Page 83 of We Used To Be Magic

‘Right,’ he says, shoulders sagging slightly. ‘Is that why you came here?’

I’ve hurt him, I realise abruptly. I’ve hurt his feelings, and I don’t know how – the vodka has already gone to my head, making things feel foggy and dreamlike.

‘No, I – it’s not. Not at all,’ I say quickly. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything.’

Ezra looks confused, for a moment. Then he glances down at the bottle like he’d forgotten that he was holding it.

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Gotcha.’

‘No, Ezra …’

‘It’s fine,’ he says curtly, shaking his head with a strained smile. ‘I drink too much. I’m not in denial about it.’

I feel sick then, and it has nothing to do with the vodka hitting my empty stomach. I am an awful,awfulfucking person, showing up here out of nowhere and trying to goad Ezra into getting wasted with me when I’m almost totally sure that he has some kind of problem with alcohol. Selfish, thoughtless, stupid …

‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly, suddenly too ashamed to even look at him. ‘It’s not – I only meant that you don’t need to do anything for me.’

He says nothing to that. The silence stretches out between us, and I suddenly become acutely aware of my nose, pink and runny from the crying and the cold. I sniff, and Ezra wordlessly puts the bottle down and moves towards the open windows, pulling them shut.You don’t need to do anything for me– what total, utter bullshit.

I feel so tired, suddenly, despite claiming otherwise just seconds before. So small.

‘You’re right,’ I say then. ‘Sleep’s the best idea. I’m sorry.’

‘No, I’m sorry.’ He sighs, roughly rubbing at his eyes as he moves back towards me. ‘I’m being weird – I’m tired. You take the bed, though. Grab anything you want out of the drawers …’

But he falls silent, then, because I’ve stepped forward and taken his hand in mine. I was expecting it to be cold but it isn’t, which I suppose means that mine is colder.

‘We can both take the bed,’ I hear myself say, looking down at our sock-clad feet. Then, in case that sounds too forward, ‘It’s too cold for you to sleep in here.’

I left my lingering scraps of self-preservation back at the apartment, it turns out, and my words hover in the ensuing, mortifying silence.Oh, I think, and I’m bracing myself for theworld’s most gentle rejection when Ezra weaves his fingers through mine.

‘Sure,’ he says, so gently that I know he understands. ‘We can do that.’

I’ve never actually shared a bed with a boy before now. I’ve never shared a bed with anyone except for my parents, actually, and that was only when I was a tiny kid, post-nightmares. But it somehow feels simple and natural to slip under the sheets beside Ezra, his body just inches from mine. He’s facing away from me, drawn into himself, but I can feel the heat of him, his warmth bleeding into the mattress like a furnace. It’s not quite enough, though. I want him to envelop me in it, to draw me into his very core – to hide inside of him.

The lamp is still on, so I know he’s not sleeping, the room bathed in its faint, golden glow. I can hear his breathing, too quiet and even for him to be anything other than wide awake – what would he do if I asked him to hold me?

‘Thank you,’ I say instead, voice small. ‘For everything.’

For a moment there’s silence, and I’m wondering if maybe heisasleep, when:

‘You don’t need to thank me,’ he says quietly. ‘I just – I wish I could make things better.’

‘You have,’ I tell him. ‘You do.’

‘I don’t think that we’re talking about the same things,’ he says, shifting to look at me. He’s wearing that same guileless expression that I saw that night at the gallery, eyes dark and pleading.

‘Maybe not,’ I admit, feeling a pang at having hidden so much from him. ‘I don’t think it matters, though.’

‘No?’

‘No. You’re here. That makes things better.’

Ezra lets out a ragged sigh, then, screwing his eyes shut like he’s in pain.

‘God,’ he says softly. ‘You have no idea how badly I want to believe that.’

And he has no idea how badly I want him to. Words have too often failed me, though, which is why I find myself sliding across the mattress, tentatively tucking my head against his shoulder and placing a hand on his chest. He smooths my hair against the nape of my neck in reply, absently running his fingers through the ends before pressing his lips to my temple with such tenderness that my nose prickles with impending tears.

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