It’s Perry’s birthday, and I don’t really want to go but Paili says I have to.
She says Perry will be too upset if I miss it, and that if anyone should miss it, it’s BJ, but we both know BJ won’t miss it, so I guess I’m just seeing him later then.
We haven’t spoken since Dunstan in the East.
That felt more final than I meant it to. That we’re never going to work? Of course we’re going to work, even if I’m a round peg and he’s a square hole—I don’t care, I’ll shave down the edges of myself to keep him.
I’d do anything for him.
I can’t remember the last time we didn’t speak for this long. This has been more than a fortnight that’s felt like a year, just a constant state of fretting. Like he kicked my world off-kilter, an undeniable imbalance in the universe of myself, and imbalances are peculiar because they manifest in ways you don’t expect.
My heart’s got a limp—it’s had a limp for a while now—but it’s found a crutch in Tom. Not just a crutch, but a goddamn hospital wing. If he were a surgeon, I’d be in trusty hands. But he’s not and I still am anyway.
I wish I had the words to wrap around Tom, a pedestal tall enough, a spotlight bright enough to show you actually how perfect a man he is—
And I don’t know what we are anymore, if you’re trying to keep track. I’ve stopped trying to define it, he doesn’t ask. We’re definitely not friends, but somehow he’s also probably my best friend these days. Sleeping together—and there are feelings there. Open wide window, birds on branches, raindrops on roses feelings—but we both know he loves someone else whom he can’t have, and I love someone else I probably shouldn’t.
We’re honest. I tell him everything—what’s the point in lying?
Together—that’s what we are—I suppose if I were to label it, and I shouldn’t because it’s too confusing to try. All I know is that he’s a safe harbour. If BJ is the storm that’s sinking me, Tom is the place where my heart’s ship is getting patched up.
Tom took me shopping in Harrods this afternoon and asked, “Am I coming with you tonight?”
I think I’d mentioned it in passing a few days ago.
“Oh.” I stick my head out of the change room. I’m trying on the wool, cable-knit mini dress from Weekend by Max Mara, which admittedly is much more casual than my usual style, but Tom and I don’t much leave the bed these days, and tulle is quite annoying to wear in bed.
“I didn’t really think that you’d want to.” I blink up at him.
He leans back against the wall.
“Sounds like foxhole duties—”
I step out of the change room and walk over to him, looking up. “Are we still in the foxhole?”
He frowns a tiny bit while he thinks, pushing some hair behind my ears. “I’m going to let you use my body for as long as you want it.” He shrugs. “Foxhole, shield, jungle gym—I don’t care.”
I frown a little. “You should care maybe, a little—”
“I care—” He scrunches his nose up. He shakes his head. “Care about you more though, and your face does this thing when it’s hurt, like you’re a deer caught in a bear trap—and I have to help you.” He says that like it’s an unchangeable fact. “And I can see you trying to untangle yourself from this fucking idiot you’ve been tangled up with for half your life and one day you’ll be free, and when you are, I reckon I’m first in line.”
I hook my arm around his neck and kiss him on my tip toes. “You are.”
“Does he know I’m coming?” Gus asks on the car ride there.
“No,” I say and shake my head. “You’re his birthday present.”
Gus gives me a look. “You can’t afford me, babe.”
“I’m very rich.” I frown at him. “Tom’s richer. Let’s go Dutch, Tommy.”
Gus laughs, and Tom sniffs at me, amused.
I feel a wave of gratitude that Tom is looking as handsome as he does (light grey, brushed wool and cashmere-blend sweater by Incotex, black slim-fit, stretch denim jeans by Dolce & Gabanna, and the full-grain leather Chelsea boots by Common Projects), mindlessly fiddling with the hem of my skirt.
It’s the embellished, pleated, houndstooth wool and mohair-blend mini skirt—super cute. BJ bought it for me that day. The coat I’m wearing too. The faux shearling-trimmed wool coat, both by Gucci.
