Zander
Age 20
So, I think it’s confirmed. I’m gay.
No, bisexual.
Fuck,no.
I just like Jules.Jules-curious, maybe? Whatever, it doesn’t matter what it’s called.
“Zander, you're supposed to be changing the barrel, not flirting with it,” Trixie’s taunting voice cuts through my thoughts. The room comes rushing back in, dark, damp, and stinking of ale. “When you’ve found its G-spot, we could really do with a hand behind the bar.” It’s only then that I realise I’ve been absentmindedly stroking the curve of the barrel, while my mind ran away with thoughts of Jules and the night before.
It’s frustrating how easily I’m finding I can let go of the fear the thought of his touch used to bring. It’s not denial that’s held us back all this time; it’s the love I have for him and the fear of handing over my control. Whilst Jules is the first man I've been with romantically, he's not the first one that I've given my heart to. My dad should have been the one person I could trust, theone I could count on to love me no matter what. But I wasn't enough, I was just a living, breathing reminder of all that he had lost.
I envy Jules; his mind doesn’t play tricks on him, it doesn’t over-complicate situations or get weighed down by the what-ifs. He’s so certain in his belief that we were always meant to be together, the chances of it not working doesn’t even register. And now I feel it too, like our friendship was the seed and we're finally starting to bloom. I feel like I finally fit inside my own skin. I have a home, I have a family, and now, I’m allowing myself to be loved. The worry of handing myself over to someone so freely is terrifying, especially given the circumstances we find ourselves in with Theresa. I couldn’t let myself succumb to the desire and need I felt for him until I was certain it wasn’t just an emotional response to our situation. I refused his touch because I knew I couldn’t afford the feelings that came with it.
But last night was confirmation; this is always where we were meant to end up. From sharing sandwiches on the playground and holding hands under the principal's desk, to late-night conversations and intimate touches, the pieces are finally slotting together.
Emerging from the cellar, I offer Trixie a weak but apologetic smile. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head with a laugh before returning her attention to the customers lining up. It’s busier than usual for a Thursday, and I find myself grateful for the distraction the rush brings; not being with Jules and Theresa is becoming increasingly difficult now that we’re on borrowed time. The anxiety creeps in as soon as I start getting ready toleave the house, reminding me of when I was a boy, when the uncertainty of what would be waiting for me compelled me to sprint back home.
I’ve found staying busy helps keep the panic away, but it still lingers at the edge of my mind. The familiar feelings try to reach for the associated memories, bringing them to the surface. Ones that are wrapped in confusion, tainted by a voice that doesn’t belong, and a song that I shouldn’t recognise.
“Zander! I don’t pay you to stand there looking pretty. As much as you’re doing a great job at it, pull some pints, would ya?”
Shit.My hold on the door to the past is weakening as fast as Theresa’s health. It’s the only thing I can put it down to, traumalovestrauma, after all. Throwing my body into action, I slip back into the present, taking a couple of orders and repeating them over in my mind to fill the space.
“That’ll be seven pounds sixty-five, please, Gary.” A ten-pound note slides across the bar top, dragging through the puddle of spilled gin.
“Use the change to get yourself something strong. You look like you could use it, boy.”
Boy.
“Got somewhere to be,boy?”
“You’re really starting to piss me off,boy.”
The room spins all around, the laughing faces of customers morph into something sinister and mocking as I stand still, trying to slow my dizzying mind. Phantom pains shoot through my body– my ribs, my face. It’s hard to breathe through themake-believe assault my brain is orchestrating and the memories trying to drown my sanity. The same familiar voice comes through, haunting the memory it doesn’t belong to. It sounds panicked and forced. “What have you done?”
Vibrations skittering across my thigh brings me back to the pub. The faces are friendly, and the pain is gone.
“Zander,” Toby stands in front of me, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder, “I think you should go home, me and Trix have got it covered tonight.” I don’t say anything, just nod.
My phone lights up with two missed calls from Jules as I pull it free of my pocket. Hitting the redial button, I fasten my jacket and listen to the dial tone, needing the comfort of his voice. The cool air of the evening stings as it rushes past, it’s refreshing against my clammy face, but my body is overcome with icy dread when Jules doesn’t answer. I increase my pace, reminding myself he’s at home and everything is fine, I’ll be back with him soon.
The busy roads create a welcome distraction from the onslaught of memories battering against the door in my mind, and before long, our house comes into view. The dim lamplight illuminates the downstairs window, casting images of Theresa lying in bed and Jules sitting beside her, singing softly as she falls asleep. The thought carries my legs the rest of the way; the anticipation of being with them is enough to quiet my mind.
When I open the door, Jules is already there, waiting in the hallway. If I didn't know better, I would have questioned if he had been sitting there the entire time I was gone, just by the relief on his face when I stepped over the threshold. Jules is the only safe place I’ve ever known; he's the one person I can relyon to take away the thoughts threatening to drag me down. So I don’t waste time, I’ve already done enough of that. I fall through the door, straight into his arms, and he catches me, just like I knew he would.
“I missed you.” The words are muffled by how tightly I’m pressed against him. I don’t think I’ll ever be close enough. I want to tunnel through his chest and set up home. Nuzzling my face in closer, I turn, pressing my nose to his throat, but he doesn’t hold onto me; his arms just fall limp by his sides. The skin under his day-old stubble is cool and slick against my cheek; it doesn’t have the distinct smell of sweat– the salty residue that’s made its way onto my lips causes my body to lock in place.He’s been crying.
“Why didn’t you answer?” There’s nothing recognisable about his voice. No warmth, no affection, just a question that feels a lot like an accusation.
“I was at work and–”
“I needed you, and you didn’t answer.” I pull my head back and take in his face. Pink blotches are scattered across his cheeks, and his eyes are swollen, rimmed in angry red. The long black lashes that frame his watery blue eyes are clumped with moisture, whilst the tip of his nose is inflamed and shiny with flowing tears.
“Jules, I tried to call you back,” I search his face, looking for an answer to his sadness. His eyes purposefully avoid mine as he tries to rein in his tears. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
