Play On: A Glasgow Lads Novella (6 page)

One of the girls glanced over at him. She gave him a shy smile, then went back to tapping the washer control buttons with a long, pink fingernail.

“Everybody kens, women make the best nurses,” Ma said with a laugh. “Talking of work, I spoke to Mr. Kendrick yesterday, and he says he’s got a summer job for you at the inn.”

Brodie hesitated. He was far too tired to have this conversation, but it wasn’t fair to commit to a position he’d no intention of taking, especially when others desperately needed the work.

“Ma, I’m keen on staying in Glasgow. I’ve applied for student accommodation and a few jobs.” He rushed to continue before she could protest. “If I’m to work in psychology one day, I need experience in my field. Most of the other first-year students are staying to work the summer.” This was technically true, but only because many of them, like Lorna and Paul and Duncan, lived in Glasgow to begin with. “Tell Mr. Kendrick thanks, though, okay?” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Ma, you still there?”

“I am.” She released an aching sigh that made him nervous. “Fit about me? I miss you. I worry for you.”

“Dinna fash, I’m fine. And I’ll come and visit.” His fingers were cramping from tension, so he shifted the phone to his other hand. “But this is my home now, ken?”

“Oh, I ken.” She said the last word with a sharp hack. “I ken exactly fit you’re doing there, with those other loons.”

A chill snaked over the back of his neck.
Oh God. She knows.
“I—I don’t—”

“Something was off, I could feel it, the way you and that farmer boy were having a bicker when he was here last week. He was greetin’ like a bairn on the way out the door.”

Geoffrey was crying after their fight? Brodie’s chest went tight with fear and regret. “Has he said something?”

“He’s come out at uni, says Mrs. Baines. Her niece knows him there.” His mother’s voice broke. “Tell me it’s not true, Brodie.”

Eyes and throat burning, he turned away from the girls at the washing machines. “Dinna cry, Ma. Please. Aye, it’s true, but it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay!” she screeched. “You’re up to filthy things in a filthy city, and it breaks my heart.”

He pressed his lips together, knowing if he said one word, he’d explode into tears like a burst water balloon.

“There’s treatments could fix you,” Ma said. “Mind that American preacher who visited last year? He’s coming again Sunday.” She sniffled hard. “He used to be—he used to have your problem, but he’s cured now.”

Brodie’s fury at this dangerous lie gave him the strength to steady his voice. “It can’t be changed. And even if I could change it, I wouldn’t.”

“But why, when you could be so much happier? This is why those bullies in school hurt you, isn’t it? They knew.”

“I wasn’t out then, so they couldn’t know for certain.”

“But they sensed it,” she hissed. “They sensed there was something wrong. They wanted to beat that wrongness out of you.”

Brodie gasped, his stomach crumpling like he’d taken a kick in the gut.
She didn’t say that. She didn’t mean that.

He pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it. The photo of his mother from his contacts file smiled up at him as her vicious words streamed from the speaker, words he could hear even over the churn of the washing machines.

With a trembling finger, Brodie hung up. He quickly selected “Add to reject list” from the menu, confirmed the blocked number, then set the phone on the floor beside him. He didn’t trust himself not to hurl it against the wall.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the girls leave the launderette, shutting the door softly. Waves of dizziness swept over him then, like someone had lifted one end of the linoleum floor and was flapping the entire room up and down. Brodie lay back across the hard plastic seats again, fixing his eyes on the sprinkler in the ceiling, the one stationary point he could see.

For years he’d dreaded the moment his mother found out for certain he was gay, but he’d often wondered if it would be a relief. He’d expected her disappointment, her pleas for him to change, even her grieving for his soul. All of those he could have handled (probably).

But she’d spoken of his tormentors like she understood them. Like she agreed with them. The woman who’d nursed his wounds with bandages and ice packs, who’d demanded his school do more to protect his safety—she wished his bullies’ mission had succeeded.

They wanted to beat that wrongness out of you.

A single tear slipped from each eye. Only his exhaustion was keeping him from a complete meltdown. His murky mind didn’t know which emotion to latch onto: fear, grief, or rage. All three twisted together in a desperate, sea-gray whirlwind.

His phone buzzed with a text, then a moment later buzzed again, which usually meant a long message had been split into two parts by his message app. It couldn’t be his mother—he’d blocked her number, and anyway, she didn’t text. Perhaps it was Geoffrey warning him their secret was out.

