“To be fair, that wasn’t me. I was in here almost the entire day. Reading. Except for when I went to the pub to watch the rugby with Bramley and Uncle Leaf. And Samuel Fox, actually. Did you meet him? He’s great. He’s thinking about renting a cottage in the village.”
Suddenly, Petey Boy roared in unmistakable frustration.
“Shut up! Just bloody well shut up, will you?”
That took me aback.
Petey Boy flopped onto the bed, his head in his hands. Then his shoulders bounced, and I realised he was crying.
“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey,” I said, which I believe comes straight out of all the psychology textbooks. I moved towards him, arms outstretched, instinctively, to hug him. Then I second-guessed myself and pulled away. Then he sobbed and I stepped forward again, but he held up a hand to stop me.
“I haven’t cried since I was fourteen,” he said, face buried behind his other hand.
“Then you should probably let it out,” I said. “That sounds super unhealthy.”
Petey Boy slowly shook his head, refusing to look at me. After a few moments, he picked up the end of a sleeve and wiped his face. There were dark rings under his bloodshot eyes, and snot was glistening at his nostrils like a couple of silvery snails who were thinking about popping out for some lunch. His eyes finally met mine.
“If you ever tell anyone you saw that, I will hunt down everything you care about and personally see to it that it is destroyed beyond recognition.”
“You’ll have to hurry. I’ve got quite the head start on you,” I muttered.
“Huh?” He frowned.
“Nothing. Your emotional vulnerability is safe with me.”
He scowled and got to his feet. “I’m going for a shower.”
He slunk out of the room. As the door closed behind him, I exhaled a long blast of breath. Unsure what else to do, I checked the water level in the kettle and lit the gas ring. By the time Petey Boy came back from his shower, there were two steaming mugs on the coffee table in the study.
“Up here,” I called down when I heard the door click.
“I’m going to bed,” he mumbled.
“Come have your tea. It’s Scottish. It’ll help you sleep.”
I heard a few steps, and Petey Boy’s head popped up in the stairwell. “I’ve heard of Irish coffee but not Scottish tea.”
“It’s my invention,” I said, taking a sip from my mug, then raising it to say cheers. Petey Boy continued up the stairs, his slender body hidden behind the white robe. He was always so completely covered, and I wasn’t sure why. He sat down in the armchair opposite me and picked up his tea.
“What’s that taste?” he asked, nose crinkling. “Is it brandy?” He sipped.
“Valium.”
He nearly choked on it.
“Are you for real?”
“No, you goose, it’s a shot of Scotch whisky. But it will absolutely help you sleep, and you’ll have very sweet dreams. Probably about sexy kiltedginger Scotsmen. The kind who’re so hung their foreskins drag along in the heather behind them.”
This time Petey Boy did laugh. Oh, I had missed his smile. Then his face turned serious again, and I realised it must be time to pay the piper.
“When we first met,” he said, “you told me we were on the same team.”
“We are.”
“So why does it feel like I’m constantly fighting against you?”
“I promise you, we want the same thing.”
