Blowing It (24 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Let me get this right: you were naked?” Ryan stared
at me in shock.

I nodded glumly.

“Who breaks up with somebody when they’re
naked
?”

It was the evening following my fight with Magnus,
and I’d gone to Ryan’s house the moment he got off work, desperate for tea and
sympathy. Said tea—or in my case, coffee—sat cold and forgotten on the table
between us while I narrated my litany of woes.

“He gave me my clothes,” I offered weakly. What
he’d actually done, once he’d stormed out of the kitchen, was gathered up all
my things from the living room and thrown them at me. I’d dressed quickly and
left. Even the memory made me cringe.

“I thought he knew,” Ryan said. “I thought you’d
told him we were going out.”

I shook my head. “I should have.”

“You didn’t think he’d mind?”

“Whose side are you on?” I asked, a trifle annoyed.

“I’m on your side, Owen. Magnus was the best thing
that’s happened to you in years.”

“And I fucked it up! You think I don’t know that?”

“So get him back.”

“How can I?” I asked plaintively. “He wants me to
be out and proud, but I
can’t
be. Max won’t let me.”

“Max can’t stop you,” he said. “Max can threaten
and bluster as much as he wants, but we’ve discussed this before. They’re not
actually
going to sue you if you come out.”

“You don’t know that,” I groused. “Besides, even if
I do come out, that doesn’t change what I do for a living. If Magnus can’t
handle the publicity when he’s not even involved, then isn’t it better we break
up now?”

“Have you thought he can’t handle it precisely
because
he wasn’t involved? You said yourself, he was jealous.”

“And he had no reason to be! He can’t honestly have
thought there was anything going on between me and Becky.”

“You don’t think you acting like there was
something going on was a problem?”

“So all of this is my fault, is it? Thanks, Ryan. I
thought you were supposed to be my friend.”

“I am your friend. Your
best
friend.” He
glared at me. “That means I get to say when you’ve been a dickhead.”

I buried my face in my hands. “I wish I could take
it all back,” I admitted.

Ryan was on his feet in a second, rounding the
table and taking me in his arms. “I know,” he said, kissing the top of my head.
“Give him time. He’ll cool off. He’s crazy about you.”

“What if he doesn’t cool off?” I asked. “You didn’t
see him, Ryan. He was so angry.”

“He was hurt, that’s all. He lashed out. We all do
it.”

I laughed humourlessly. “You and Sameer don’t.”

“You just don’t see it,” he corrected. “You don’t
spend five years with someone without having the occasional argument.”

“How do you make it right?”

Releasing me, he stood upright, stroking soothing
circles between my shoulder blades. “It starts with someone admitting they were
wrong.”

“What if the other person doesn’t want to hear it?”

“You give them space and show them by your actions
instead.”

“So you think I should, what, call a newspaper and
come out?”

“It’s not like you’d be doing it just for Magnus,”
Ryan said. “It’s what you always wanted, too.”

I sighed. Ryan was right. It
was
what I’d
always wanted. What I’d always planned. I was going to be groundbreaking,
trailblazing. Instead, I’d become another mediocre mid-lister with no distinguishing
features whatsoever.

We looked up as a key turned in the door, and a
moment later Sameer entered the kitchen. Ryan moved to greet him, giving him a
hug and a kiss before helping him off with his jacket.

“Owen, this is a surprise.” Sameer clapped me on
the shoulder and bent to kiss my cheek. “You recovered from Saturday yet?”

“He and Magnus had a fight,” Ryan said in an
undertone.

“What?” Sameer immediately took the chair beside
me. “What happened?”

While Ryan hung up Sameer’s jacket and put the
kettle on, I gave Sameer an abbreviated account of Sunday morning. By the time
Ryan set fresh mugs of hot coffee on the table, I was close to tears again. It
felt like I’d spent the last twenty-four hours bursting into uncontrolled sobs
every five minutes. Half the reason I’d got out of my flat and come to Ryan and
Sameer’s place was to try to get a grip.

Sameer took my hand, and I focused on the contrast
between my deathly-pale skin and his warm, golden flesh. “It’ll be okay,” he
said firmly. “Whatever happens, you know you’ve always got us.”

I sniffed. “Thanks.”

“This isn’t over,” Ryan said, sitting opposite. “You
and Magnus, it was too good to end like this. He’s just hurt. He’ll come
round.”

