Page 46 of Tribute Act

Not the fact that I was falling for him, hard.

I’d been in relationships and I liked being part of a couple. Liked having someone of my own. My partners had always seemed to feel the same way.

As those first weeks with Mack—in whatever this thing between us was—passed, I found myself really thinking about those previous relationships. I realised that all my boyfriends had told me they loved me before I’d returned the sentiment. That I’d never had to face up to the possibility of rejection when I’d told a guy I loved him. What’s more, I’d always been the one to end things, and while a couple of those breakups had made me unhappy for a while, not one of them had torn me apart.

Not one.

What was it Gav had said? That I’d “fallen into” those relationships? At the time, I’d been oddly offended by that accusation, but now I thought that maybe he’d been onto something. All my old boyfriends had had one thing in common—they were predictable. They gave me certainty and comfort, if not much excitement.

With Mack, things were different. Frankly, he didn’t seem to want anything from me but my dick. I must admit, it was difficult to resent him for that when he was taking me to the back of his throat, but the rest of time I felt . . . unsettled. Definitely uncertain. For the first time in my life, I was the one with feelings to confess first. Feelings that I was pretty sure weren’t returned. Feelings that I suspected would have Mack running out the door like a hare if I gave voice to them.

The trouble was, I wasn’t the kind of man to keep my emotions locked down, and trying to stay silent took its toll. Mum might not have noticed what was going on between Mack and me, but she noticed that much.

“Are you not sleeping?” she asked one Wednesday evening. Mack was playing in the café and the place was full of customers. Rosie had snagged a table near him with two of her friends while Mum and I shared our usual table next to the counter.

“I’m fine,” I said, adding to distract her, “I’m just a bit nervous—Derek and I have that meeting with Fletchers’ Delis next Friday.”

Mum glanced at me sharply. “What time?”

“Ten—but it’s in Truro, so we’ll have to drive down.”

Mum sighed. “Derek won’t be able to make it, love. We’ve got an appointment at the hospital with Rosie that day. He’s got to be there.”

I was surprised by the sting of resentment that needled my gut at that. I didn’t begrudge Rosie having Derek at her appointment—I really didn’t. But more than ever these days, it seemed like I was running Dilly’s single-handedly. Like Mum and Derek were employees who thought all they needed to do was pitch up for the odd shift or make a few batches of Raspberry Ripple.

“I think they expect too much of you sometimes . . .”

“Nathan?”

I met Mum’s concerned gaze.

“Are you okay?”

I debated saying something then . . . but I couldn’t do it. Mum had had so much to contend with lately, and she needed to concentrate on Rosie right now. She didn’t need me getting on her case about the fucking café. I felt like a dick that it even crossed my mind that she should.

“Yeah, of course,” I said quickly, adding in a blatant change of subject, “So, how do you feel about Rosie’s appointment on Friday?”

Mum smiled tentatively. “I don’t want to get my hopes up, but she’s been so much better these last two weeks. I feel like we’ve turned a corner.” She babbled on happily about the minutiae of how Rosie had been, what she’d been eating and drinking and how much she’d slept. I smiled and nodded, half-listening to her and half to Mack, who was singing my favourite of the songs he played, “Carrickfergus.” I loved that song. Loved the way his low voice stroked the words and the sad, sweet tune.

He did one more number after that, a stripped-back country song, then wound up for the night. The customers began to depart, and I got busy clearing tables. Mum started helping, but Rosie was tired so I shooed them off, assuring them that Mack and I would close up.

The next time I glanced over at Mack, all the customers had gone except one guy, dark haired and nice looking, who was chatting to him. I recognised the guy but couldn’t quite place him. The stab of jealousy that went through me seeing them together was . . . new. I’d never been the jealous type, but when the guy clasped Mack’s biceps with one hand and grinned at him, I was seized by an uncharacteristic desire to walk over there and stake my claim or something.

Shaking my head at my stupid thoughts, I turned away, making myself focus on the tedious business of closing up. I glanced up at the chime of the doorbell a few minutes later. Mack was locking the door. Finally, we were alone.

When he turned to face me, his expression was uncertain.

“What’s up?” I asked.

He blinked. “What? Oh, nothing.” He crossed the floor and joined me at the counter. Began wiping down the coffee machine.

“Who was that guy you were talking to?” I asked, careful to keep my voice relaxed.

“Don? He organises the folk night at the Sea Bell. He said he liked what I did.” He cleared his throat. “He offered me a slot actually.”

“Really? That’s great!”

Mack frowned. “I don’t know. I said I’d do it, but I’m not sure it’s worth it.”