by Lisa Henry
He had a small life now. A small life in a small town, with small ambitions. It was enough. Elliott had never chased anything larger. Marianne was the dreamer, and Greta was the iconoclast. Elliott was the dependable one. The quiet one. The sensible one. And that was fine. That was enough.
It was enough.
A long-legged bird stared at Elliott as he passed, its feathers fluffed up to protect it from the weather.
Elliott drew his coat tighter around himself as he turned into the backyard of the apartment. He stopped short as he saw the figure sitting on the steps.
Blinked.
Ned Ferrars lifted his head and met his eyes.
Elliott stood there, frozen, as Ned pulled himself to his feet and then stepped down into the yard and toward him.
“What are you doing here?” Elliott blurted.
Ned hadn’t changed. Fuck, of course he hadn’t. It had been months, not years. Months since Elliott had seen him last that night at the Boathouse, when he’d been so cold toward him. Like they’d never kissed. Like they’d never done more than that either.
Ned’s expression was pinched and anxious. “I, um, I came to see you.”
“Why would you do that?”
Ned was a barely healed wound. Ned was scar tissue. Why would he come back here just to rip Elliott’s skin open again? His skin. His heart. It wasn’t fair that Elliott still wanted him. Wasn’t fair how he couldn’t bring himself to hate him.
It was stupid, what his heart wanted. What the hell did it know?
Ned looked startled. “I . . .”
He trailed off. Cold rain began to patter down, leaving dark spots on Ned’s probably expensive suede jacket. He didn’t seem to notice the water beading on his shoulders. Elliott resisted the urge to reach out and brush the droplets off.
“Come upstairs,” he said, digging his keys out of his pocket.
He climbed the steps, with Ned following.
The apartment was empty. Abby was downstairs working in the shop, Greta was at school, and Marianne was probably over at Deanna’s place.
Elliott shrugged his coat off and threw it onto the couch. Then he turned to Ned again, hardly able to believe he was here. Ned was still standing anxiously just inside the doorway.
Elliott gestured toward the small table. “Do you want some tea?”
Ned shook his head. “No. No, thank you.”
Perfect manners, like always. Which, on the scale of zero to cheating-on-his-fiancé, didn’t count for jack shit, right?
Elliott moved into the kitchen, then filled the kettle and set it on the stovetop. He suddenly wished they had something stronger than tea. He suspected he knew where Marianne’s stash of weed was hidden, but maybe that was better saved for later. For the inevitable fallout of whatever the fuck this was.
He clattered around, finding a clean mug.
“So,” he said at last, turning back to where Ned was sitting at the table, hands held in his lap. “How’s the family?”
“Um, good.” Ned pressed his mouth into a thin line. Then he relaxed it again, and caught his lower lip between his teeth. He reached out for something on the table—the cracked little worry stone, Elliott saw—and fitted it into his palm. Rubbed his thumb over the same crack that Elliott did compulsively. “Good, thank you.”
Elliott leaned against the counter and folded his arms over his chest. “How’s your mother?”
Ned flinched a little at that. “She’s well.”
“I hear you’re not buying the land. I guess that was a wasted trip, right?”
Ned’s brow creased. “Elliott, I—”
“And congratulations,” Elliott said, his stomach twisting. He pulled his shoulders back so he didn’t look like he was curling into himself.
The crease on Ned’s forehead deepened into a furrow. “Um. I’m sorry?”
“Congratulations,” Elliott said again. “On the wedding.”
“The wedding?” Ned repeated slowly.
“I’m sure Francesca and your mother will come around eventually. Lucien’s an incredible guy.”
“Yes, he is.” Ned tilted his head at an angle, as though he really wasn’t following this conversation at all. He set the worry stone down again.
“I’m sure you’ll be very happy together,” Elliott said, fighting to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He turned back to the stovetop as the kettle began to whistle, and lifted it off the burner.
“Elliott,” Ned said, his voice strained.
Elliott couldn’t look at him.
