Page 55 of Tribute Act

Not so much as a smiley face to hint at his feelings. I stared at my phone, not sure what to think.

I walked down to the pub just after seven. The place was bustling with it being folk night, full to the brim with a mix of Jago’s locals and the folk-music followers he tolerated for this one night each week. I greeted a few people I knew with smiles and waves but didn’t stop to talk, heading straight for the bar.

I looked round for Mack while Jago poured my pint, eventually spotting him sitting at a table with a bunch of people—Don, of course, and two women, plus the ponytail guy—Andy?—we’d seen play here the night Mack arrived in Porthkennack. The five of them were surrounded by instruments—a few guitars, a banjo, a ukulele, a violin. I wondered if any of the others were playing tonight.

They were all smiling and laughing—Mack too, for once. He seemed comfortable. Unguarded in a way I’d not seen much before. I watched him over the lip of my pint, trying to put my finger on what it was about him that made him appear so at ease. For the first time I could remember, he looked like he felt at home. It was good seeing him like that, but it made my chest tight too.

I thought about going over there, to join him, but I worried that maybe I’d be intruding—it seemed unfair to barge in when he was so happy. I’d not seen him smiling this much in all the time I’d known him, and honestly, that made me sad. So, I turned back to the bar and gave my attention to my pint instead.

I’d almost finished my beer when I felt a light touch at my elbow. I lifted my head, and there he was, standing beside me.

His expression was . . . quizzical.

“When did you come in?” he asked gesturing at my almost empty glass.

I cleared my throat. “A while ago.”

He frowned. “Didn’t you see me?”

“I did, yeah.”

His frown deepened. “Why didn’t you come over then?”

I offered a half smile. “You seemed busy.”

For the longest moment he didn’t say anything, then, so quietly I almost couldn’t make it out, he said. “I’m never too busy for you, Nathan.”

An unfamiliar emotion speared me. It was a bit like happiness and a bit like longing without being either one of those things.

“I’m never too busy for you . . .”

What did he mean by that? Did he have deeper feelings for me than I thought? I wanted to believe he did, but I suspected he only meant that he liked me as a friend, or worse, that he was grateful to me. And yet, I couldn’t help but hope it meant more.

“You’re not?” I said, meeting his steady, melting gaze, willing him to go on. But he didn’t elaborate on what he meant, just shook his head and grinned.

“Course not. For God’s sake, I’ve been hoping you’d arrive since I texted you.”

The quick stab of joy I felt at hearing he’d wanted me, had been waiting for me, made me smile helplessly. I knew that the irrepressible hitch of my mouth must betray me, and the part of me that was scared of my feelings, terrified at the prospect of Mack rejecting me, urged caution.

I tried to pack that smile away, saying as casually as I could manage, “I can’t wait to see you play.”

Yes, talk about music. That was a safe topic.

But when Mack glanced at me, he undid all my carefulness with just one teasing smile. “Yeah? You like to see me play?”

And that was it. My own betraying smile was back.

“Yeah, I do,” I admitted, bumping his shoulder with mine.

Scintillating stuff, I know, but though our words were brief, it felt like something big was being said. Me, admitting how much I’d wanted to come here, and him, admitting he’d wanted me here.

As small as these confessions were, right then, they seemed huge. The tiny, hopeful part of me began to wonder if Mum was right, if Mack might be ready to hear how I felt. Maybe even admit that he had feelings for me too? It was a dizzying thought.

We grinned at each other like idiots for a moment, then Mack said, “You want another beer?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll have another pint of Chough’s Nest.”

He made a face. “God, that stuff again?”