“I just finished my shift,” she explains breathlessly, pulling them off the footpath and onto a bench. She keeps hold of him even after they’re seated, eyes searching his face like she’s trying to diagnose him. “You share your location with me, on your phone, remember? I’ve been chasing you all down the park. Ollie, are you okay?”
“I’m alive,” he says, half-certain it’s true. “God, Mum, I’m sorry.”
“What on earth are you sorry for?” She sounds downright snappish now, releasing their joined hands and smoothing a strand of Oliver’s rustled hair off his forehead.
“That I didn’t tell you!” he replies, feeling like he’s explaining the obvious. “That you saw people talking about my sex life on the telly.”
“That part wasn’t so nice, you’re right. But you mustn’t be sorry for the rest of it, for who you are. Ollie, you didn’t have to tell me anything.” Her voice is soft again, almost coaxing. Their knees are angled toward each other and bumping together. Her hand is still in his hair, scratching gently at the nape of his neck, the kind of comforting motion he’s gotten from her a million times before.
“So you knew something?” he whispers, putting his head in his hands. He wondered if she might have. “Jesus. Aren’t you angry with me for keeping it from you?”
“I didn’tknowanything. I might have suspected.” Nicola puts her arms around him. Anyone could walk by and not even know it was him; his mum has wrapped him in both a hug and in a kind of shield. “But I would never have been angry, no matter what. I’ll love you the same, Oliver, no matter who you are or who you become.”
“I was afraid. If you knew, like, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore. And I could only manage it secretly, barely even then. I just felt…I thought it had to be like this. We gave up so much, I didn’t want to lose football too. I didn’t want to lose the only parts of Camden we had left.”
“You’ll never lose them, Ollie. They’re part of us,” Nicola says, squeezing him tightly. She’s right—all around them, Regent’s Park looks the same as it ever has. They could have been here, just like this, at any point in Oliver’s life. His dad could have been sitting with them.
“I wish I was telling you differently. On my own terms,” he says quietly, voice cracking and muffled into her sleeve. He wishes he was telling Dad.
“You can tell me now, darling,” Nicola soothes. “Anything and everything you want to.”
So he does.
• • •
Oliver takes one great breath, a steadying, slightly frightened inhale, when he reaches the house. Tomorrow is all well and good, but tonight he needs to text Maggie and prepare her for the inevitable questions people will have for her. He’s hoping Leo will help him with a script, but when he opens the front door and calls, “I’m home,” he gets two hellos instead of one.
“Oh, for fucking hell,” Oliver swears, hobbling up the stairs. “Does no one knock anymore? All year long, everyone has just been letting themselves into people’s houses and wreaking havoc. You’re supposed to wait until you’re invited in!”
Joe and Leo are standing two paces apart in the sitting room, grimacing guiltily.
“May I come in?” Joe asks.
“I tried to hide,” Leo adds sheepishly.
“Great job,” Oliver tells him.
“Davito.” Joe nudges Leo with one elbow. “Could you give us a minute?”
“I’ll just go upstairs,” Leo says. “If there is an upstairs. How would I know?”
He slips out of the room; Oliver gives him a very tired thumbs-up as he passes. Joe watches the exchange silently, settling himself proprietarily on one of the armchairs and raising his eyebrows at Oliver in an invitation to speak first. Oliver shakes his head, then crosses the room so he can sit cross-legged at Joe’s feet, looking up at him expectantly.
“Oh, mate” is all Joe says. “I just came over to check on you,” he goes on. “I didn’t have any expectations one way or the other. My plan was, like, affirm and support. Open door for anything you wanted to talk about. But obviously I kind of, you know, found out what’s what.”
Oliver snorts a sad little laugh, shaking his head helplessly.
“And what’s that?”
“Oliver,” Joe says gravely, resting his hand on Oliver’s tousled head like he’s giving a priest’s blessing. “You stupid bastard.” It’s not the first time someone’s called Oliver that this year. It’s been true every time. “Well, you’re certainly punching above your weight class, looks-wise.”
“Don’t I know it,” he replies, feeling the heavy weight of Joe’s hand on his head, the only thing keeping him from floating away. “I was just hoping no one would tell him that, you know, before I’ve gotten things locked down.”
“I tried, but I don’t think you need to worry,” Joe soothes him, scratching at Oliver’s tired scalp now like he’s petting a feral cat. “He’s absolutely arse over tit for you.”
Oliver tips forward, resting his head on Joe’s knees and letting his shoulders shake—again somewhere between laughter and tears—just for a minute.
“I am too. For him. Well, arse over cock, maybe.”