Brodie slowly reached down and picked up his phone.

Duncan: Can’t pop by tonight, but never fear! Ordered a takeaway for you. Put some fucking clothes on and meet the dude from the curry place in our lobby in 20 min

Duncan: utes.

“C
OCK
-
A
-
DOODLE
-doo!” Duncan shouted as he swept into Brodie’s room at eight a.m. His mood had skyrocketed late last night, and he couldn’t wait for Brodie to find out why.

Brodie rolled over in bed, rubbing his drawn face. “Fit’s that smell?”

“Which?” Duncan held up the cardboard tray of Starbucks cups in his left hand. “The heavenly aroma of burnt coffee?” He lifted the bag in his right hand. “Or the tantalizing scent of dwarf breakfast wraps?”

“Another Yank food chain. What’s next, Taco Bell?”

“That’s a brilliant idea. I love their breakfast burritos.”

“Och.” Brodie clutched his stomach melodramatically. “Never say the phrase ‘breakfast burrito’ in my presence again.”

“The curry was a wee bit spicy?”

“I couldn’t feel my tongue for hours.”

I’d like to feel your tongue for hours,
Duncan thought as he handed Brodie his tea and breakfast, then sat at the desk.
And now I’ve a notion the feeling is mutual.

“I will pay you back for this one day,” Brodie said.

Duncan kept a straight face as he replied, “This is me paying you back for infecting you in the first place.”

Brodie coughed, then took a sip of tea. “You don’t need to stay, though.”

“Are you giving me the boot?”

“No! I like having you—I mean, it’s fine if you—erm…yeah.” He gave a twitchy shrug. “Whatever.”

Brodie’s blush told Duncan he could easily push the teasing too far. “Frankly, my room’s not the happiest place at the moment, with all that football rubbish hanging everywhere. I’d rather not think about the game just now.”

“Ah. Sorry.” The corners of Brodie’s mouth drooped, then suddenly lifted. “I’d another funny dream about the library last night. I dreamed someone posted on the
Spotted
Facebook page that they missed me. Something about the lad in the Passenger shirt, how they loved the way I smelled after a shower.”

Here we go.
“Then what happened?”

Brodie thought for a moment, then laughed. “I replied! Aye, now I remember. In the dream, I thought you were the original poster, and I wanted to have a bit of fun. So I wrote, ‘I’m still waiting for my sponge bath.’”

Duncan pulled out his own phone and turned it toward Brodie. “You mean Spongebob?”

Brodie’s smile vanished. “Wha—” He grabbed the phone, then thumbed the panel, eyes widening as he read the anonymous original post, his own reply—which was not a dream—and several others beneath his, most riffing off his accidental Spongebob Squarepants reference. “Fucking autocorrect again!”

“You thought I posted that I missed you?” Grinning, Duncan swiveled the desk chair from side to side. “A bit cocky, aye?”

“It was a dream—I mean, I thought it was. Haven’t you ever dreamed you’ve said something stupid on Facebook?”

“Once or twice, when I’ve been spending too much time there.”

“I thought this was like that.” Brodie dragged a hand through his already tousled hair. “‘To the lad in the Passenger shirt who’s
not
in Level Two tonight: I miss seeing your face. I miss kissing you. I miss the way you smell after a shower.’ You swear you didn’t write this?”

Duncan could have written the post—it expressed his exact thoughts—but he hadn’t. “I swear on my mother’s grave.”

Brodie gave a light gasp. “I didn’t know your ma was dead.”

“She’s not. But she’s got a headstone reserved in the family plot, so technically…” He laughed as Brodie flipped him off. “As for the post, it could still be for you. Maybe you’ve a secret admirer.” The thought made Duncan more than a little jealous. “Maybe one of the many lads you loved and left this year.”

Brodie held out Duncan’s phone, reddening again. “I didn’t love any of them.”

He met Brodie’s gaze and held it as he reached out to take the phone. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

Their fingers brushed, sending a wave of electric warmth through Duncan’s body. Brodie’s lips parted slowly.

Then his phone blared on his pillow. Duncan recognized the ring tone as Bruno Mars’s “When I Was Your Man.”

Brodie cursed under his breath, then flicked a furtive glance at Duncan. “It’s—it’s an old mate.”

