Page 135 of For Real

“When she was my age, my mum was already famous. She’d had two massively successful exhibitions. Two.”

“You don’t have to be your mother.”

“Easy to say when it’s not actually an option.” I wipe my eyes and try to glare at him through the wet, grey haze. “This is bullshit, Laurie.”

It’s going exactly the way I’ve always been terrified it would. He’s trying to be kind and understanding and all this crap, but basically what he’s seeing right now is a lost and confused teenager who needs his help and guidance.

And, yeah, okay, I am lost and confused, but I’m his boyfriend, not his project. I don’t want to be rescued. I want him on his knees. In my arms. In my body. I want him laughing and crying and hurting and happy and whispering his secrets to me in the dark like I’m worthy of them.

I want to be his equal.

But I can’t be. Because I’m not. How the fuck am I supposed to be his prince when I’m just a pauper?

And I really want to be with my granddad. I’ve always told him everything. Like when everybody was calling me names at school or when my friends stopped speaking to me or when I got that fucking D, which meant I wasn’t allowed to do English at A level. And we’d go to Hyde Park, or to Primrose Hill, or any of the other eighty gazillion places he liked to go walking, and sometimes the snowdrops would be out or the daffodils or the world would be gold with autumn, and he’d tell me that I was the best part of his life, and if I was good enough for him, I was good enough for anybody.

And I’d believe him.

Every.

Single.

Time.

“Toby, please.” Laurie’s talking to me like I’m standing on a ledge. Like I’m a hamster he’s trying to get out from behind the sofa. And I hate it. “Talk to me. I can help.”

“I don’t want your fucking help, and I don’t want to fucking talk about it.” Oh God. I’m yelling. Yelling and crying and ugly and raw. “You don’t get it. I knew you wouldn’t get it.”

He draws in this breath. Willing himself to be patient with the crappy, lunatic teen. “You haven’t given me a chance to get it. You’ve never trusted me with…with anything.”

“Yes, because I knew you’d be like this.”

“Be like what? I’m trying to—”

“Yes, yes, you’re trying to help me.” Fuck. I’m a monster. And I can’t stop. “So, what, you can pack me off to university or get me some differently crappy job and congratulate yourself on having saved me before you leave me?”

His eyes get wide, all the gold in them consumed by grey. “Who said anything about leaving you?”

“Because you’ve been leaving me from the moment I met you. And now you know the good stuff is stuff you made up. And the real stuff is”—I gestured at the kitchen, pile of egg boxes in the corner, the carefully cling-filmed cakes—“this.”

“It’s all real, darling. And I’m sorry—”

“I had it right that very first night. You’re always sorry. What the fuck use is sorry?” I reach into my pocket and pull out my keys. The teeth are embedded in the seam of my jeans I hear something tear as I yank them free. Getting his key off the ring takes ages. My hands are shaking too much. Kind of ruins the gesture.

“Toby, what are you doing?” There’s an edge to his voice now. Fear maybe. And in some twisted, miserable way it feels good to hear it. “I’m not leaving you. I don’t want to leave you. Why are you acting like this?”

The key finally comes free from the ring, and I throw it at him. His hand comes up, and the key slaps against his palm, hits the floor with an unimpressive clink. Something I wanted so fucking badly—nothing but an unimpressive clink.

I stare at Laurie, who looks pale and shocked and confused and hurt and all hazy through my tears. “You don’t even have the bollocks to tell me you love me.” This is meant to sound devastating. But it sounds what it is. What I am. Small and broken. “And I’m sick of waiting for you to be done with me. I’m done with you.”7

Next thing I know, I’m running for the fire door like the building is on actual fire. I just can’t be here right now. I don’t know where to go or what to do, but I can’t be here.

“Toby. Don’t.” Laurie catches my arm as I rush past him, but I yank hard enough that he’d have to hurt me to keep me, so he doesn’t.

I hear his footsteps behind me.

“Get away from me,” I yell. “Go away.”

He stops.

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