They got off the bus by the Tube station. Shay jerked his head at it. “It wouldn’t have been quicker to take the Underground?”
“It would,” Ollie said. “But I make myself take the bus when I’m feeling brave. Besides, you don’t see anything on the Tube.”
Fair enough. Shay glanced around at the bustling street. Like most working class areas in London, it was a heady mix of vibrance and grime. It was wonderful—and terrifying.
Ollie led him across the road and down a few streets, pointing things out along the way. “The Olympic Park is over there, the 491 Gallery is round the corner to the left. If you like drill music we could swing through Walthamstow.”
“That’s not the same as Waltham Forest?”
“Not quite.” Ollie spun on his heels again and pointed in a different direction. “Over there is where the German airships dropped bombs in the First World War. I’ll take you there in daylight one day.”
“Why?”
“Because it means something.”
“To me?”
“To everyone.”
As ever, Ollie’s cryptic answers meant everything and nothing. Shay wanted to punch him, to kiss him, but on the busy London street, he simply trailed Ollie to a block of sheltered housing flats around the corner from the market.
“Where are we?”
Ollie fished a set of keys from his pocket. “My grandparents’ house.”
Despite where they were, he’d have surprised Shay more if he’d said the moon, but there was no time to react. Only connect.
Ollie led him to a ground-floor flat and opened the door. Immediately the scent of paprika from the Newcastle cafe hit Shay, and he felt at home. Voices reached them. An elderly woman with a headscarf appeared in the hallway and then a man with a cane. They had dark eyes and kind smiles. They wereOllie, and so obviously pleased to see him that Shay almost cried.
Again.Fuck my life.
Shay pushedhis bowl away. He could’ve eaten gallons of theamazingcabbage and sausage broth Ollie’s grandmother—Oliwia—had served him, but his blood sugar wouldn’t thank him for overeating. He caught Ollie’s eye.
Ollie nodded, and Shay excused himself to the bathroom.
When he came back, Ollie had disappeared with his grandfather, leaving Shay with Oliwia in the kitchen.
She brought a cake covered in poppy seeds to the table and cut Shay a slice small enough that it wouldn’t kill him. “No sugar. Just lemon and honey. We don’t eat many cakes around here, so they must be good.”
Her accent was Ollie’s, but her delivery was rougher. And somehow she knew Shay couldn’t handle a sugar-laden treat right now. “Thank you.”
“It is okay. Ollie told me you’re a good boy.”
“When did he tell you that?”
“A while ago. He doesn’t call us often. We are happy to see him now.”
A while ago. Shay wondered what that meant. He’d known Ollie barely a month, and their relationship had been… complicated from the start. “I think he’s happy to see you too. He misses your cooking.”
Oliwia made a clicking sound with her teeth. “Of course he does. When you are Polish, only the food of your homeland will make you right. I told him all the time when he was at school and eating all that McDonalds rubbish.”
“He didn’t get much Polish food on the road with the band. I did, though. He sent me to, uh, Eryk’s cafe in Newcastle.”
Oliwia scowled. “Eryk is from his father’s side. His goulash is wrong.”
“It’s different to yours?”
“Of course. Mine is authentic.”