“Elliott, Lucien and I aren’t married.”
Elliott dropped the kettle. He leapt back as it hit the floor and boiling water flooded the kitchen. “Fuck!”
He heard Ned’s chair being pushed back, and a moment later Ned was holding him from behind, fingers wrapped around Elliott’s wrists as he tugged his hands up to check them. “Are you burned?”
Elliott’s left hand was throbbing.
Ned pulled him over to the sink, where he turned the cold water on and shoved Elliott’s hand under it.
Elliott stared dumbly at his hand. At Ned holding it under the water. He turned his head, his nose brushing Ned’s cheek. Ned smelled like the sort of aftershave Elliott could probably never afford. “You got married. Paula said you got married.”
“Robert got married,” Ned said.
Elliott felt the breath rush out of him. “What?”
“It was Robert,” Ned said. “It was Robert who got married.”
“I didn’t even know he was engaged,” Elliott said numbly.
“He eloped. With, um, with Lucien.”
Elliott spun around so quickly he almost elbowed Ned in the face. “What?”
Ned was still holding his wrist. “I was out of town when Francesca found out about Lucien. She went ballistic.”
“Yeah,” Elliott said. “She does that.”
Ned grimaced. “Lucien called. He was frantic. So I sent Robert to go and talk to him. Calm him down.” He shrugged, and shook his head. “I, um, I guess they really hit it off?”
“What.” The word was too flat to be a question. Elliott shook his head. “Why would Lucien . . .”
“Because he’s smarter than me.” Ned gave a rueful smile. “Because he manned up before I did and figured out that neither of us deserved to just settle.”
“But your brother?”
Ned grimaced. “Yeah. That’s been kind of weird to deal with.”
“Understatement of the year?”
Ned made a face. “Robert’s avoiding me because he thinks I’m pissed, Francesca doesn’t know which one of us to hate the most, and my mother booked herself into the most expensive spa she could find and is refusing to speak to any of us. The only one I’m actually still talking to is Lucien.”
“That . . . that sounds like a really bad telenovela, to be honest. Like the ones that are so bad you can’t stop watching.”
Ned huffed out a breath. “Thank you, though, for reducing my life to the level of a telenovela.”
“My millionaire relatives threw me and my sisters out of our home without a penny,” Elliott said. “I can judge you.”
Ned’s expression softened with a smile. “That’s fair.”
Elliott gazed at him for a moment. The air shifted around them. The silence grew more laden, and Elliott was aware not only of his hand throbbing a little where the water had scalded it, but also of the way Ned was still holding his wrist, his thumb rubbing gently against Elliott’s pulse point.
Elliott tilted his chin up. “Why are you here?” he whispered.
Ned held his gaze. “I’m here for you, Elliott.”
Elliott swore his heart stopped beating.
And then Ned leaned in and kissed him.
“Wait,” Elliott said, tugging at Ned’s hair to pull him back, and then leaning in for another quick kiss despite that. He smiled at his own vacillation and broke the kiss. “Wait.”
They stood, their faces close, their hands rest
lessly traveling. Elliott plucked at the back of Ned’s suede jacket and then smoothed his palm down it. Was he really allowed to do this? Was he really allowed to touch? He shivered as Ned curled a hand around his hip and nudged him back against the counter.
“Wait,” he said again, ducking his head to avoid the distraction of another kiss. “What about Lucien?”
“I’m not married to Lucien.”
Elliott got a hand on his chest and pushed him gently to create some space between them. “You don’t just . . . You don’t just get to say that. I need to know what it was.”
Ned nodded. He raised a hand and lifted it to Elliott’s temple, then smoothed his hair back. “It was four years ago. Lucien was . . .” His mouth quirked into a rueful smile. “He was a breath of fresh air. He didn’t care that my name was on the building. He made me laugh.”
Elliott could feel Ned’s heart beating under the heel of his hand. “Did you love him?”