I wanted desperately to cling to the hope Ryan was
offering, but I was almost afraid to let myself believe it. “M-Maybe it’s for
the best,” I said tremulously. “We weren’t together that long. It’s not like I
was planning to spend the rest of my life with him.”

Sameer’s lips thinned. “That’s the biggest load of
crap I’ve ever heard.”

“When did you know?” I asked. “About Ryan. When did
you know you were right for each other?”

Sameer looked at his husband, his expression
softening. “I knew on our very first date.”

҉҉҉

By Tuesday morning, my mood had switched to anger. I
queued up lots of Placebo on my iTunes, cranked the speakers on my computer to
full volume, and treated my neighbours to a garbled rendition of “Song to Say
Goodbye,” bellowing in the shower about God’s mistakes while I scrubbed my skin
raw, trying to harness the emotions of the music, the place inside me touched
by Brian Molko’s aggressive lyrics.

It didn’t work. That kind of anger could only be
fuelled by hurt, and people were only hurt when they actually gave a damn. I
couldn’t switch off my feelings for Magnus, however hard I wished I could. I
tried to work, but I couldn’t concentrate, Magnus’s cutting assessment of my
cowardice ringing in my ears whenever I looked at the half-written outline for the
third book.

Shutting the computer down, I decided to go for a
walk; get out of the flat. Stop looking at the bed where we’d first made love, the
sofa where we’d snuggled on so many evenings, eating Chinese food and watching
crappy films. How was it possible so much of my space reminded me of him?

I’d walked to St. Matthew’s before I even realised
where I was going. The day was warm and sunny, and the churchyard was filled
with people enjoying the beautiful scenery and weather. I glowered at a young
couple sharing a kiss in the shade of a tree which had probably seen more years
than the pair of them combined, more lovers come and go, courtings and weddings
and christenings and, finally, that final union, side-by-side under the hard,
unfeeling earth. I wondered what the tree made of their chances.

On Wednesday I caved and called Magnus. He at least
paid me the courtesy of answering his phone, although if I’d hoped absence had
made his heart grow fonder, I was quickly disabused of the notion.

“Have you broken up with your pretend girlfriend
yet?” he demanded, foregoing formalities.

“Give me a chance!”

“I’ve given you plenty. It’s not difficult, Owen.
Call your agent now and tell him you’re done pretending to be somebody you’re
not.”

“Oh, just like that?” The anger which had eluded me
the day before flared in an instant. “Want me to do anything else while I’m at
it? Host a burning of my book in front of the British Library, perhaps? Say
jump, Magnus, and I’ll ask how high.”

“Because everything you’ve done so far has been all
about me,” he sneered. “It’s not like you hid me away and acted ashamed of us,
is it?”

“I was never ashamed!”

“I said you
acted
like you were.”

“And you said you understood!” I could have
screamed with frustration. “This is my
job
, Magnus. It’s my dream, my
whole fucking life. And you’re asking me to throw it all away like it’s
nothing.”

“Falling out of clubs at three in the morning isn’t
part of your job,” he snapped. “Don’t put this back on me, because I would
never
ask you to do something that would jeopardise your career. I said nothing
about you going out with Becky for dinner, because I knew you didn’t have a
choice. I was even pleased you’d found a new friend.” He laughed shortly. “I
suppose I never expected you to play your part so well.”

“What’s this really about, Magnus?” I asked. “Either
you mind me being seen with Becky, or you don’t. Why is me going clubbing with
her such a big deal, when you weren’t bothered by the two of us having dinner
alone?” A thought struck me, clarifying all my confusion, all Magnus’s hurt, in
an instant. “It’s nothing to do with her, is it? This is about your ex.”

“It’s about us,” he said firmly. “About whether or
not you want to make this relationship work. I’m not interested in planning a
life with somebody who’s ashamed to be seen with me. I thought you had
principles, Owen. I thought you were someone I could rely on. I didn’t think
you’d go out of your way to whitewash me from your life.”

“You’re scared of being shut out.” Why hadn’t I
seen it before? Magnus had broken up with one boyfriend because he was more
interested in partying than settling down, and what impression of myself had I
given, turning up drunk on his doorstep? Bad enough he’d had to put up with
that behaviour from one lover, without a second rubbing salt in the wound. “I
get that Magnus, I do, but that wasn’t what I was doing.”

“That wasn’t you I saw in those photographs? Jesus,
Owen, couldn’t you have found a less public way of humiliating me?”

“How did I humiliate you?” I demanded, riled by his
inference. “You weren’t even
there
.”

