jack, so what if I don’t want to be all gay and in everyone’s face about it?”
I snap my fingers. “And there’s the crux of it! You hate the fact that I am! Don’t you? You can’t stand it. Is that why you didn’t speak to me after year nine, when I came out?”
Nate’s face goes stony. “That’s not—”
“That why you stayed quiet when those lads made a fuss about changing with me?”
He looks down at the floor.
“Deserved it, I suppose, did I? Like Mrs Nunn said, I bring it on myself because I don’t try to hide it!”
He looks up. “Why are you bringing all this up?”
I actually laugh, his question is so ridiculous. I mean, where would I start? How hurt I was when we stopped hanging out? How I know it’s because he didn’t like me being so overtly gay? How, aside from Instagram, this trip could have been a chance to repair things a bit, except Nate’s still Nate and he clearly still has a problem if I’m not straight-acting? Exactly the same as Dylan did? “How shall I be more straight for you, Nate? Maybe I could start walking slowly along pavements, with no purpose – would that be more straight? Wear a Ben Sherman shirt on a night out in town? I could stop asking for oat milk in my lattes, just go for good old cishet full-fat dairy!”
“Shut up, Jack.”
I nod. “Yeah, because that’s exactly what everyone wants, isn’t it? Fine to be gay, as long as you’re not too gay. As long as you can be slotted into some nice little inoffensive category that doesn’t make anyone uncomfortable. Not like it affects you anyway, but god forbid I should celebrate any scrap of happiness in who
I am!”
“I’m sleeping in the bathroom,” he says, going in and slamming the door, like I might not even need to pee or floss or anything.
“Fine. Sleep in the bathroom.”
Thirty minutes later and Nate is out of the bathroom and standing by the side of the bed.
“I don’t want to argue with you,” he says in a small voice.
“Or is it just that you don’t want to sleep in the bath?” I ask.
He shrugs. “The shower’s dripping.”
“Right. Well.” I flip the page of my novel.
“I’m sorry,” Nate says.
“OK.”
“Can I get in the bed?”
I sigh, put my book down on the little bedside table and turn to look at him. I do it all really slowly though, to give the moment the gravitas it deserves. “Yes,” I say eventually.
He gives me a little smile, walks around to the other side and hops in, lying straight down on his back.
“Shall I turn the light out?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
I flick it off, then lie down on my back too. For a moment, there’s just the sound of our breathing, until Nate shuffles over so he’s lying on his side, facing me. “Jack?”
I don’t turn to look at him. “Uh-huh?”
“I’m sorry I’ve been grumpy. I know you were trying to help me back in the cabin. And I know I … it feels like a mess. Me, I mean. And I just really miss Tariq. I messaged him…”
“Ohh, Nate,” I mutter.
“I just… I think I thought maybe he’d get back with me, that there could still be hope, but when I see those posts … he looks so happy. And I’m… I don’t know what I am, Jack, but happy I definitely ain’t.”
I turn on to my side to face him too. He chuckles. “What?” I say.
“Now it really feels like a sleepover, like when we were younger. Whispering late at night.”
I smile. “Happy days.”
He sighs. “Yeah. Once.”
“We’ll get your happy back, pumpkin.”
He laughs again. “You’re such a dick.” There’s a bit more silence. “Um … Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Is it possible to have a bit more duvet?”
I sigh. “How much more duvet do you need, Nate?”
“OK, it’s just … don’t laugh, but I have this thing, this… It probably sounds stupid, but I always imagine there’s a monster in the bedroom hungry for limbs, and if any part of me is exposed and not under the duvet, the creature will eat them. So. My left arm, foot and lower leg are all currently in peril.”
“What?”
“You may as well know because I won’t sleep otherwise.”
“But this savage human-flesh-eating beast is fooled if the limbs it seeks are under a relatively thin piece of material?”
“I didn’t say it was logical.”
I sweep more duvet over to his side. “Ridiculous.”
Nate makes a contented little noise and rolls on to his back. “Jack?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“I’m sorry about … the stuff in year nine.”
I wait to see if there’s any more, like some actual explanation of why he totally stopped speaking to me, but he just sighs deeply, and there clearly isn’t. Still, it’s better than nothing. “No worries,” I mutter.
More silence. I think about Dylan. I think about the fact that Nate misses Tariq so badly and I don’t miss Dylan in the same way. I’ve barely even thought about Dylan in that sense. I’ve just been annoyed, felt competitive, wanted some kind of revenge, I don’t know. I thought Dylan was my everything. I said he was in several Instagram posts. Maybe he’s not.
Nate’s making little sniffing noises. Poor Nate. This whole thing has really messed him up. I don’t want him to have the worst summer ever – we’re sixteen, we’ve just finished our GCSEs, I know because everyone tells you, life doesn’t get much better than this.
“Nate? Do you want a hug?”
He hesitates. “I’m good, thanks,” he mutters finally.
I’m woken by the sound of a delivery truck reversing into a service bay somewhere under our window. It doesn’t seem to bother Nate, who remains asleep, a look of blissful contentment on his face. I reach for my phone.
A text from Mum: Hope you’re not dead. Don’t forget about Elliot – he’s doing some talent show near godforsaken Stoke-on-Trent if you happen to be passing? Love you, blah, blah.
