In the middle of me gabbling the story to my folks, a text pings through:
Gone back home. Don’t worry.
I don’t know what happened at the airport to have caused this, but right now, I don’t even care. I just want Jack back with us and I want him to be OK.
“I’ve gotta go and find him,” I tell Dad.
He nods. “Yeah. You do. You owe him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing, just go.”
“No, wait, tell me what you meant by that.”
Dad sighs. “Nate, everything that boy has done on this trip, he’s done to try and make you happy. Going to see Elliot was his idea, because he thought you’d like to see him again. Inviting Elliot along was his idea too, because I think he thought you … liked him liked him.”
I stare at my dad.
“And now I think he needs you.”
I don’t have time to process what he’s said; I need to get myself together, get on a train and get back home.
“Take my card,” Mum says, handing me her Visa.
“Really?”
Mum just nods, where once she would have given me a lecture about budgeting.
“OK, thanks,” I say, grabbing my wallet, phone, keys and a rucksack.
“And, Nate? Talk to him, then both of you get back on a train and get down to Plymouth,” Dad says.
“Why? Shouldn’t we just stay—”
“You have to get to Plymouth,” Dad repeats. “That’s the whole point.”
“Point of what? What do you mean? What’s going on?”
“Get him, and bring him to Plymouth. This trip isn’t over yet. You’ll see.”
Dad looks at me, deep into me, like he’s never looked at me before, and I swallow, a chill running through me. But I know not to argue. And I don’t have time to argue anyway.
The last thing I hear as I head out of the door is Rose.
“Go get your husband, Nate!”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
JACK
Dylan’s words echo through my head all the way home. It’s always all about you. It’s all show – I can’t ever tell what’s real. Who even are you, Jack? Embarrassing. You’re a caricature. You could tone it down but you insist on making yourself a target. What is it – do you just crave the attention?
It was OK. I could take it. I kept thinking, Nate doesn’t think this, Nate likes me, but then Dylan twisted the knife:
“I see what you’re doing on Instagram, trying to make it look like you and Nate are a thing, but you’re not, are you? Know how I know? He wouldn’t want to be with someone like you. Nobody would. That’s why I ended up doing what I did, Jack. I was going tell you after prom just to save us all the heartache of having prom ruined, but guess what? You had to go and ruin it anyway, just so the spotlight was on you again!”
As soon as he’s said it, I know he’s right. I don’t really care about his whole character assassination – I mean, I’m pretty used to that. But the stuff about Nate cuts me up. All this time, slowly, I’ve been letting myself think that maybe something could happen, despite all the evidence to the contrary. Despite the fact that never once has Nate told me, or even suggested, he might feel like that. All fiction. A made-up fantasy world, with a great big fake idiot at the centre of it.
But I’m still OK. I need to sort my head out, but I’m still OK. Until Dylan says the one thing that I’m not ever gonna be OK with:
“Quite a lot of us are sick of your shit, so, only fair to warn you, I’m hearing whispers that a lot of us aren’t gonna be part of the LGBTQ-plus society next year, like, maybe it’ll just be you and Nate. He can get a taste of what it’s like to be with the clown no one wants to hang out with.”
No way. No way am I gonna let Nate be dragged into all the crap I have put up with. I’m not going to let him be isolated and disliked. That was exactly what he was so scared of for so long. He doesn’t deserve that.
So maybe the best thing I can do for Nate is just let him be. I think, I honestly think, he will be better off without me. Because even if we’re just good mates, he’ll be dragged down. The others will see to that.
So I go. When I finally turn my phone back on, and see Nate’s frantic messages and voicemails, I send a message back, just to let him know I’m OK, even though I am far from OK, but he doesn’t want to be bothered with that, and there’s no one else who would care how I was feeling. So I bury it, like I’ve always buried it, because there never really was anyone in the first place, and I guess there maybe never will be, and I’ve survived this long, so I’ll just carry on.
Maybe, in September, I’ll just keep my head down, get on with school stuff, speak less, not engage. I’ll do what everyone wants; I’ll be the version of Jack that doesn’t pull any focus, doesn’t annoy everyone, just exists. Let them win. There’s no prize for me anyway if I win, so what sort of victory would that be?
Mum’s in when I get home, which is annoying because you know when you just need to be alone to wallow in gloom? She looks up from a pile of legal papers on the kitchen table. “What’s happened?”
I shrug. “Nothing. I’m just back.” She studies me, but I ignore her. “Is there any chocolate milk?”
“It’s weird you would
