'I said you liked most things.'
'And he was... was he okay?'
'He was drawing a whale in a top hat and he asked if you were brave.'
'What did you say?'
'I said you were braver than me.'
'Neil...'
'He wants you to come to our house. Saturday. Pizza. He wants to show you the whale.'
The line was quiet. Neil could hear Rory breathing. Uneven now.
'Yeah,' Rory said. Rough. 'Saturday. Of course I'll be there.'
The following Saturday. Four o'clock.
Neil cleaned the flat. Again. The cleaning was ritual, not necessity; the flat was already clean, had been clean since Thursday, but the cleaning was what his hands did when his brain was circling. He rearranged the magnets on the fridge, shifting Freddie's drawings. Moved the Spider-Man painting to the centre. Changed his shirt twice. Changed back.
Freddie was calmer than Neil. He'd dressed himself, his good jumper, the one with the stripes, which he reserved for occasions of significance. He'd arranged the whale drawings on the coffee table in a display he described as 'a gallery like Mr Cavanaugh's but better because mine has hats.'
'Dad. Relax.'
'I'm relaxed.'
'You've cleaned the bathroom twice.'
'The bathroom needed cleaning.'
'You're nervous about Mr Cavanaugh coming and it's making you clean things.'
'When did you become a psychologist?'
The doorbell rang.
Freddie was at the door before Neil had crossed the kitchen. He flung it open with the energy of waiting.
Rory stood on the step. Jeans. A jumper Neil hadn't seen, dark green, soft, the kind bought to look like you hadn't tried when you had absolutely tried. Hair loose. No paint on his face, which was its own kind of effort.
A bottle of wine in one hand, a small wrapped package in the other.
Neil didn't move.
He looked at Freddie. Freddie looked at him.
'Hi, Rory.'
First name. Not Mr Cavanaugh. The shift was on purpose, the conscious decision to use the new word, the word that meant _you're not just my teacher anymore_. Freddie had practisedit. Neil had heard him in the bath that morning, _Rory, Rory, Rory_, trying the syllables, getting the feel of them, testing them like new shoes before you commit.
Rory crouched. Eye level. 'Hi, mate. Happy Saturday.'
'I've got whales to show you.'
'Lead the way.'
'Also I'm wearing my good jumper.'