I’ve got embellished, ribbed-knit camisole by Versace under it (so much embellishment, literally and metaphorically) and the Kronobotte 85, leather knee boots by Christian Louboutin—I look like BJ’s dream girl and I did it on purpose.
I know he’ll know he bought me most of these clothes, and I hope he thinks about Tom taking them off my body later.
We arrive at Dolce Kensington about forty minutes later than we mean to, and I brace myself for an earful from Perry when we walk in but he and Paili beeline over to us, both clapping and grinning and sort of forming a wall.
“Oh my god!” Perry claps my face in his hands. “You’re here! I love you!”
I wonder if Tom sees something being about two feet taller than I am, because his eyes snag on something and he sort of moves his body, joining the wall.
“This is your present.” I shove into Perry’s arms. “Happy birthday!”
And Gus, that old sport, grabs Perry’s face and gives him a snog.
Perry’s cheeks go red and I toss a Saint Laurent gift bag into his arms.
“Bar!” Paili sort of yells. “Let’s drink—”
I look at her strangely. “We don’t have table service?”
She swats her hand. “Of course we do, but bars are fun. Shots are more fun at bars—don’t you think?”
She looks at Tom for help.
Tom nods. “She is correct.”
And they all start sheep-dogging me towards the bar and away from whatever I assume BJ is doing that they don’t want me to see. Another lap dance? Taura Sax? I don’t know.
We do some shots with a vulgar name and I’ve barely swallowed it when Perry’s clapping his hands saying, “Again, again!” And Tom’s ordering them, and I’ve had enough. I push past them to see what the fuck is going on.
It’s BJ and Alexis Blau. On the couch.
I’ve never liked Alexis Blau. I overheard her in the school loo once telling people that if I didn’t have a famous father, BJ would be with her but that’s bullshit because I’m way prettier than her too.
She’s always had a thing for him. She messages him all the time.
He’s never told me that—he wouldn’t because he knows I’d get jealous—but he didn’t need to tell me anyway, because I guessed the passcode on his phone. (It’s 7989—the years we were born, backwards. It took me two months of trials to crack it.)
I try not to look at it. It’s mostly things I don’t want to see, mostly me putting knives in my own heart. Anyway, to his credit with Alexis, he really never gave her the time of day. Not even when he didn’t know I could see. He’s giving her more than the time of day now though. Heavy petting. Making out. His hands pretty high up her skirt. Not all fingers accounted for.
I turn back to my friends, trying to look brave—all of their faces contorted into some sort of grimace.
“I’m fine,” I laugh. Not a one of them buys it. I smile more. “Guys, I think I once literally saw him having sex with someone else—some gross girl’s tongue in his ear.” I shrug.
Paili’s hands are on her cheeks, because her hands are always cold and she’s trying to calm her flushed cheeks now. “I don’t care,” I tell them all—I look up at Tom for some back-up, but his face looks strained.
I sigh, roll my eyes, take his hand and pull him back over to the party.
“Oy, oy,” Christian calls to us, lifting his eyebrows in an unenthusiastic, wordless hello. Henry smiles, standing up to hug me. His eyes look nervous too. Do they think I’m some kind of time bomb? He holds me longer and tighter than he should and something in it makes me nervous.
“You good?” he asks as he pulls back, looking at me. He doesn’t wait for an answer as he shakes Tom’s hand. “Should we go to the bar?” Henry points to it.
“No.” I frown, impatient. “I don’t want to go to the bar—what’s going on?”
“Nothing.” He does this breezy laugh that feels forced.
I watch BJ for a couple of seconds. I can’t tell whether he’s seen me yet, and I don’t know whether it’s better or worse if he has. The way they’re hooking up is this weird sort of desperate but not in a sexy way.
It sort of feels like the kissing version of when the American football players run off the field and pour the cooler of Gatorade over their heads.
He looks kind of sweaty. Flushed, or something. I get a wave of nausea. I hope they move it to the bathroom soon—this is embarrassing for all of us.
