Page 133 of For Real

“A what?” I ask eventually.

“Oh, sorry, um, a root beer float.”

“Not without any root beer or ice cream, no.”

A second or two later, she comes back with, “What about cream soda?”

I think about putting my head in the oven, but I have to prepare for the lunch crowd, so I don’t. Laurie powers through the washing up, and I chop all the things, and Ruby goes out for a smoke, and finally we scrape a few spare minutes to hang out by the service hatch, having toast and tea.

The thing is, while there are rubbish things—menial things—about my job, and I’m not a big fan of being paid £5.03 an hour, there’s also stuff I really like. Working with food and people. And these quiet moments when you feel you’ve been through something and created something. Even if it’s just some awesomely fried eggs. I kind of dither between being glad Laurie’s here and horrified and terrified about what’ll happen when he realises this isn’t Take Your Awesome Older Boyfriend to Work Day. That this is my life. For real. And this is really who he goes to his knees for, surrenders his body to.

Most of our regulars have set times they come in—usually just before, or just after, the normal times most people are thinking about breakfast or lunch or a cup of coffee and cake. It’s how they always get to have the same table and get their orders in before the rush. It amuses me in a way—because it’s a bit daft, deliberately choosing to have your lunch at 11:45 a.m. every day—but it sort of makes me sentimental too, the way people will structure their lives around the stuff they feel is important. Even if it’s just an omelette done exactly the way they like it.

Is that what’s happening with Laurie and me?

Except what I’m doing to his life is dragging it down with mine.

Even though we’re just standing next to each other, not really saying or doing anything, I guess there’s something about us. Or maybe I talked up my boyfriend too much because everybody guesses straight away that he’s the guy. I mean, the ones who aren’t uncomfortable with the gay thing, which some of them are even though they try to be nice about it. But I get shoulder-squeezed and cheek-patted and hair-ruffled a lot, and Laurie gets told at least twice that if he hurts me, folks will find out, and then they’ll break his kneecaps.

So that totally helps all my concerns about what a shitty deal our relationship is for him.

But he seems okay and hasn’t run away screaming yet, even under the threat of actual physical violence. He just smiles through the…I think…fairly well-meaning ribbing he gets about being a cradle snatcher. I’m scared though, because I remember how upset he was when that woman thought he was my dad that time. I really don’t need to give him any more reasons to run.

So I blurt out desperately, “Hey, maybe he’s not a cradle snatcher. Maybe I’m a grave robber.”

In the explosion of laughter that follows, Laurie puts his arm around my shoulders. “Toby, darling, please stop helping.”

The rest of the day kind of bobs past pretty much normally.

Apart from Laurie, who gets on with things like he’s been there for years. It should be funny or something, right, how hard I try, how much I want to be good, and he just comes in and makes it look easy. In the afternoon lull, I phone in tomorrow’s food delivery and bake up a storm because nobody’s been keeping up with the cakes. And, after Ruby leaves, I give the kitchen this epic clean. You have to be consistent with standards, and I’m worried it’s been neglected while I’ve been away.

I can’t make Laurie leave. He gets down on his hands and knees with me and cleans up the broken plates and scrubs under benches. He helps me do the coffee machine and the grill hood and behind the fridges. And finally he kind of peels the marigolds off me and chucks my cloth into the bin and says in this scarily gentle voice, “If you scrub any more of this kitchen, there’ll be nothing left. I think we’re done.”

I’m slightly dizzy and a bit confused, like I’ve just been woken up, except I’m pretty sure I wasn’t asleep. I check the clock on the wall and it’s half eight. Fuck.

The kitchen is cold and silver all around us.

“Toby,” Laurie asks me, “why on earth are you doing this?”

“It needed cleaning.”

“No, not that.” He gestures around the caff. “This. Why are you here? Why aren’t you at university? Or catering college? Anything would be better than this.”

I shrug. I don’t want to have this conversation. I just want him to take me home like he promised, and make me feel safe and powerful and loved. Instead of all the things I really am. “Does it matter?”

“It matters to me.” I don’t want to look at him, but I know he’s looking at me. The steady warmth of his eyes.

“Well,” I snap, “it doesn’t.”

“For God’s sake, Toby.” Laurie’s hands close over my forearms, and I don’t like it. It’s too close to being trapped. “Walk your fucking talk.”

I try to pull away, but he’s too strong. “What do you mean?”

“You won’t let me hold anything back from you, and that’s all right. I don’t want to anymore. But you won’t even answer a goddamn question for me.”

There’s something in his voice, under the anger. But I can’t make my head quiet enough to figure out what’s happening. I don’t feel…anything. I just want him to take his hands off me and stop asking me stuff. I stare blankly at the wall over his shoulder.

“Why won’t you look at me? What’s wrong with you?”6

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