Page 170 of Oleander

I was tempted to spoil the moment by asking him to stay with me, to leave him, to never go back to America, but I bit my tongue and hugged him close instead. We floated out into the middle of the pool, kissing lazily and deeply under the all-seeing glare of the August sun.

Later, we drank a bottle of good wine in the garden before wandering, tipsy and silly, down the street to a small Italian restaurant for huge bowls of pasta, which we ate on a small table outside. He talked about his favourite restaurant in Rome, about his course at Lervairè, about his cat – Laurent – before we walked hand in hand by the river while the sun set. I’d never been more content, not since I was a child and I knew what it was to be blessedly unaware of how painful life could be.

He looked radiant under the witching hour light. Over the last few weeks, his skin had turned a deep Grecian gold, bringing out the vibrant and dazzling azure blue of his eyes. He’d smiled more than I’d ever seen him smile, and day by day, his hand bothered him less. He was happy.

When I bought him a white rose from a seller on the bank of the Thames, he rolled his eyes but looked adorably flustered.

“You’re ridiculous, you do realise that?” he said as he took it from me.

I smiled, unapologetic. “Oh, I know. You’ve told me enough over the years.”

His smile faltered, but then he moved his rose to the other hand and re-took my hand. We’d come to a stop to watch a boat pass by, a large river boat, which seemed to be hosting a party on board. The music was loud enough to hear where we stood.

“What if I asked you to dance with me?” I turned to him. “How ridiculous would that be?”

He flicked his eyes to me, no doubt to see if I was serious. I was. He laughed and shook his head. But he danced with me, slow and wary. I’d never been more in love with him in my life. I’d never been more happy in my life.

That night when we made love, I thought my heart would burst.

“Jude,” he gasped, clinging to me. “Jude...fuck, it feels so good. You always feel so...good.” I kissed every part of his face I could reach, touching his lips just as his orgasm shot through him. He held me so tight it was as though he was afraid I might disappear, and I wanted to tell him that I never would.

“I’m yours, Cas,” I told him. “You’re mine, and I’m yours.Always.Tell me you know that, tell me.”

“I know, Jude,” he replied, soothingly. “I know.”

Since the pattern of my life had always been the same, I should have expected what was to follow. Events never turned slowly, or gradually; my tragedies were always great and sudden and complete. And this one would be no different.

Twenty-three

The day started like all the others had since we’d begun this again. The scent of Cas’s skin in my nose and the heat of him spooned against my front. He turned in my arms and kissed me softly. “I’m hungry,” he whispered, then slipped out of bed.

I groaned and twisted onto my back, watching as he pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. “What time is it?”

“After twelve. Shove some clothes on and come down and eat. We can always come back to bed.”

“Or you could just let me eat you here?” I did some mildly disgusting thing with my tongue.

He laughed and shook his head. “I promise I’ll make you something far tastier.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that.”

He yelled something about being insatiable and disappeared out of the room. I should have been able to sense what was coming by the weather: it was the first overcast day of the whole summer, a watery-looking grey sky that felt heavy and foreboding. I remember thinking I should put the cover over the pool.

When I arrived downstairs, Cas had set the nook, and after checking whether he needed a hand with the cooking, I did as he told me and sat down and waited. It was some egg concoctionhe called ‘Turkish eggs’: perfectly poached eggs on a bed of garlicky yoghurt sprinkled with chilli flakes and drizzled with oil. Toasted buttery sourdough on the side. It was the best thing I’d put in my mouth since him.

“That was incredible,” I told him after I’d cleared my plate. “How did you learn to cook so well?”

“YouTube,” he said as he popped a piece of yoghurt-soaked bread into his mouth. “I don’t have much of a social life, so I watch a lot of cooking videos.”

I was about to ask him why he didn’t have much of a social life when I heard voices from above. At first, I thought it was Ken, dropping something off, but he wouldn’t have come in without ringing us first. Then I heard Gideon’s voice.

We both turned as he came down the stairs.

“Ah, here they are!” he said, beaming at us.

He wasn’t alone, and I begged,pleadedwith the universe, for it to be Ken behind him on the stairs.

But, of course, the universe had never been that kind to me. It had never been kind at all and it wasn’t about to change its habit at this point. Blackwell came down the stairs behind Gideon and took in the sight of us both sitting there together. A cloud rolled over his face to rival the one outside. Dark and violently thunderous.