“Why is he so drunk?” I ask Henry, frowning.
It’s like 9 p.m.
“Maybe because you’re here with Tom fucking England, mate,” Jonah says loudly as he glares over at me.
And at that, BJ pulls away from Alexis, looking over at me. His face doesn’t show any emotion. He just blinks at me. How drunk is he?
Tom’s standing behind me, holds both my arms with his hands, steadying me.
“I just got here,” I tell Jonah and gesture at Beej. “That’s not my fault.”
“Whatever, man-eater.” Jonah swats his hand, annoyed.
BJ snorts a drunken laugh.
“What did you say to me?” I blink at my old friend.
Jonah stands. “You heard me.”
“Oy,” Christian says and stands, frowning.
Jonah puts his hand flat on his little brother’s chest. “Are you fucking joking me?”
“Are you?” Christian steps between me and Jo. “If Beej wasn’t so fucked up, he wouldn’t let anyone speak to her like that.”
And with that, BJ pushes Alexis off his lap. It’s mindless. Pushes her off him like she’s a heavy duvet and it’s the first thing in the morning. She’s not even completely off of him when he stands; she sort of tumbles off him onto the couch, staring after him in disbelief—and me too, honestly. I’ve never seen him treat someone like that—like they’re not a person, just a thing he’s playing with.
He walks over and stands toe to toe with me, staring down.
Something about him is unrecognisable but familiar? There’s a far-ness in his eyes I can’t immediately place. Less than a school ruler between us as he stares down at me.
Jaw set, brows low, eyes dark. Tom doesn’t let go of me, but BJ doesn’t even acknowledge him. He sees no one but me.
He scrunches his nose. Sniffs big.
I stare at him for a few long seconds, my eyes flicking between his. And then I recognise it.
My face goes still.
“Are you high?” I ask quietly.
He stares at me for a split second, then sniffs a laugh. “No.”
I lean into him closer, but it’s dark—I can’t see. “Are you?” I ask louder.
“No,” he answers quicker.
My heart’s beating fast. “BJ—”
“I’m not,” he says too loudly and does this strange shrug with his whole body. “Don’t be fucking weird, Parks.”
He wipes his nose with the back of his hand unconsciously.
I look at the people around him—the boys are all standing now, hovering and something about that strikes me as weird—and if I was a body language expert I would have seen it all: Christian’s eyes avoiding mine, Jonah’s clenched fists, Henry with his hand pressed into his mouth. But I’m not a body language expert. I see none of that, but I feel it anyway—in my bones, that something’s amiss.
I wait a few seconds, staring back at the love of my life who’s barely blinking but when he does, those blinks drag slowly over his bleary eyes.
And what happens next happens so quickly, I don’t even do it with a conscious thought—I’m standing toe to toe with him one second and the next, I’m shoving him backwards into the light, grabbing a fistful of hair and jerking his head to the ceiling.
“Are you fucking high?” I demand, angling his eyes so I can see his pupils.
“Get the fuck off me!” He pulls my hands off him gruffly, tossing my arm away from him because he is absolutely high as a fucking kite.And me—I’m in some sort of aggrieved shock, and suddenly I’m lobbing my hands at him, smacking him and hitting him and he—high—shoves me away from him. I fall backwards and Jonah catches me, staring over at his best friend him wide-eyed, Beej stares at me terrified and I stare at him in disbelief—and then Tom comes in swinging.
It felt like the whole club had stopped to watch us by now.
I think there was music playing, but I swear to god you could hear a pin drop anyway.
It’s a solid crack and BJ does nothing to stop it—you could hear the bone-crunch-bone sound of hand meeting jaw.
Tom winds up to hit him again and then a bouncer grabs his wrist, another grabs BJ and they’re pushing them towards the door—and Jonah’s still holding on to me, but I shrug him off—the fucking traitor.
“Parks!” Jonah calls after me.
“Stay away from me,” I yell, smacking him away as I rush outside after them.
