“It’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to explain.”
“I wasn’t going to. Seems to me that you don’t want to listen.” Kim’s gaze was steady as he passed me an A4 envelope. “Figured I’d give you the drawings I did for you to take home. No reason we can’t work together if it was just a shag, eh?”
I’d pretty much forgotten that the original purpose of my visit had been to discuss the furniture plans for the barn renovation, and the concept of upcycled tables and chairs seemed worlds apart from the chaos playing havoc with my insides. Just a shag? As Kim let go of the envelope and walked away, every instinct I had told me it was anything but.
I dragged myself back to my flat and hit the bottle, blocking the niggle of shame with swig after swig of my favourite whiskey. After hours of pacing, the couch called my name, and I wound up squint-glaring at the ceiling, dribble-ranting at myself for being a naive twat.
Kim had told me no lies, but he hadn’t told me the truth, either. My assumptions about his sexuality were out of place with everything I believed in, but he should’ve told me he had a missus . . . right? So what if she didn’t seem to care that she’d pretty much caught him balls-deep in me? That was her prerogative. Me? I preferred to be kept in the loop. Surprises weren’t my bag, ’cause every one that had ever been forced on me had been shite.
This one was no exception. In the murky light of arse o’clock in the morning, the reality of how taken I’d been with Kim set it. I’d fucked my way around most of Hoxton before I’d admitted defeat and retreated to Porthkennack, but I could barely remember a face, a scent, a sensation.
I remembered every moment I’d spent naked with Kim. I remembered every moment I’d been in his presence, and fuelled by a bottle of single malt, the ridiculousness of my overblown sentiment set in. I’d known the bloke a fortnight, but the churning in my gut was ten times what it had been when my life in London had unravelled all those month ago.
What the actual fuck?
No sensible explanation came to mind, so I dragged myself from the couch and fetched my iPad from my office. A photography app was open, loaded with final RAW files that I really needed to sift through before I converted them to JPEGs, but I shut it down with barely a glance and opened Facebook instead. Kim didn’t strike me as a social-media kind of guy, but what did I know?
It took me a while to track him down. I eventually found him tagged in a photo on the site for the tattoo studio—a photo of Lena wearing fuck-all clothes and baring her beautifully inked back. With considerable effort, I refrained from chucking the iPad across the room and snooped a little deeper. Kim’s name appeared frequently on the studio’s business page, but there wasn’t much of him in the flesh. I clicked through to his personal page. His profile picture was of him with another man—Brix Lusmoore if I recognised the telltale bone structure and killer good looks that held a hint of danger. The tag confirmed it.
I expected to find Kim’s photo uploads awash with Lena, but she was oddly absent, and his relationship status was blank.Hmm.I scrolled further down. His sexuality was listed as bi, which came as no surprise, though I couldn’t deny the flash of relief. And guilt. I’d judged Kim by someone else’s piss-poor standards and had half expected him to be masquerading as a straight dude with a wife and two-point-four kids.
So you erased a whole slice of the spectrum? Including yourself?
Nice.
The niggle of shame that I’d avoided by hitting the bottle finally kicked in.My insecurities weren’t Kim’s, or Lena’s, whatever she was to him—whoevershe was to him. They were mine, and were only still with me because I allowed them to be. I was a big boy, not a green teenager, and I’d fucked up the one thing—my family aside—that had brightened my life in Porthkennack.
Kim likely thought I was a total wanker, and as I sloped off to bed to jack off and pass out, I reckoned he wasn’t far wrong.
A few days later, the pleasurable ache at the base of my spine had faded, but the cloud of despair remained. I stayed off the booze—mostly—and worked myself into a Lightroom-induced migraine. When it had eased, and my fridge had reached a critical state of depletion, I admitted defeat and ran home to my stepmother, craving the comfort she’d always been so much better at giving than my own mum.
She didn’t ask what had led me unshaven and bedraggled to her kitchen counter. Just dumped a dish of cauliflower cheese in front of me, and put the kettle on the stove. After plying me with obscene amounts of strong, sweet tea, she asked the one question that could put me off the first hot meal I’d had in days.
“Did you get to speak to that carpenter man about the barn furniture?”
I pushed the baking dish away. “He’s not a carpenter. He does welding and shit too, and tattooing.”
“And?” Laura looked at me expectantly. “Tattooing isn’t much good for our old barn, and for God’s sake don’t let your brothers get any more ghastly ink, but the welding sounds interesting. What did he have to say?”
I wondered if I’d inadvertently called her in my sleep and told her of my plans to visit Kim at home. As luck—or not—would have it, the envelope Kim had pressed into my hand was in my camera bag, something I rarely left the house without.
With Laura at my shoulder, I spread the contents of the envelope out on the kitchen table. Sketches, mostly, interspersed with a couple of Polaroids of existing pieces I assumed Kim wanted to work from: snapshots of artfully rusted fishing equipment and seaside paraphernalia. The concept was a perfect blend of the farm’s rural setting and the wild seas of Porthkennack just beyond the gates.
Ilovedit, like I’d loved Kim’s work from the start, and however much I’d embarrassed myself, that hadn’t changed. If I could wrestle the rest of the design plans away from my hapless brother and negotiate a fair price from Kim, the barn could truly be something special. My imagination took over, and I pictured the rustic canteen I’d dreamed up when Gaz had first mentioned his harebrained idea. Laura and Co.’s food combined with Kim’s chalk-white pallet tables and chairs . . . Damn, if I hadn’t been so intent on mourning what had never been mine to begin with, I’d have been pretty fucking excited.
As it was, I let Laura’s obvious delight seep into me and accepted one of her crush-to-the-bosom hugs.
“Ah, sweetie,” she said. “It’s so nice to have you here, but you’re skin and bone. Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
My slim-ish frame had nothing on Kim’s slender bones, but my only answer was a shrug.
Laura clicked her teeth like I was five years old again and refusing to tell her where I’d last seen my missing shoe, and then she sighed. “I’ll admit that I don’t know your mother that well, but sometimes, you’re just like her— So quick to speak your mind about everything except what matters.”
“Is that your way of calling me an opinionated brat?”
“No, dear. Quite the opposite.”
I didn’t get it, but my best mystified scowl had no effect on Laura. She hugged me again, made more tea, and continued to study Kim’s designs until my father joined us a little while later.