Elliot. It gives me an idea. Nate and Elliot have met before, years ago, when we were ten, but they got on really well. Plus, Elliot’s a laugh, which might be good for Nate, and I’m sure whatever the talent show act is he’s doing will be … well, even if it’s crap, it’ll be funny, so it’s win-win as far as I’m concerned.
I tap on Instagram and am instantly irritated by Dylan and Tariq’s picture of them enjoying some sort of luxury breakfast in a fabulous hotel they clearly booked into after their VIP-gig-thing last night. Fresh orange juice, croissant, a plate of fresh fruit and two steaming mugs of coffee – looks divine. Also looks fake AF since Dylan loathes coffee, but that’s not the point. It’s getting a lot of love. They’ve done that thing where they’ve asked a question at the end of the post: What’s your favourite breakfast? Unbelievably, people have replied: French toast, Muffins, Full English! – it’s so mind-numbingly banal. I mull my options. I haven’t braved the breakfast buffet here yet, but I’m reasonably confident it’s going to be hard to compete with them on this. But then, the camera can be very selective about what it sees.
I hop out of bed, have a quick shower and pull on some clothes. Nate is asleep throughout all of this – he’s clearly not going to be breakfasting with me, but maybe if the old grump gets more sleep, he’ll be a bit happier.
“Farewell, my prince,” I whisper to him. “Sweet dreams, my handsome, beautiful boy!”
“Piss off, Jack,” Nate mutters.
I’m unclear whether he heard that, or whether he’s just dreaming, because either is a possibility. Nate makes a little snuffling noise and turns over.
“Tariq,” he mutters. “Puffle.”
And that settles it. Mission: Distract Nate from Obsessing About Tariq must begin in earnest.
I complete my look by wrapping a black pashmina around myself, because part of me does feel I need to recognize I too have lost a boyfriend, and I should, technically, enter a period of mourning – the black pashmina giving just the right hint of glamorous widow who’s a bit sad but totally up for a new man, should one come along.
*
The breakfast buffet, like every breakfast buffet I’ve ever been to, is an absolute disgrace. The two members of staff in charge of the fiasco are run ragged, simultaneously trying to clear stacks of dirty crockery, show people to tables and refill serving dishes. Ninety per cent of the breakfast guests appear to be aggressively heterosexual men, many wearing branded polo shirts for things like lift maintenance companies, and apparently with a very low tolerance threshold for waiting in line while a fabulous gay teenager, in a beautiful, if melancholy, pashmina (and who maybe has just a hint of eyeliner on) tries to select a fried egg that’s actually still runny for his plate.
I don’t want a repeat of the incident at the campsite canteen, so I fill my plate as quickly as I can: grey boiled mushrooms, an entirely superfluous tomato (gross, but a nice pop of colour), some bacon that appears to have been boiled for some reason, and hurry back to my table to attempt a few photos. But none of them looks as good as the one Dylan and Tariq took at their luxury hotel. The lighting is all wrong, for a start, plus there’s no white cotton tablecloth or heavy-looking silver cutlery to really set it off. The only option here is the close-up, but I’m not going to post a close up of a low-quality sausage when Dylan had pics of freshly baked croissants and “preserves”. I abandon my cooked breakfast due to its foulness, and start hunting around the “continental selection”, where I happen upon pancakes. Now, a stack of pancakes, with a pat of me
lted butter sitting on top, oozing buttery goodness down the side of the stack, and maybe a few berries on the side, is exactly the sort of thing I need everyone to see on Insta.
Problem: the pancakes are cold. And for butter to melt, pleasingly and glisteningly, I need them warm. So I whack them in the industrial-looking toaster, which has a little conveyer belt to carry your items along, spitting them out the other end once toasted. While that’s happening, I spoon some berries into a bowl, and then head over to the jugs of juice, because some orange, in the corner of the shot, might look vibrant and healthy too.
I do a sweep past the toaster, but the pancakes haven’t emerged yet, so take my other bits back to my table.
“Morning, Jack!” It’s Nate’s mum, looking bright and breezy in these pink chino shorts and a rather jaunty blue-striped top. “Don’t tell me my sleep-loving son is still in bed and he’s left you to fend for yourself at this breakfast buffet?”
“He needs his sleep,” I tell her. “I’ll save him a stale croissant.”
“He’s in a weird mood. Is it still this Tariq business?”
I nod. “Yeah. But, I had a thought, and I think it might help cheer him up – if you’re up for a slight detour – to see my cousin Elliot perform in a talent show near Stoke-on-Trent, which I know sounds—”
“Yes!” she blurts out. “I mean, anything, some form of structure, is great. Mick is being so free and easy about this whole trip, I’m beside myself. I’m having to lie to friends and relatives, saying it’s all planned and everything is wonderful – if the mums at Rose’s school get wind of what’s actually happening, I’ll be shunned, Jack. Shunned. Like they did with Anne Rogers after she ditched her SUV and bought an electric bike.”
I nod, even though I have no idea.
“But Nate knows Elliot and likes him?”
“They got on so well when we were ten and Elliot spent a few weeks of the summer at ours.”
“I’ll discuss it with Mick, but I’m sure we can manage it.” She cocks her head to the other side of the restaurant. “Join us, you can hear Mick prattle on about how he wants to catch a fish and barbecue it on a beach, because why eat at one of Rick Stein’s restaurants like Debbie Atwood does every month with her millionaire husband when you can drag something out of the sewage-ridden North Sea and incinerate it over a fire made with the last remaining vestiges of your hopes and dreams?”
Heartbreak Boys Page 13