“Is he…” He was digging.
“You know I can’t tell you that. I need this job.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I have rent to pay. A bloody loan. I have things I want to do in life!”
“I know you do,” he said quietly, spreading an unusual amount of words for him, but I would take it. I would take anything at this point. “But this job is making you miserable.”
“It’s the industry. It’s supposed to make you miserable. There’s no glamour in TV work, you know this.”
He chuckled gently. “You don’t have to do this. You can just quit.”
“And…and…who’s going to pay my bleeding bills, eh?” I spat out. I wasn’t being nice, still taking everything out on him. Because he wasn’t here. Because I wanted him to be. I wanted to stroke his face and touch his skin and have his mouth slobber all over me, and I wanted to feel him. Everywhere. “How is that going to look on my CV? My first job and I flaked it because I couldn’t keep up with the…”
“I wish I was there. Then I would calm you down.”
“How would you do that?” I sighed.
“I’d fuck you,” he said. Like it was normal. “I’d give you what you need.”
“I don’t…” I started, but surprisingly he shushed me. Little soothing sounds trickling over the airways.
“Georgie,” he whispered. “I want to, badly. I really want to. Because you’re my baby, and I think this is the… You’re the best. The best thing ever. And I want it to be…”
“What do you want it to be?” Weak. Always weak. I should tell him to F off. I should shout at him to leave me alone. Let me mend this broken heart of mine where he lived. Kick him out. Right to the kerb.
I never would. Because I loved him. And I knew full well what that made me.
“I wish,” he said quietly, “you would just come to me. Live here, and get a job, and…”
“There’s no booming creative industry in Exeter.” I sounded bitter.
“But I’m here.”
Logical. Sane. I didn’t know why I was suddenly crying. Why the back of my hand was now trying to wipe my eyes. It made no difference to the tear running down my cheek.
He saw it, of course he did. Because I was too stupid to put the camera away.
“You…you do everything for me,” he whispered. “Everything. You’re the only one who matters. The only thing I want. And I know it’s fucked up, and I know I’m fucked up.”
“I’ve never even met your brother,” I wailed.
“No. But you’ve met my dad?” he said.
I snorted. “He doesn’t even know who I am.”
“No,” he admitted. “Maybe not right now. But he will.”
“Seriously?” I was almost shouting now. “There’s nobody more closeted than you!” I shouted. No shame. All the shame.
“Georgie,” he soothed.
I hated him. I loved him. It was so messed up. My whole head was messed up.
“I’m in love with you, and you constantly do this. Make it…something it’s not. I can’t, I can’t bear it.”
That was probably the most truthful thing I had told him in a while. The relief was imminent. Followed by that black cloud of shame.
