Page 129 of Proof By Contradiction
Properly. Loaded. He meansI’m going to find out what you’re hiding.The code I’m fluent in now.
I read it twice—a message that costs Ronan nothing to send and me everything to receive.Properlyis the word doing the work. Ronan doesn’t deployproperlylightly. It meansI’ve been patient long enough, little brother, and patience has a shelf life.
Somewhere in the building behind me, Laurence is shaking hands, collecting his coat, pretending the last forty minutes never happened. A man I love. A man I got on my knees for tonight in a room smelling of bleach. A man whose colleague has just filed both of us undernot my problem until it is.
The taste of him is still in my mouth. The blazer button is still printed somewhere across my shoulder blade. His fingers in my hair, the grip of them, the precision. All of it is so loud in my head that the rain barely registers.
Friday. Five days. The colleague has eyes, and Ronan has intention, and somewhere between the two of them is a cupboard that smells of bleach, where I got on my knees for a man I love in a building where he works. The gorgeous stupidity of that sits in my stomach like a truth I hadn’t earned.
Hands in my pockets, rain on my face. Walking towards a tram that’ll take me back to halls where the bed is narrow, and the walls are thin, and the taste of him is still in my mouth.
Piccadilly Station, Friday. Half seven. The arrivals board flickers, and the coffee place is heaving. I spot Ronan before he spots me, coming through the barriers with a stride that says he hasn’t come to sightsee.
No rucksack this time, no tourist energy. Just Ron in his good jacket, face set.
‘Alright?’ Casual. Performance-grade casual, costs everything.
‘Yeah.’ He studies me. He used to study my homework when I was twelve, and he suspected I’d copied it. ‘You look different.’
‘Manchester air.’
‘Who’s A?’
It comes—I’ve been expecting this for weeks, know Ronan, know the man I grew up with doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t already half-know.
‘What?’
‘A. The letter in your phone. You angled your phone away when the name popped up, but not fast enough.’ Cop eyes, cross-examination eyes.
‘I told you I’m seeing someone.’ It leaves me before the strategy catches up. Direct. Better than lying. He’ll catch a lie in three questions, and the truth is easier to control than a fabrication. ‘He’s older.’
Ron puts his hand down with a precision that saysI’m listening and I’m furious and trying very hard to be calm.
‘How much older?’
‘Not much.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
‘It’s the answer you’re getting.’
‘Twenties? Thirties?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘You’re nineteen, Ewan. Everything matters.’
It hits heavy. Ron’s been doing the maths.
His face tightens, the Carrick tells. ‘I ask again. Is he married? Is it a teacher?’
Rehearsed it a hundred times: in the shower, on the tram, staring at the ceiling at four AM.
‘No.’ Flat. Immediate. No hesitation, no blink, no tell. I’ve learned from Laurence after all.
Ron watches me for five seconds. Ten. I hold it. My pulse hammers behind my ribs, but my face holds, and I need both of them to keep.
‘If you’re lying to me,’ he says, ‘I’ll find out.’
