“They’ll just be less obvious about it, but trust me, it will be.”
“I think Nate might like it…”
She narrows her eyes. “Clever move. Now mine. Only on condition you all attend, without complaint, a day that I have planned tomorrow.”
I purse my lips. “What … what type of day?”
“You have to agree to it.”
“Is it shopping? Can we go shopping? Is there a Zara we could hang out in for a bit?” If it was that, we could definitely do the “hashtag gifted” post I’ve been dying for.
“Jack, you have to agree. I’m not telling you. Live for the moment, go with the flow, remember?”
I mean, how bad could it be? This is Nate’s mum we’re talking about, she’s hardly going to put us all in mortal danger doing something humiliating, way out of our comfort zone.
“You have a deal,” I say.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
NATE
Jack has literally been gone all day, so I’m guessing his pursuit of the legendary “pool boy” he mentioned went well. I was a bit sad, though. After he mentioned Jack and Nate’s Paranormal Investigations, I got thinking about all the other hilarious stuff we used to get up to – sure, there was the detective agency where we basically accused my next-door neighbour of brutally murdering his wife and burying her under the patio (in fact, she had gone to Scunthorpe for a week, which, in fairness, is actually worse), but also there was the two-man production of Wicked we mounted in Jack’s lounge, and the craft shop we opened, selling homemade bookmarks and potpourri. I mean, I don’t want to be stereotypical, but did everyone know we were gay before we did? They were great days, and part of me wanted to laugh with him more about all that stuff. But he went off, like Jack does, doing his thing, and, well…
Anyway, it’s fine, I’ve been with Elliot all day, and what a day it’s been. After the massage we went to the spa. We tried the sauna but my anxiety about the possibility of a door malfunction kicked in, and I started to panic about how we would be slowly cooked alive, so we had to go. Elliot was fine about it, though, and because the other spa users were (a) a lot of hairy old men in Speedos and (b) a drunken hen party who kept yelling at Elliot to “get yer tits out” even though Elliot doesn’t have tits he can get out, we decided to leave. So we played table tennis, then we had some lunch (ham and cheese toastie), then we had a swim, then we played giant chess, then giant Connect 4, then Elliot signed us up for a tour of local spots of supernatural interest by renowned local “ghost hunter” Dr Edith D’eath, (not a made-up name, they had the gall to claim), and I had to say, “Elliot, can we not just have a sit-down?” And he was fine with that, so we had a sit-down, and now I’m here in reception, knackered, and waiting for my parents so we can get on the road again. Elliot is sitting next to me on the sofa, his leg pressed against mine (not deliberately, I think, he’s just spatially unaware), as he literally talks about whatever is in his head at any given moment.
“Aren’t those flowers nice on the table? I got given flowers on Valentine’s Day this year, can you believe it? At school! Well, not flowers, just a single rose, I thought it must be from my mum but it turned out it was this girl called Molly, I actually pricked my finger on the thorn and I thought, oh no, maybe now I’ll fall asleep for a thousand years… Oh, that’s spinning wheels, isn’t it? What even is a spinning wheel? Do people still use them? Oh, hi, Mum—”
“Elliot,” she says, standing in front of us. “Nate’s parents have very kindly asked if you’d like to join them for part of their road trip.”
OK, that’s total news to me, and I have no idea why they wouldn’t ask me first, but, hey, Elliot’s cool so I guess it’ll be fun. Elliot is now buzzing with excitement about the idea, which is very sweet, and actually, now things are a bit easier between me and Jack, maybe we’ll all start to have a better time.
“Roooooooaaaaaad triiiiiiiip!” Elliot squeals.
He wants to high-five me. I let him.
“OK, so,” his mum continues, “you don’t have enough underwear, so—”
“Mu-um,” Elliot growls. “I can buy underwear. I’m a man of means now.”
“Fine,” she says. “Just make sure you do. I know what you boys are like, you’d happily run around in the same pants for a week if you could.”
Elliot slaps his forehead. “Lies! Stereotypes!”
“Right, well, have fun, and—”
Elliot’s eyes widen, waiting, I’ve no doubt, for the thing parents always say, even with a hint of a joke in their voice (despite meaning it), about not “doing anything they wouldn’t do” which basically means have sex, take drugs, drink, or perform motorcycle stunts without a helmet through hoops of fire over hundred-foot drops. Sensibly, he doesn’t even let her start. “I will! I will!” he says. “I’ll be sensible. I’ll call you. I won’t do any of the things you’re fretting about, and if I do, I won’t tell you.”
“Don’t get a tattoo,” she says.
Elliot holds his hands out, like WTF?
She narrows her eyes. “Or a piercing.”
“Not even get my nipple pierced?” he grins.
“We’ve been through this, and, no.” She cocks her head. “OK?”
“OK.”
“We good?”
“Uh-huh.”
She nods at Elliot, and he nods back. Then he stands up and gives her a hug. “Love you, miss you,” he says.
She pecks him on the cheek.
As she goes, he turns to me and says in a deliberately loud whisper, “Right! Let’s download Grindr and lie about our age!” Then waves and gives her a thumbs-up.
“Who dis?” I say, as Jack rounds the corner and bounds up to us.
“Boys,” Jack says, squeezing himself