“Should I leave?”

“No.” Brodie lifted the phone to his ear. “Fit like, Geoffrey?”

Duncan turned away, dismayed Brodie had chosen such closet-y words—
an old mate
—for his ex-boyfriend, even here, even with him.

“Na, min, I’m fair awake,” Brodie said into the phone. “Aye, better, ta. Still affa trachled, but the fever’s away.”

As they made small talk, Duncan ate breakfast and examined his chemistry notes, trying not to eavesdrop. Though there was tension in Brodie’s voice, he sounded more natural than Duncan had ever heard him, either because he and Geoffrey shared a history or an accent.

Brodie’s tone went suddenly serious. “Aye, Ma told me last night. Mrs. Baines’s niece has been clypin’.” He took in a long breath. “It was bad. She said…” He cleared his throat. “Never mind. What about you?”

Duncan stopped chewing at the sound of Brodie’s pain. What had his mother said to him last night? Who was Mrs. Baines, and what was her niece gossiping about?

“Aw, min, that’s horrible,” Brodie said. “That’s fair coorse. Fit you gonnae dee?” He paused. “You’re gonnae report it, right?” He let out a frustrated sigh. “No, you cannae haud your wheesht. Your silence just gi’es them more power.”

Duncan plugged his earphones into his tablet. As much as he wanted clues to the mystery of Brodie Campbell, he was beginning to feel like an intruder. He turned up his music to block the voice behind him—the words, at least, if not the tone. Over the course of the first song, Brodie went from angry to sympathetic, then finally dropped to a steady calm.

In the brief silence between album tracks, Duncan heard him say, “I ken this sounds a cliché, but it does get better. I promise.” Brodie enunciated the words as he repeated them, hitting the
t
’s with a forceful tongue. “It. Gets. Better.”

Duncan marveled that Brodie could set aside his own hurt feelings to help his ex-boyfriend. Selfishly he hoped this turnaround had been inspired by mere compassion—or Brodie’s desire to hone his therapy skills—and not rekindled affection for Geoffrey. He nudged his music’s volume down so he could be sure.

Brodie was rattling off a list of LGBT resources, some of which Duncan had never heard of. “And you can ring me any time. Preferably not in the middle of the night,” Brodie added, “but if that’s when you need me, I’ll answer.”

Duncan gritted his teeth at the thought of Brodie lying here in the dark, chatting to his ex, sharing secrets kept from the rest of the world. Kept from him.

He kicked himself under the desk for being ridiculous. Brodie clearly wanted to forget their night together—technically, their twenty-five minutes together. Their hookup was a mere blip compared to his relationship with Geoffrey, or even to Duncan’s own past romances.

But to Duncan, that night had seemed the exclamation point to the long, rambling sentence of their year together. Passing cheeky notes with Lorna and Paul during mind-numbing psych lectures. Seeing each other in the hallway here at the flat, at each other’s best (before parties) and worst (hungover the following mornings). Always revolving around the same places and people, coming ever closer to collision, like satellites in unstable orbits.

Time was running out. In a few weeks, Brodie would go home to Geoffrey, and Duncan might never discover whether they were meant to be just mates. Or whether they could be something more.

= = =

Brodie said goodbye to Geoffrey, then lay back on his pillow to think. Unlike the call with his mother last night, he’d never expected
this
conversation. He’d assumed Geoffrey was gone from his life for good.

Now they were going to be…what, friends? Just like they swore they’d be last September when they’d left for university, before Geoffrey decided to pretend Brodie had never existed? What if Geoffrey discarded him again?

The thought didn’t slice through him as it once had. Apparently his heart had formed a Geoffrey-proof shield.

He looked at Duncan, sitting a few feet away at the desk, bobbing his head to the music in his earphones. Brodie could still hear echoes of Duncan’s drunken laughter chasing him down the hall the night before vacation. Building a Duncan-proof shield was a task he definitely wasn’t up to. He couldn’t even bring himself to mention last night’s fight with Ma, knowing it would lead to tears.

So why had he wanted Duncan to stay while he talked to Geoffrey? Thinking back to the moment he’d heard his ex’s ringtone, Brodie realized he hadn’t wanted to be alone. He needed to stay strong in the face of Geoffrey’s emotions. And strangely enough, Duncan, who’d once made him feel so weak, now seemed a source of strength.