“Um. Yeah. Fine,” Charlie squeaked, immediately cursing his own voice.
The next morning, Nick was standing by the gates. He was wearing his rugby shirt, his hair a mess, and he looked absolutely terrified. A small crowd of students milled around, unaware of the epicentre of the coming storm.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, so only Charlie could hear. “I love you.”
Then Nick kissed him. It was clumsy, a little off-center, and tasted faintly of the strawberry Chapstick Nick would later deny owning. It was perfect. Charlie melted into it, his back against the cold metal, Nick’s hand cupping his jaw like he was something precious. Nick and Charlie
Yours (if you’ll still have me), Nick Charlie read the letter three times. The first time, his hands shook. The second, he cried. The third, a small, fragile smile cracked the numbness.
It read: Charlie,
Charlie closed his eyes. He knew that fear. He’d lived it. “They won’t. The real ones won’t.” The next morning, Nick was standing by the gates
It started on a drizzly Tuesday in Form. Nick, the Year 11 golden retriever of Truham Grammar School, with his broad shoulders and sun-touched hair, sat down at the desk next to Charlie’s. Charlie, the quiet, curly-haired Year 10 boy who had been outed a year prior and was still learning to take up less space, froze.
The confession happened in the art block, under the cold fluorescent lights that made everything look like a crime scene. Nick had just tackled a Year 13 who’d called Charlie a slur. His knuckles were red, his chest was heaving, and his eyes were a storm of fury and fear.
Charlie felt the ground vanish. “What?” “I’m sorry,” he whispered, so only Charlie could hear
Nick saw Charlie. He didn’t hesitate. He walked forward, closed the distance, and cupped Charlie’s face in his hands.
I’m an idiot. No, I’m worse. I’m a coward. The day I walked away, I didn’t go home. I walked to the beach. I sat on the cold sand and I thought about every second I’ve known you.
I told my mum. I told my brother. I told Imogen. I’m going to walk into school tomorrow, and I’m going to find you, and I’m going to kiss you in the middle of the courtyard. Not because I want to prove something to them. But because I need you to know that you are not a secret. You are not a phase. You are the only thing that makes sense.