“I thought I did,” Ned said, and then exhaled. “That’s a cop-out, isn’t it? Yes, I did love him.”
Elliott dropped his gaze.
“Lucien is . . .” Ned made a small sound of frustration. “He’s fun and he’s an extrovert, and I thought that if I was with someone like that, then I would be like that too. When I met him I thought that he was everything I wanted, and that being with him would make me different, better, but that’s not how it works. I tried, but Lucien likes clubs, and dancing, and poetry slams, and the art scene, and meeting new people, and I . . . I don’t.” He shook his head helplessly. “I just want to stay in and read a good book.”
Elliott huffed out a laugh, because staying in with a book sounded like his idea of heaven. “And Robert likes the same things as Lucien?”
The younger Ferrars brother had seemed so incredibly bland, but John had said he was the wild one.
“He actually does.” Ned traced the edge of Elliott’s ear with his thumb. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “At times like this, people always say they’re not the same people they were when they met. But Lucien and I are exactly the same people we were when we met, and that’s the problem.” He exhaled heavily. “That’s probably a cop-out too.”
Probably.
But right now, in this moment, Elliott didn’t care, because Ned wasn’t engaged anymore. Ned wasn’t anyone’s, which meant that maybe there was a chance he could be Elliott’s, and maybe that was a thing Elliott still wanted despite however much he’d tried to deny it. However much he’d tried to tamp those feelings down, to smother them until they were nothing and pretend they weren’t the things that kept him from sleeping at night. Kept him staring at the ceiling, watching the strange patterns of light dancing there and hating himself for his fantasies of having Ned Ferrars in his life. He’d never thought it was possible.
“I thought . . .” Ned cleared his throat. “I thought what I had with Lucien was enough. I thought that’s what it was all about. He was a good friend to me. He still is, I hope. I didn’t know there was even the possibility of feeling something more than that. Not until I met you.”
“You came here,” Elliott said, his heart thumping, his tongue tripping over the words. “You came here and I tried—” He shook his head. “I thought I’d got it all wrong, what happened between us at Norland Park. I thought you didn’t care.”
“I did,” Ned said, his voice strained. “But I couldn’t, with Lucien . . .”
“But we already had.” Elliott closed his eyes for a moment. “You cheated.”
“I told myself that didn’t count.”
Elliott jutted out his chin. “It counts!”
“I know. I know it does.” Ned cupped his hand to Elliott’s face. Brushed his thumb along his jawbone and held his gaze. “I told myself what happened with you was an aberration, and it wouldn’t happen again. And then when I came here, I realized how much of a lie that was. I wanted you, Elliott. I wanted you all over again.”
A thrill ran through Elliott. The thrill of Ned wanting to possess him, and of wanting to possess Ned in return.
“Okay,” he said, lifting the corner of his mouth in a wry smile.
Ned’s brows drew together. “Okay?” he asked, sounding puzzled.
“Yes. It’s okay. You want me, and we’re not hurting Lucien, and it’s okay.” He curled his fingers behind Ned’s neck and pressed their foreheads together. He breathed the same air Ned did. Lucien was happy. It didn’t make it right, but nobody had to hurt. Not this time. Not in Elliott’s story. “It’s okay.”
The tension in the back of Ned’s neck eased under Elliott’s touch. Ned’s shoulders slumped, and he exhaled slowly.
“I want you,” Ned said. “I want you in my life. That’s what I came here to tell you. I want to get to know you. I want to make pancakes with you without a recipe. I want you to meet my mother—”
Elliott winced.
“Yeah.” Ned flushed. “That’s going to be a disaster. She’ll hate you, but she hates everyone, so don’t take it personally.”
Elliott snorted.
Ned stole another quick kiss. “I want to spend time with you. I want to watch you paint.”
“I’m a terrible painter,” Elliott reminded him with a low laugh.
“I don’t care.” Ned pulled back a few inches and dug his phone out of the pocket of his pants. He unlocked the screen and scrolled through a couple of photographs. “This, um, this is my apartment. This is the living room.”
