Page 68 of Bare
Neil kept walking.
Cowardice dressed as routine.
At lunch he ate at his desk, the same brown bread, the same silence, and stared at the courtyard. The mural was nearly complete, trunk filled, lower branches taking shape, Jade Amir's words in the bark. The roots hold what the branches reach for. He'd helped choose those words. He and Rory, at the counter, shoulders touching, reading student submissions.
On Thursday afternoon, he taught Year 7. Jake Hargreaves was working on an extended writing piece, something about a dog that got lost and found its way home. The piece was good. Better than good. The boy found his voice. Neil sat beside him and read the final paragraph.
‘Sir, is it alright if the dog doesn't find home straightaway? If the dog gets lost first and goes the wrong way and only finds home because it stops trying to go the right way?’
‘That's exactly how it should work, Jake. The wrong way is part of the story.’
‘Because of the but?’
‘Because of the but.’
Jake returned to writing.
Friday. Freddie at Gemma's. The flat empty.
He didn't text. Didn't drive. He sat on the sofa and marked Year 9 essays with the green pen held like a weapon. Every comma noted. Every misplaced apostrophe corrected twice. The marking was the only thing his hands could do that wasn't picking up the phone.
At nine, he stopped. Made tea. Drank it standing at the counter, looking at Freddie's drawings on the fridge. The dragon. The monster with the top hat. The tree with BRAVE in purple.
At eleven, the phone rang. R.
He picked up. His hand was shaking.
‘I... miss you. I don't want to lose this,’ Rory said. No preamble. No protection. ‘But I can't pretend I don't want more. I can't turn it off, Neil. The wanting. I've tried.’
Neil closed his eyes. He still held the red pen. A Year 9 essay on Romeo and Juliet open on his lap.
‘I shouldn't have said what I said,’ Neil said. ‘About not promising you anything. That was...’
‘It was a weapon.’
He didn't soften it.
‘It was a weapon. I used it because I knew it would work. I knew it would shut you down. And I'm sorry.’
A beat. Rory's breathing on the line. Then he started to speak and stopped. Started again. The voice that came out wasn't the steady one, it was rougher, the edges showing.
‘I know you're scared. I know the party is a minefield. I know your parents might be there. I know all of that.’
‘Rory, I...’
‘I just... want to be there, with you. That's it. Not the whole thing, not asking for that. As Freddie's teacher, if that's the word you need.’ A pause. ‘I've been working on a painting for him. Two weeks. Because he asked me to come.’
‘Two weeks?’
‘It's A3. Mounted on card. Spider-Man mid-swing. The city below.’ A pause. ‘I was going to surprise him.’
Neil's throat closed. Two weeks. A painting, made by hand, with the care he brought to gallery work. Because Freddie had asked.
‘I want you there. Come to the party,’ Neil said.
He meant it.
Silence.