“Exactly! And how do you think I felt, explaining
that to my brother and sister-in-law?”

Guilt silenced my angry retort. “They saw?”

“Of course they did.” He sighed heavily. “You say
writing is your dream, but was this really how you imagined it would be? If you
met your fourteen-year-old self now, would he be proud of how you turned out?”

 “Fuck off, Magnus. You’re not being fair.”

“No, Owen,
you’re
not being fair. It’s one
thing keeping quiet about me—I understand that, I do—but how do you expect me
to react when you start parading around town with a fake girlfriend on your
arm? When you’re
lying
in order to hide the fact I even exist. You want
me to believe you’re done with partying, done with pretending to be someone
you’re not, then you go out and do the exact opposite of what you say. Even if
you don’t want to stand up for me, why don’t you stand up for yourself? Has
your agent really got you so scared and ashamed you’re acting out to spite him,
or does it run deeper than that? Because right now, Owen, the only thing it
feels like you’re ashamed of is me.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but he’d already hung
up.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The date of the Carnegie ceremony was fast
approaching, but not even the thought of that could cheer me up as another day
passed with no word from Magnus. I was less than a week away from potentially
the most important moment in my life, but I couldn’t work up the energy to
care. Without him, it all felt meaningless.

Ryan tried to console me, pointing out it hadn’t
been a week since our argument, that couples fought all the time and it didn’t
mean things were over for good. Not even being sworn to secrecy before he told
me about the biggest fight he and Sameer ever had, not long after they’d moved
in together, made me feel better about my prospects of reconciling with Magnus.

The problem was Magnus was right. I
had
sold
out my identity to appease my ambition. I’d always dreamed of moving to London,
getting a book deal, becoming a celebrated author. Everything I’d worked for my
whole life had come true more spectacularly than I’d imagined in my wildest
dreams. I’d always thought I’d be the sort of author whose work was appreciated
in small, elite circles. Reviewers and university professors would love me, and
their admiration would make up for a decidedly modest income. I hadn’t wanted
to be rich; I’d only wanted to be respected.

I didn’t even respect myself anymore.

When I’d switched to YA, got that massive deal from
Squire, my ambitions had changed. Suddenly what I had wasn’t enough: I wanted
the film deal, I wanted to see merch on sale in supermarkets, and I still
wanted the adulation of the establishment, on top of the public at large. When
had I got so damn
needy
? When had the deal alone stopped being enough?

I remembered the first manuscript I’d submitted to
Max. The anxious wait for him to get back to me, my ecstasy when he’d agreed to
represent the novel. School night or not, I’d dragged Ryan out that evening,
and we’d celebrated well into the small hours. Over nothing more than
representation
.

That novel had languished, unloved and forgotten,
for five years now, just the eldest in a long line of books which Max had
shopped around to complete and utter indifference from every publishing house
in London.

Had it been then I’d started internalising the
message that gay didn’t sell? That people didn’t want to know what I had to
say; didn’t care about those I was trying to represent? Or had seeing equality
lawsuits and same-sex marriage cases wind their way through the courts and
government fooled me into believing we could be equal? That a book with queer
protagonists could be judged on its own merits?

I didn’t know what I believed anymore.

On Friday, I went back to plotting the third book.
I deleted the original document from my hard drive, tore up the notes I’d made,
finding the physical act of destruction surprisingly satisfying. Magnus’s words
haunted me. Whenever I looked in the mirror I saw a shadow of my
fourteen-year-old self, that skinny, defiant little kid prepared to paint a
target on his own back if it meant being free to be who he really was. He’d be
disgusted with me if he knew how I’d turned out. For his sake, I had to at
least try to make amends.

I typed furiously, words pouring out onto the
computer screen, chapter by chapter, the story taking shape. I wrote for
myself, for Magnus, for every kid who’d ever been bullied in the playground,
ostracised for being different. If Max hated it, I’d take it to Squire myself.
If they refused to publish, I’d find another house that would. I’d self-publish
if I had to, but no editor or agent or publicist was going to change what I
planned to write. In fiction, at least, my characters would get the happy
ending my stupidity had cost me in life.

That thought struck me as I began plotting the
scene where Fabien told Adam he was an alien. To get me through it, I opened a
bottle of wine and poured myself a generous glass. I savoured the drink as I
recalled my own coming out. There had been less shock than I envisioned writing
for Fabien, but my mother had cried, and my best friend had acted weird around
me for at least a week, despite telling me he’d already guessed. At fourteen, a
week had seemed like a lifetime. At twenty-eight, it didn’t pass much faster.
Heartbreak has a way of slowing time.

