The last thing Bilal wanted to do was talk aboutanyof what had happened last night, so he did what he always did whenever he was confronted by issues he’d rather not address. He pushed the truth to the side and let the walls of protection he’d built years ago block the brewing storm between himself and Anwar. “What happened last night was a mistake.”
“A mistake,” Anwar repeated flatly.
“Yes,” Bilal said, wanting to appear certain. But his voice, as well as his convictions, wobbled.
“Well, if so, that was one hell of a mistake,” Anwar replied in the dry, sarcastic way he did when his own walls went up.
“Look, Anwar. It’s best we pretend nothing happened so that we can both move on. You can go back to your life and I can go back to mine. I don’t need you around, and you don’t need me, so what’s the point in rehashing any of this?” Bilal wanted to sound cold and detached, but he just ended up sounding broken.
He had been avoiding Anwar’s eyes as he spoke, but in an almost-sadistic sense, decided to look into them one last time, which he instantly regretted. Anwar’s eyes were a kaleidoscope of emotions. Pain, sadness, hurt, and rage all swirling around in the endless gleaming dark brown pits. Bilalhated hurting Anwar, but it seemed it was all he was ever good at doing.
“Okay, Billy. We can do that,” Anwar said in a voice too calm for Bilal to process at first. When he finally did, Anwar was already on his way out.
“Anwar, wait,” Bilal said, pushing himself up from the gurney to stand, wincing as all the broken parts of him shifted.
Anwar stopped by the staircase and glanced back at Bilal expectantly.
Bilal blinked at him, the words he desperately wanted to say out loud nowlodged in his throat. So he resorted to what was easiest. “You forgot your, uh, trophy in my room.”
Anwar’s eyebrow arched in response. “You have my address. You can mail it to me after the brunch, or pass it along to your father to give to me, seeing as I’ll be around here a lot more now that I’m the new Prodigy of the Year and all.” Bilal felt a twinge in his chest at the casual mention of his father. “Or you can keep it. I don’t really care.” Anwar sighed and looked away from him. “I’ll see you around, Bilal,” he said, then disappeared from Bilal’s line of sight, the sound of Anwar’s gentle footsteps traipsing up the metal staircase once more, as he walked away for what Bilal feared would be the last time.
After a few moments of watching the empty space where Anwar no longer stood, Bilal soundlessly shifted back on the bed and buried his face in his hands. Cursing himself internally, he wished he weren’t so good at making a mess of his life.
At the sound of more footsteps, he turned, hoping against hope it was Anwar again, wanting to give Bilal another chance at saying what he actually meant and not what stupidly tumbled out of his mouth whenever he spoke. But it was Henry, watching Bilal from the corner, like a shadow, and with a weary, pitying expression.
Bilal didn’t feel embarrassed at the prospect that Henry had overheard his exchange with Anwar. The Button children had gotten used to the fact that Henry knew almost every intimate detail about their lives. Since Henry was their father’s right hand, his eyes and ears were all over the Manor. Yet, the secretary never seemed to disclose his or his siblings’ dalliances to their father.
Bilal wasn’t even sure his father knew or cared that he was gay and had been dating the newest Prodigy of the Year. All his father ever concerned himself with was whether they were brilliant. Bilal had never had to worry about being disowned for liking boys. Instead, he spent most of his childhood worried about being scorned for not placing in the top three nationally in his sport. His father was progressive, in a weird way, he supposed.
“How are you doing?” Henry asked in a gentle tone.
Bilal wasn’t sure if Henry was asking about how he was doing in general or about his injury, so he gave the answer he always gave. “I’m fine.”
Henry paused before speaking again. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Bilal replied, agitated by the way Henry was staring at him. Like he was a bird with a broken wing or something.
“I know that it has been… a very,verydifficult morning for you… for all of you. It’s just… I would understand if you weren’t fine,” Henry pressed on. “You know I’m always here, if you needed to talk about anything. Anything at all.”
Bilal knew Henry meant that sincerely—Henry was always sincere. But he also knew that no one could help him now. Not after the events of the past year, andespeciallynot after last night.
“I assure you, I am fine, Henry.”
He didn’t look convinced. “How’s your leg?” Henry asked, switching gears, still trying to get an answer out of him as he glanced down at Bilal’s cast.
Not as bad as my love life, apparently, Bilal thought, but didn’t say. He didn’t think Henry would see the humor in it.
“Better,” he lied. It would probably be wise for him to use the ice pack Henry had brought, but he decided he’d just have to learn to live with the pain. From above, he could hear voices rising and guests shuffling around the foyer. “What was that sound from before? The crash and the banging?” he asked as he glanced up at the ceiling.
“Oh, that? There was a small incident upstairs. Nothing the police can’t handle, I’m sure,” Henry said, waving away his concerns. “Are you ready to head back up? I can help you with the stairs?” he continued.
Bilal nodded, even though the thought of returning upstairs made him feel dizzy. He wasn’t ready, but he also couldn’t hide forever.
Henry helped him up and over to the stairs, slinging Bilal’s right arm over his shoulder as the two ascended the steps slowly.
When they finally emerged into the foyer, Bilal could immediately tell that the so-calledsmall incident, as Henry had put it, hadn’t been small at all.
The Manor’s apparently impenetrable front doors had been smashed in, a whole section of the stained-glass panes shattered entirely, with shards littering the ground. The area felt cold, as gusts of wind crawled in through the broken barrier of the entrance. Police tape adorned the foyer, which already felt boxed in with all of the stacked chairs blocking the doorway, and a sense of doom hung in the air.
