Page 103 of For Real

Yes, it’s not love. But it’s near enough, right?

But what happens when he realises he has nothing to be jealous of? What if the truth about me—about my crappy little life—changes everything again? When we’re finally close to where I want us to be.

So I flash a grin at him. “Then ask me sometime.”

“You could have, at least, told me about your mother.”

“Well, maybe I like just being Toby to you.”

“How could you be anything else, you stupid boy?” He sounds kind of annoyed, but something else as well. Something I have no clue about. He stops walking and swings me round. “You see, the thing is—”

God. He looks so fucking serious. And I’m so afraid he’s going to start demanding answers—Why aren’t you at university? How did you fuck everything up so badly? Am I really dating some guy who cooks eggs for minimum wage? How can someone as everyday as you possibly be the kid of this famous iconoclastic genius?—that I panic and burst into the quickstep.

His face is kind of a picture as I jump about. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I don’t know… I just felt happy, and the stone is all tappy, so I started dancing.”

“This isn’t a movie from the Golden Age of Hollywood, Toby.”

I hold out my arm and the moonlight spills over my tuxedo jacket. “We are in black and white.”

The shadows move over his face as he laughs. “I didn’t even know you could dance.”

“I’m not a barbarian. My granddad taught me.”

I offer my hand, but he just stares at it like it’s a dead fish and then actually backs away from it. “Oh…I can’t. I can’t dance.”

“What, not at all? Not even when you hear ABBA?”

“I do my very best not to hear ABBA.”

“I’ll show you. It’s easy.”

He shakes his head. “I really can’t, Toby.”

I slow-quick-quick-slow my way round the…what’s it called…quadrangle in the arms of an imaginary partner. Since he’s watching me, I throw in a couple of rumba crosses, showing off, and eventually, natural turn and progressive chassé my way back to him. I’m a little bit breathless, but it’s a big space. “And you call yourself a gentleman.”

“I’ve never called myself a gentleman.” He sounds stern, but then he smiles and kisses me lightly. “I like watching you dance.”

“Dance with me. It’s way more fun.”

I try the hand thing again, and this time Laurie takes it. He’s really hesitant, and his palm is a bit sweaty. He’s scared? Oh my God. Too adorable. Getting him into the right position is like trying to move the Tin Man without an oil can, but I get him there. He’s not going to win any competitions, but it could be worse. By which I mean I can hypothetically accept that there could be a less comfortable, less graceful way for someone to look. Though I can’t actually imagine it.

I was going to have him lead since he’s so much taller, but there’s no way that’s ever happening. He’s stiff as a board, and his hand holding mine is a terrified claw.

Just when I thought I couldn’t love him any more.

So I soothe him like I do when we’re fucking, like when I have him in chains, and he quiets. I tell him it’s going to be okay. I tell him he’s beautiful. Because to me he is, and never more so than when he’s doing something he doesn’t entirely want to do.

God. I’m a sick puppy.

But I wouldn’t change it for the world. Not when I get this.

I talk him through the basic steps and then guide him into them. At first he doesn’t trust me, doesn’t trust himself, won’t relax, or can’t, falls over my feet, his own feet, bits of perfectly flat ground, and he stands on my toes, like, a lot.

I’m just starting to think I’ve made a terrible mistake when he…there isn’t another word for it…he surrenders, and we’re dancing. Slow, slow-quick-quick-slow, slow-quick-quick-slow, slow-quick-quick-slow. He even lets me throw in a couple of natural turns and a back lock without freezing or stumbling or mushing my feet into the dust.

I speed it up. Because it’s a quickstep, not a worried-and-quite-slow-actually step, and Laurie’s laughing a little bit as we gallop round the quad in each other’s arms. We’re about five percent graceful and ten percent competent, but fuck it, we’re dancing. And the faster we go, the closer we get to flying.

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