He turned the phone so Elliott could see the photo.
A gorgeous living space, open and clean. And on the wall was one of the shittiest paintings Elliott had ever seen. Swathes of color with no structure at all. It was . . . What had he called it? Sophomoric and unsophisticated and messy, the sort of thing you’d buy in a dollar store, and Elliott couldn’t stop the smile spreading over his face as he saw how it had pride of place in Ned’s living room.
It was worse than he remembered, actually, the paint smeared and smudged from when Ned had pushed him up against the canvas, their dicks in their hands. Elliott could still remember picking flakes of paint out of his hair the next day, and he hated to think what other smears a black light would reveal.
“You kept my terrible painting.”
“It’s not terrible,” Ned said, sliding his phone back into his pocket.
“It really is. But thank you.”
Ned leaned in for a kiss: a soft, gentle kiss that felt like a promise.
It was the sort of kiss that belonged at the end of a story, at the end of a song.
It was the sort of kiss Elliott could have melted into, except the kitchen floor was covered in water from the dropped kettle, and if Elliott didn’t clean it up, who the hell else would?
He went and grabbed a spare towel from the bathroom.
When he got back, Ned took it off him without a word and wiped the floor.
***
The most unexpected thing about Ned’s reappearance in Barton Lake, Elliott thought later, was Abby’s equanimity. Not only was she dying to ask exactly how all this had come about, but Elliott was also sure that the old Abby would have been itching to drag Ned into a hug, remind him that love was the most powerful force in the universe, and welcome him into the family, and wasn’t everything wonderful?
Jack Willoughby hadn’t just hurt Marianne though.
Abby was restrained. She asked after Ned’s family and held all her other questions behind the pointed, questioning looks she threw at Elliott.
Ned being here wasn’t a happy ending. It was a beginning, and for once Abby was mindful of Elliott’s caution.
Marianne’s delight was more uninhibited, but still subdued by her old standards. She hugged them both, showed Ned the cast she was wearing under her billowing patchwork skirt, and then retreated to her room to call Lucien and get all the details of his unexpected elopement with Robert Ferrars.
She stopped to squeeze Elliott’s shoulder as she limped toward her room.
Ned’s gaze tracked he
r. When she had closed the door behind herself, Ned turned to Elliott. His brow was creased. “Is Marianne okay? She seems different.”
“It’s been a rough few months.” Elliott was surprised that Ned hadn’t heard about what’d happened from Lucien. Then again, he and Lucien had probably had more on their minds than the Dashwoods the last time they spoke.
Abby made them tea, a soft noise of surprise escaping her when she spotted the dent in the kettle. Then she picked up her purse and announced she was going to get some groceries.
Elliott took the opportunity to learn the ways that Ned liked to be kissed. He was shameless and shy at the same time. Reckless and also reserved. He wasn’t sure he knew who this person was that Ned was uncovering with each kiss, each smile. He felt unknown. He felt new, every hidden part of his soul revealed now. His throat, his belly, all the softest parts of him offered up trustingly to Ned, and nothing he could do except hope Ned wouldn’t tear him into pieces.
When he met Ned’s gaze, though, he saw the same fears reflected there.
It would be okay, maybe.
“Hey,” Greta said when she arrived home after school, as though Ned being here was no big deal. As though finding him sitting on the couch holding Elliott’s hand was an everyday occurrence.
“Hey,” Ned said.
Greta dumped her backpack on the floor and then stomped into the kitchen to raid the refrigerator.
“I finished Assassination Classroom,” Ned told her.
Greta reappeared with a tub of yogurt.
“It’s possibly the weirdest thing I’ve ever watched,” Ned said. “Then I found Sayonara, Zetsubou-Sensei.”
Greta raised her eyebrows. “What did you think of it?”
“I think that I never want to go to high school in Japan.”
Greta smiled. An honest-to-God smile that lit up her entire expression. “I know, right?”