When I finished, the wine was half gone, and I only
felt marginally better. “What next?” the kid in the mirror seemed to say. “You’ve
fixed the book, now fix the rest.” The problem was, I didn’t know if I
could
fix the rest.

I called Magnus. His answerphone kicked on after
three rings, and I was about to hang up when I heard his voice. Only a
pre-recorded message, only his name, but just the sound of that rich, familiar
baritone soothed something inside me which had been antsy for days. My entrails
squirmed to be near him. It was only a voicemail message, but I’d take it.

“I don’t expect you to call me back,” I said
thickly, swallowing a mouthful of wine to lubricate my throat. “I just wanted
to say I’m sorry. And you were right, about everything. I-I’m going to change,
I’m going to make things better. I rewrote the outline. I can make that right,
at least, even if it’s too late for us.” Another swallow. “Not that I did it
for you. The book, I mean. I always intended, I always wanted to write it this
way. I-I’m not a coward. I don’t want to be scared anymore.”

The wine glass trembled in my hand, and I set it
heavily on my desk. “I was stupid and selfish and I fucked everything up, and
Magnus, I’m sorry. And I’m not saying that because I’m drunk because I haven’t
had that much and besides, I felt like this before I drank anything so that
means it must be true. Ryan says I’m not a complete fuckup, but he’s my best
friend so he has to say that, doesn’t he? So this isn’t to get you back because
I know I’ve probably ruined everything, but I wanted, I wanted you to know I’m
sorry. I’m just… I’m
sorry
, Magnus. I was a dick, and I deserve
everything I get, but I wanted to tell you I haven’t sold out, not completely. I’m
writing the story I always intended to write and I hope… I hope.” I laughed. “I
hope
they accept it but even if they don’t, I’m going to write it
anyway. So, thank you. Because you did that. You made me do that. Not that I’m
doing it for you. Not completely.”
Shit, I’m screwing this up.
“I-I’m
going now. You don’t want to hear me rambling. I just wanted to let you to know
what I’d done. And that I’m sorry. Again. Sorry. And you don’t have to call me
back if you don’t want. I just wanted, I wanted you to know. I love you,
Magnus.”

Fuck! Abort! Abort!

I disconnected the call and flung the phone away
from me like I’d received an electric shock. It bounced along the carpet and
came to rest beside the sofa, the screen still displaying the call length.

“Fuuuck.” I groaned and slumped in my chair, my
head in my hands. Where the hell had that come from? What had possessed me to
leave such a stupid,
stupid
message? Glaring at the wine bottle, I rose
and tipped the remainder of its contents down the sink. Blaming the drink was
easier than examining my actions more closely.

After saving the file securely on an external hard
drive, I closed the computer, rinsed the wine glass, and picked my phone up off
the floor. No missed calls or texts, not that I was expecting Magnus to contact
me. What could he possibly say after listening to that car crash of a message?
After a moment’s hesitation, I switched the phone to silent. There was nobody I
wanted to hear from right then.

Before I could wreck my life any more than I already
had, I went to bed.

҉҉҉

I was woken the next morning by an unearthly
hammering on my door. My heart leapt into my mouth as I sprang out of bed, because
there was only one person I could think of who might so urgently want to speak
to me. Dragging on a pair of black shorts, I hurried to throw the door open.

My face fell when I saw Ryan and modesty reasserted
itself when I saw Becky standing behind him.

“Well, isn’t that a cheerful welcome?” Ryan asked,
barging me out of the way to get inside. “Put some clothes on, love.” He
wrapped an arm around my neck and kissed my cheek, preventing me from carrying
out his instructions.

“Do you always answer your door like that?” Becky
asked, ogling my nether regions.

I cupped a protective hand over myself, wishing I
wore baggier underwear. “Only when someone’s trying to knock it down at”—I
glanced at the clock on the wall behind her—“nine thirty in the morning.”

“The day’s half over!” she protested, a wicked grin
on her face.

“The day can wait for me to get dressed,” I
retorted, turning and ignoring the wolf whistle which followed me into the
bedroom.

Five minutes later, dressed in a pair of jeans and
loose T-shirt, my hair and teeth brushed, I emerged from the bedroom to find
Ryan serving toast and coffee in my kitchen.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, looking from
him to her as I accepted the steaming mug he offered.

