Page 23 of Tribute Act
“Why don’t you stay with me?” I blurted.
The words were out of my mouth before I’d thought them through. Before I’d considered my own brief and secret history with Mack.
He turned his head and stared at me, seeming stunned—though really, was it such a surprising suggestion? I barrelled on, not giving him a chance to disagree.
“I won’t be able to wait on you hand and foot, like Mum would,” I said, keeping my tone casual and unconcerned. “In fact, I won’t even be in most of the time, but I assume you’re okay to entertain yourself, till you’re feeling well enough to get out and about, yeah?”
I’ll leave you in peace.
You’re free to go when you want.
I saw a little of the tension leaching out of him as I gave those throwaway assurances, the tight set of his shoulders slowly easing, the firm set of his jaw unclenching. He remained silent though, watching me with that dark, wary gaze.
God, those eyes, dark as bitter chocolate. He must’ve got them from his mother, because Derek’s were a startling blue, but he was like Derek in other ways. In height and build, and both of them with the same thick, shiny hair, even if Derek’s was almost entirely silver now.
Both of them clamming up whenever conversations got difficult.
“Please, Dylan. Say you’ll stay with Nathan.” That was Rosie, perched now on the edge of her chair, her worried gaze fixed on Mack.
He said, almost imploringly, “Rosie, I don’t think—”
“Please,” she repeated, and her eyes filled with tears. “I’ll worry if you’re on your own.”
Good old emotional blackmail.
Mack held out for about five seconds, expression torn. Then he sighed, long and hard. “Okay, you win.” He turned to me then, and his smile was careful. “Thanks for the offer, Nathan. I reckon I’ll be taking you up on it.”
He didn’t look thankful though—he looked wary. And he wasn’t the only one.
Mack moved into my place the next day, while I was working at the café. Mum gave him the spare key and he brought his stuff over. By the time I got home at six, he seemed to have settled in—not that there was much settling in a guy with one rucksack and a guitar case needed to do.
I found him in the living room, bent over his guitar and half humming, half singing under his breath as he worked through a song I recognised but couldn’t put name to. His long, agile fingers coaxed the melody from the strings with the casual ease of long experience, and even mumble-singing as he was, I could tell his voice was a low baritone with a promise of richness.
He mustn’t have heard me come in. I stood in the living room doorway for a couple of minutes listening to him play before he clocked me and abruptly stopped.
“Oh, hi!” He looked flustered, setting the guitar down on the empty half of the sofa beside him and standing up. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
“Sit down,” I said, stepping further into the room. “You don’t have to stop playing. I was enjoying it. What was that song?” I settled myself into my favourite chair, toeing off my beat-up Nikes.
He sat slowly, almost reluctantly. “It’s a Blur song. I was just messing about.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, recognition dawning. “I know the one you mean now—it sounded really nice like that. Acoustic, I mean.”
He gave me a stiff half smile. “Thanks.” He didn’t move to pick up the guitar again though.
“So, did you find your room?” I asked.
“Uh, yeah, I think so. Lorraine said to use the one next to the bathroom?”
“That’s right.” I attempted breezy good humour. “Got everything you need?”
“Yeah, course, I don’t need much. Just a bed, really.” He visibly cringed then, as though I might think this bland remark was a come-on. “That is—” he rubbed at the back of his neck and cleared his throat “—um, you know.”
Yeah, I did. At least I knew that this weird awkwardness arose out of our mutual awareness that we’d slept together not so long ago. And now we were going to be living together in this compact space. Passing each other on the way to and from the shower in the morning. Sharing the sofa if we both wanted to watch TV in the evening.
My living room suddenly felt tiny.
I lurched to my feet, plastering what felt like a very fake smile across my face. “I’m going to make a cuppa,” I announced. “Do you want one?”