“Get out of my house” was David’s predicable and, in context, not unreasonable reply.

I ignored him, and slid off the arm of the bench to plant myself in front of Oliver. He wouldn’t look at me. “I’m sorry I’ve fucked this up. And I’m sorry I’ve said ‘fuck’ so many times. Especially when you’ve been so amazing whenever I’ve needed you. It’s just”—I pulled in a shaky breath—“you’re the best man I’ve ever met. And I can’t sit by and watch other people make you doubt that. Even if they’re your parents.”

Finally, he looked up, his eyes pale and unreadable in the summer sunlight. “Lucien…”

“It’s okay. I’m going. And you don’t have to come with me. But I want you to know that…that you’re great. And I don’t know how anyone could think you’re not, y’know, great. And…like…” This was impossible. It would have been impossible if we’d been alone in a dark room. And here we were with a half-dozen people staring at us “…your job is…great and you’re really…great at it. And you look great in blue. And…” I was getting the feeling this could have gone better. “…I know I’m not your family and I know I’m just some guy but I hope you can believe that I care about you enough that…you can believe…what I’m saying about you now. Because it’s…true.”

I fully intended to say my piece and walk out of there with my head held high and whatever was left of my dignity. But, yeah. Didn’t happen.

I panicked.

And ran like hell.

Chapter 47

I hadn’t got very far—not even to the point of having to worry how I was going to get out of Milton Keynes—when I heard footsteps. I turned to see Oliver gaining on me rapidly. Seriously, it was embarrassing how fit he was and I wasn’t. I had no idea what he was thinking, partly because everyone has the same face while they’re running, but mainly because there was no way to tell how he was going to have taken that. The fact he’d come after me was a good sign, right? Well, unless he wanted to have a go at me for being rude to his parents.

“Oliver, I—” I started.

“Let’s go home.”

Did that mean “let’s go home because you’ve made me see my parents are emotionally abusive and I don’t have to stand for it” or “let’s go home because you’ve embarrassed me so much we literally have to leave town”? Even his nonrunning face wasn’t helping.

Not really knowing what else to do, I got in the car and had hardly clicked my seat belt into place when Oliver pulled away with the sort of reckless disregard for safety that I usually associated with, well, me. We got halfway to the end of the road with Oliver noticeably exceeding the speed you were supposed to stick to in a built-up area and paying way less attention to lane discipline than even I was comfortable with.

“Um,” I tried. “Should you be—”

He swerved to avoid an incoming cyclist and I yelped.

“Okay, getting actually scared now.”

With a screech and a grinding of gears, Oliver ploughed the car up the kerb and hit the brakes. Then he folded his arms across the steering wheel, laid his head against them, and burst into tears.

Oh shit. For a second or two, I tried to do that British thing where you pretend nothing untoward is happening in the hope it’ll sort itself out quickly and amicably, and then you’ll never have to talk about it again. Except Oliver was crying, and not stopping crying, and this was definitely a boyfriend job—one that, as an aspiring boyfriend, I was failing hard at.

It didn’t help we were in a car, both of us responsibly wearing seat belts, so I couldn’t even inadequately hug him. Instead, I was reduced to inadequately petting his shoulder like he’d come third in a primary-school sack race. And I desperately wanted to say something supportive but “don’t cry” was toxic bullshit, “it’s okay to cry” was patronising, and “there, there” had never made anybody feel better ever in the history of emotions.

Eventually Oliver shook off my hand and turned to face me. He had that red, puffy serious-tears look about him that filled me with a hopeless desire to make everything better for him. “I wish,” he said, with a valiant effort to sound Oliver-like, “I wish you hadn’t seen that.”

“Oh my God, it’s okay. Everybody cries.”

“Not that. Well, a little bit that. It…it’s…everything.” He gave a sad little sniff. “I’ve behaved terribly today.”

“You weren’t the one telling everyone to go fuck themselves.”

“No…I…I’m grateful you tried to speak up for me. But I should never have put you in that position.”

I reached across the space between us and smoothed back his hair from his sticky eyes. “The whole deal was that you’d come to my work thing, and I’d come to your family thing.”

“And if I’d…if I’d done better, it would have been…better.” He paused. “I knew my mother wouldn’t like this shirt.”

“Fuck the shirt. And, and I acknowledge out of context this sounds really bad, fuck your mother.”

“Please stop saying that. I know today was difficult, but they genuinely want the best for me. And I keep letting them down.”

“Oliver, that is the wrongest thing I’ve ever heard.” I made a somewhat futile attempt to sound calm and rational. “Like, okay, I’m just guessing here, but have you ever gone anywhere with your parents without your mum having some complaint or other about what you’re wearing?”

“She has very high standards.”

“Maybe. Or maybe she’s—and I’m having trouble putting this in a nonjudgmental way—maybe she’s got into the habit of criticising you and hasn’t paid attention to how much that messes you up.”

His eyes filled with fresh tears. Go me. “She’s not trying to upset me. She’s trying to help.”

“And, you know what? I believe that. But you don’t need that kind of help, and trying to make you think you do is…is…mean. And don’t even get me started on your dad.”

“What’s wrong with my father? I mean, I know he’s a bit unreformed but he’s never been violent, he’s always been there, he’s supported Christopher through medical school and me through the bar.”

“Yeah, none of that gives him the right to call you a screaming bender in front of his friends.”

“He was joking. He’s always been fine with my sexuality.”