Page 84 of For Real

I dabbed a little against his neck, to make sure it wasn’t going to react badly with his skin, but it didn’t. It suited him perfectly—sweet and dark and spicy. I glanced surreptitiously around us and stole a quick, clumsy kiss.

“You do know,” he said, as I pulled back, “the Sexual Offences Act was passed in the sixties, right? We’re allowed.”

I blushed. The truth was, Robert and I had not been particularly public with our affections. But I was touch-hungry around Toby, touch-hungry and silly, as though no years stood between us at all. Seeking some kind of physical distraction, I picked up the biggest bottle of Burberry London that they had and looked around for a till point.

“Uh…uh…” Toby’s hands fluttered. “I can’t… I don’t need… The small one’s great.”

“It’s on me.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not?”

“Well…because I’m broke and I can’t—”

“Then it makes sense for me to be the one paying, doesn’t it?”

“I guess…” He scuffed at the ground, hands buried deep in his pockets, hair falling hopelessly into his eyes. “Um. Thank you. Nobody’s…um—”

“You can make it up to me later.” Oh God. “I mean, not in a prostitute way.”

“I wouldn’t mind.” His eyes shone like the bottles that surrounded us. “It’s kind of hot, actually.”

“I’m ignoring you now and going to pay for this.”

He sidled up too close, his hip knocking against me. “So, am I like your kept boy?”

“Stop it, Toby.”

He was giggling as we approached the counter. I put the bottle down and pulled out my wallet. “Just this, please.”

To my surprise, the cashier—a pretty young woman with soft brown eyes—smiled at us. Warmed and a little flustered, I smiled back.

“Hey”—Toby’s hip nudged me again—“this was really nice of you.”

“He’s very generous, your dad.” The cashier’s words bloomed in the silence like jellyfish.

I felt the upward curve of my mouth turn rigid.

“Oh my God!” Toby was actually laughing. “He’s not my dad! He’s my boyf—errr…lover.”

I was starting to wish I hadn’t objected so strenuously to boyfriend. Lover sounded particularly seedy when I was holding my credit card.

And Toby was still talking. “He’s thirty-seven, I’m nineteen, so while he could technically be my father, he would have had me irresponsibly young.”

The machine jammed on my receipt. I stared at it ferociously because there were no more smiles for us.

“And also,” finished Toby, “he’s gay. So. No.”

I’d thought Get out and run away were the only words left in my universe, but then I heard myself say, “It’s very rude to make assumptions, Toby. I could have had you with a lesbian.”

I put my wallet away, picked up the bag, and walked off, Toby pressed tight to my side. The ridiculous boy would probably have tried to hold my hand if I’d had one free.

* * *

I took him the scenic route to college, down Broad Street, not Cornmarket, golden towers springing up on all sides, our horizon filled with spires and domes.

“You’re freaking out, aren’t you?” he asked.

---