“This is an intervention,” Becky said, hopping onto
one of the stools before my breakfast bar and taking a healthy bite out of a piece
of toast.

“A what?”

“I’ve never been to an intervention before,” she
confided. “I always thought it was the sort of thing people only did on TV. Or
in America.”

“I don’t need an intervention!” I protested. “An
intervention for
what
?”

“Are you back with Magnus yet?” Ryan asked, leaning
against the counter and blowing on his coffee to cool it before taking a sip.

“No.” My cheeks heated as I remembered the details
of the message I’d left. “I don’t think I will be, either. I blew it.”

“See, this.” Ryan prodded my chest. “This is why we
need an intervention.”

I rubbed the spot where he’d poked me. “You’ve got
sharp fingers.”

“Don’t change the subject. Now, I spoke with Magnus
yesterday—”

“Wait, what?” My voice rose in pitch to something
approaching a squawk. “When did you speak to him?”

“Yesterday afternoon. That’s not the point. He
said—”

“He won’t take my calls, but he’ll speak to
you
?”
I demanded.

“I phoned his office.”

Why didn’t I think of that?
“What did he
say?” I asked, trying to keep my hopes from rising. If Ryan knew I’d blown it,
and he’d come here anyway, that was too cruel of him.

“He said you’re a dickhead, and he never wants to
see you again.”

My hopes crashed from the sky and splintered on the
rocks at the bottom of my soul’s abyss. “You came here to tell me that?” I
demanded.

Ryan rolled his eyes. “I don’t actually
believe
him,” he said. “He’s too angry to not care.”

“This is all my fault,” Becky said, interrupting my
incoherent spluttering. “I feel awful about it, Owen, I really do. I want to
help you make it right.”

I smiled and patted her hand. “This isn’t your
fault. It’s me he’s pissed off with, and he has every right to be.”

“But I was the one who talked you into it,” she
countered. “When we went to the park that day, you wanted to tell Max to fuck
off. I was the one who thought it was a good idea to go along with it.”

“It’s sweet of you, really, but there’s nothing you
can do. I already tried calling him last night.”

“And?” Ryan demanded expectantly.

“And he switched me to voicemail.”

Ryan grimaced.

“Did you leave a message?” Becky asked. “Because I
used to do that all the time when I was angry with my ex. I’d always listen to
his message later.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I mumbled, lifting
my mug to my lips.

“What did you say?”

“Obviously not the right thing, because he hasn’t
called me back.”

Ryan set his cup down, rounded the counter, and
seized me by the shoulders. “No defeatism!” he demanded. “You’re not giving
up.”

“I can be as optimistic as I like. That’s not going
to change Magnus’s mind,” I pointed out.

Ryan shook me like a rat. “Magnus is the best thing
that ever happened to you. I’m
not
going to let you lose him over
something as stupid as Becky. No offence.”

She laughed. “None taken.”

“So he didn’t tell you the whole story, then?” I
broke free of Ryan’s grasp. “It’s over, okay? I fucked up.”

“What did you do?”

The burn of shame stained my cheeks. “I don’t want
to talk about it.”

“Owen….” He let my name linger like a threat.

“I turned up drunk at his place.” I hung my head,
not wanting to make eye contact with either of them. “I was stupid, I woke him
up at four in the morning and we had really,
really
bad sex.”

Ryan boggled. “How bad?”

I moaned and sank melodramatically against the
breakfast bar. “Terrible. And it’s not just that it was bad, but I think I
reminded him how his ex used to treat him. I just showed up and expected him to
be in the mood because I was. He said, he told me what his ex was like. I
promised I’d never behave that way, and then I did. I was drunk and stupid, and
then last night I left him an awful message….” I shuddered. “I’m never drinking
again.”

“What did you say?” Becky demanded. “Did you shout
at him?”

“I wish I had.” Shouting, anger, I could have
explained. What I’d done was much, much worse.

“Why did you call him?” Ryan asked. “It’s because
you want to get back with him, isn’t it? You know you haven’t given up hope,
Owen, so don’t tell me you have.”

“I wanted to apologise for the way I’d behaved. And
for some other stuff, too. He accused me of selling out—rightly, although I
didn’t want to hear it at the time. I wanted him to know I’d thought about what
he’d said. I hadn’t dismissed it because we were both angry when he said it.”

“And…?” Ryan persisted, anticipating there was
more.