Know what? Maybe I am ready for hugs again. Maybe I’ve spent too long pushing people away and drowning in my own thoughts. I smile at Elliot. “Maybe later.”
“OK, maybe later.” He smiles back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
JACK
“Would you like a hug?”
“Maybe later.”
Which is why, after our massage session was over, I left Nate and Elliot to do their own thing, and made some lame excuse about wanting to check out the lifeguard by the pool – who, by the way, doesn’t exist. They’re sweet together, although I can’t help feeling a little bit hurt that Nate has always point-blank refused my hugs, yet very much leaves open the prospect of future hugs from my cousin. But fine. That’s the way of love and romance, and I detect that’s very much what’s going on here. And, honestly, if it makes Nate happy, if it cheers him up, then it’s all good as far as I’m concerned.
Then I’m smiling again, because thinking about the paranormal investigations reminds me of all the other random stuff Nate and I used to do – not just the ghost hunters, but the secret club in the tree house, or the detective agency we formed to solve low-level crimes in the area, using talcum powder to dust for fingerprints. Those were great days. Wonderful days. And, I think, some of my best, because … well, they just were.
So, I’m just sitting alone with my thoughts (and a virgin mojito complete with pink cocktail umbrella) by the side of the pool, on a very aesthetically pleasing rattan sofa, about to take an epic selfie, when I become aware of another person, who takes the sofa opposite. On the one hand, I hate it when people infringe on my space – especially when there’s no shortage of alternative space nearby. You know, like those people who come and sit next to you on the train when there are plenty of other seats literally everywhere else – you just want to shoot them. So, on the one hand, I did want to shoot this person. But on the other, they might be a hot boy, in which case, everything is forgiven and I’m going to be sweetness and light.
They are not a hot boy.
They are a girl.
But not just any girl.
My mouth drops open because can this really be true?
“Leila Bhatia?” I say out loud. My eyes widen and she looks up from her phone. “Oh. My. Actual. Days.” She looks relatively unimpressed, but I carry on because, Oh. My. Actual. Days! “I love your account, I’ve followed it for years, the aesthetic is—” I make the sign of a chef kissing his fingers. “And you’re very witty, and I respect and thank you for your support of the LGBTQ-plus community, and I buy everything you recommend. You are without question my favourite influencer and I am very influenced by you. I love you. Actually. Hi.”
“Hi,” she says. She doesn’t smile. I don’t care. This is so cool. A million things are racing through my head, but they all end with ARE WE GOING TO GET A PIC TOGETHER OH YES WE ARE!
“Wow, so, here you are. Is this one of those paid promotion things? Are you doing something for the hotel?”
Leila nods. “I am.”
“Cool. So, cool.” I can’t take my eyes off her. I can’t believe it’s really her. Leila Bhatia!
“Are you just going to stare at me?”
“Oh, no, sorry.”
“Because it’s slightly awkward.”
“Yes.”
“What’s that you’re drinking?”
“Mojito. Virgin. That’s to say, the drink is, not—”
Leila puts her hand up to stop me. “OK—”
I don’t know why I’m babbling, I just can’t believe I’m sitting opposite Leila Bhatia!
“Could you order me one?”
My eyes nearly pop out. “OH MY GOD YES!” I shout.
She stares at me a moment, then blinks once. “Thank you.”
I scamper off to the bar, order another mojito, and carry it back, placing it carefully in front of Leila, who is busy on her phone, probably influencing people and other important stuff. If I’m nice to her, she might like me, and if she likes me she might help me. If I can just get a pic of her and me to post, or even better, if I can be tagged in one of her photos which she posts, I will be over the moon and this will totally be number one best day ever and take that Dylan and Tariq, who’s the victor now, baby?!
“How much do I owe you?” she says.
I shake my head.
She rolls her eyes, pulls a fiver out of her bag, and puts it on the table between us. I just look at it. I don’t want to take it. “It’s fine,” I say. “You can get the next one.” I clock the look of surprise in her eyes. “Not that there will necessarily be a ‘next one’, I’m not saying…” I lick my lips. Why am I like this? I can’t even think straight. “Just to be clear, I’m gay.”
She looks up from sipping her drink. “And you’re telling me that because?”
“Oh, I was worried I was sort of making it sound like this was a date, which…” Shut up, Jack! “Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m fanboying all over you. I’m so embarrassed, I’m so sorry.” I sit back in the sofa. “I’m Jack, by the way.”
Now she smiles. “Hey, Jack.”
“Hey.”
“Sorry, I’m not normally as morose as this, but, as per, crap is kicking off online.” She rolls her eyes.
“Yeah?” I say.
She nods. “Call me intolerant and close-minded – which is in fact what some people are calling me – but I don’t think certain influencers should make bold claims online about how drinking beetroot juice and turmeric can cure everything from diabetes to cancer, without, you know, just a small shred of medical evidence.”
“Ohhhh.”
“It’s one thing being slung some cash for saying you like some make-up that’s actually relatively shit, but messing with people’s health?” She whistles. “It’s low. And it’s wrong.”
“You’ve spoken out. You’ve done
