Christ, he really was going to extract my life story, wasn’t he?
“Sort of,” I sighed. “We were closer when we were kids. Then I started dance, and he realised he was built for academics.”
“So you grew apart?”
I hummed. “Yeah. We weren’t best-friend siblings to begin with. We mainly bonded over our parents’ neglect.”
He frowned.
“They didn’t beat us or anything,” I added quickly. “They just... weren’t the kind of people who should’ve had kids.”
“What do you mean?”
“They loved us, I think, in their own warped way. They paid for the best schools, best tutors, best ballet training money could buy.” I sipped my coffee. “Jethro’s at Cambridge now, studying medicine. I think he wants to be a neurosurgeon or something brainy.”
My gaze drifted past Bodhi’s shoulder.
“Yeah... they loved us, in whatever limited way they were capable of. But they loved themselves more. Their careers. Their status. If you were the best, you were worth their attention. If you weren’t...” I gave a humourless huff. “Let’s just say I was not the favourite child.”
“They don’t really sound like nice people,” Bodhi said softly. His elbows rested on the table, and when I mirrored him, our fingers brushed.
“Nice people don’t get ahead,” I said. “That’s what they told us growing up. They stuck me on a pedestal when I joined the Royal Ballet. Attended every show, bragged to anyone who’d listen. They knew every achievement.” His foot shifted under the table and brushed my ankle. “But they didn’t know my favourite colour, my friends’ names, what ice cream flavour I liked. They didn’t even know I was gay until theywalked into my dressing room and caught me with the male lead.”
Bodhi snorted. “I imagine that was a shock.”
“Oh, a full scandal. Especially because he was the son of one of my dad’s colleagues.” Bodhi lifted his brows. “My dad’s a Conservative MP. Proper toff. Mum’s CFO of some big global banking chain. They’re one of those horrible power couples where everything is optics.”
He nodded. “Is that why you don’t speak to them? Because they didn’t support you being gay?”
“Partly. They told me I could be ‘a fairy,’ as long as I kept it behind closed doors.” I looked down at my cup. “There was an incident. I injured my hip and had to leave the ballet. I can’t dance at all now, actually. And since I wasn’t the best anymore, they forgot I existed. All their attention went to the kid who still had a future, so I went off the rails.”
Heat crept into my cheeks. I twisted a lock of hair tighter and tighter around my finger until the skin blanched.
“I know it’s cliché. Rich kid goes wild for Mummy and Daddy’s attention. But at the time, it felt like I’d finally had everything I wanted. My dream career and my parents’ approval. Even if it was conditional. Performative.”
Bodhi’s hand covered mine, warm and grounding. His ocean-blue eyes met mine. “It’s not cliché,” he said firmly. “You wanted to matter, Iggs. It’s not your fault your parents were shitty. Everyone deserves love, and I’m sorry they didn’t give you what you needed.”
I loosened my grip on my hair, letting my hand fall. His stayed on top of it.
“They paid for my rehab, you know?” I said. “I, um... overdosed... on Oxy. When the hospital called, they didn’t rush to my bedside like in the movies.” I shook my head. “Theydidn’t even pick up the phone. My mum’s assistant did. He sent the hospital the details of some high-end, super discreet rehab, and told them to ship me off as soon as I was stable.”
Bodhi’s jaw clenched. “You’re not a fucking Amazon package.”
I snorted. “Well, long story short, they eventually sent a fruit basket from whatever luxury holiday they refused to interrupt, and I was couriered to the Willow, where I met you.” I turned my hand over and gave his a squeeze. “I took their money, promised to keep the scandal quiet, and blocked their numbers. I doubt they’ve noticed.”
Bodhi grinned at me, eyes sparkling, radiant in a way that looked suspiciously like pride.
“You’re pretty badass, Iggy Preston.”
“Not as badass as you, Bodhi Hart.”
“You’ll get there.” He winked. “You said you were injured. What?—”
“Oh my god, you’re Bodhi Hart!”
A young man and woman materialised beside our table, and I yanked my hand out of Bodhi’s like it was on fire. He blinked, confused, and I gave him a tiny, guilty smile.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “Didn’t want them to get the wrong idea.”
