Authors: Avery Cockburn
They looked at their father, who sighed and said, “Five minutes.”
Andrew escorted Colin through the front door, then shut and locked it behind them.
Colin made a beeline for his phone, which, though now muted, was lighting up like Guy Fawkes Night fireworks.
“Do I even want to know?” Andrew asked as he stepped into the shower room to retrieve a pair of towels.
“The internet is wise to us. This one guy replied to you, ‘Don’t you screen your rent boys for cybernat tendencies?’”
Andrew wanted to kick himself. One of these days he’d learn to think first and tweet later. Obviously this was not that day. “I’m so sorry.” He handed Colin a towel. “This wasn’t how I intended to introduce you to the world.”
“No point in you apologizing, or me raging.” Colin tossed the phone back onto the bed. “We’ll just have to make the best of it.”
As they hurried to dress, Andrew marveled at his boyfriend’s composure. On a day-to-day basis, Colin was the excitable one, given to panic and drama, whilst Andrew usually kept a cool head. But in a real crisis, when rocks flew through windows and shitstorms erupted on Twitter, Colin was a pillar of strength.
Right now, Andrew needed that strength.
Outside, he introduced Colin to his sister, tersely, and to her husband, somewhat less tersely. As always, Jeremy was warm and conciliatory, and Andrew hoped his brother-in-law would prove an advocate in this late-night kangaroo court.
Preempting George’s rant, Andrew turned to his mother. “What have I done and how can I sort it?” This approach usually defused family tensions. If Andrew feigned penitence and focused on solutions—which he may or may not undertake—he appeared reasonable rather than defensive. Passive aggression was an art form, and he was its master.
But this time, his brother wasn’t buying it. “You know exactly what you’ve done, you spiteful little beast!” He lumbered toward Andrew, brandishing his own phone, his brawny frame silhouetted in the headlights’ glare.
“Easy, George.” Jeremy intercepted him. Out of all the family, he was the only one still wearing a suit at this late hour. “Why don’t we discuss this tomorrow over breakfast, once we’ve all had a chance to calm down?”
“He’s not staying for breakfast.” George pointed to Andrew’s car. “I want you gone.”
“I won’t leave the boathouse tonight. It’s still mine.” Andrew flinched inside at his own petulance.
Be an adult. Be an adult.
“We can’t trust you with this place,” George said. “You’ve brought shame on the entire family, all because you’re angry we’re selling your precious little shack.”
Andrew gaped at his brother. He was used to George insulting his intelligence or his sexual “proclivities,” but to malign the boathouse somehow cut even deeper.
Finally their father stepped forward. “George, you’re not helping in the least.” He turned to Andrew, pulling his woolen jumper tighter across his chest, looking miserable in the chill night air. “Son, you must acknowledge the unfortunate timing of your, erm…” He waved his hand between Colin and Andrew. “Your declaration.”
“It wasn’t a declaration,” Andrew said. “I merely shared Colin’s observation about the BBC story. My profile bio clearly states that retweets are not—”
“Come off it,” George said. “By disseminating his attack, you’re implying you agree with him.”
Andrew gave what he hoped was a withering look. “Perhaps you should learn how Twitter works before you accuse me of being a nationalist.”
“You may not
be
a nationalist—yet—but you’re obviously fucking one.”
Everyone gasped but Andrew. He’d expected this. “Technically, George, a nationalist is fucking me.”
More gasps. Elizabeth put her face in her hands. “I just want back in my bed. Is that too much to ask?”
George advanced on Andrew. “Is this why you wouldn’t appear with the Better Together campaign like we asked? Because you didn’t want to offend your boyfriend?”
“As Colin can attest, I never hesitate to offend him. And I told you last month why I wouldn’t campaign.” Andrew turned to Jeremy. “Sorry, mate, but those politicians are behaving like complete idiots, Labour and Tory alike.”
“Naturally you know better than they do, Andrew.” George gestured to Colin. “After all, you’re deeply in touch with the
common man
.”
Something inside Andrew snapped. Perhaps it was his brother’s sneer, or the way his cheek was presented at precisely the perfect angle. But it seemed as if a bright red bullseye had appeared on George’s face.
Andrew’s fist landed square in the center of the imaginary target. Pain rippled up his arm, but it vanished in a wave of adrenaline at the sound of his brother’s roar.
“How dare you?” George lunged at Andrew, but Colin grabbed him from behind, trapping his arms against his sides.
“Gonnae no do that, mate.” Colin sounded strangely calm in the midst of the chaos. Elizabeth was screaming, Jeremy and Dad seemed unable to decide which brother to restrain first, and Mum…
Andrew looked at his mother, hoping for the support she’d always given so freely. But her eyes were cold as she stepped into the fray and raised her hands.
“Enough,” she said with a voice of steel. The shouts and struggles ceased immediately. Colin let go of George, who put a hand to his own face to dab at the spot of blood on his cheekbone.
Andrew looked down to see a red stain on the face of his own signet ring. “I’m sorry,” he told his mother, then pressed his lips together, his throat thickening. Another word and he would bawl like a child.
Colin came to stand beside him. “C’mon, let’s go home,” he said quietly.
“But I wanted—” Andrew blinked back a tear.
I wanted to visit Gretchen tomorrow. I wanted you to meet her. I wanted one last beautiful night in my favorite place on earth.
“Andrew,” his father said, “I think it’s best you stay offline until after the referendum next week. Let this commotion die down a bit.”
The thought nearly made him choke. Remain silent during this historic time in Scotland’s history? “Jeremy, tell them.” Andrew turned a pleading gaze on his brother-in-law. “On our cruise you asked me to speak out
more
, remember?”
“I did.” Jeremy spoke to Dad. “This week is a golden opportunity for Andrew to make a name for himself in the Conservative Party.”
“He’s making a name for himself all right,” George said with a growl. “And that name is ‘Judas.’”
Andrew’s anger swelled again. “I’m suddenly an ex-Tory, because of one retweet?”
“It’s more than a retweet, and you know it.” Mum landed a stern gaze on Colin, then shifted it to Andrew. “I agree with your father. Stay offline. And when you go to London tomorrow, please remain there until the start of the semester.”
Andrew looked at Colin. Ten more days apart? Now, when they’d finally found harmony? “What if I don’t agree to these demands?” he asked his parents.
Dad drew himself up to his full height, looking every inch the Fourth Marquess of Kirkross. “Then I’m afraid there will be consequences.”
= = =
“What did he meant by consequences?”
Andrew gave Colin a dour look, his face lit by the Tesla’s silver dashboard lights. “‘Consequences’ is code for cutting my allowance.”
“Cut it completely?”
“Of course not.” Andrew accelerated hard, zipping through the A90’s light late-night traffic, making Colin’s stomach press against his ribs. “That would be akin to disownment, which would bring more disgrace to the family than any action I could ever take to provoke it. But my father could start giving me less money than I need.”
Before tonight, Colin would have gagged at Andrew’s economic “needs.” Now he just felt pity and outrage that the Sunderlands would use their financial support to bully Andrew into silence. Lord and Lady Kirkross had seemed so nice at first, but underneath their gentility was that upper-class unfeeling ruthlessness—not to mention cluelessness about how the world actually worked. The only one who’d acted decently was Andrew’s brother-in-law, Jeremy, and since he was a Tory operative, Colin didn’t trust him either.
“‘He’s making a name for himself all right,’” Andrew said, mocking George’s thunderous tone. “‘And that name is Judas.’ God, my brother must’ve been so proud of that line. Sounds like rejected soap-opera dialogue.”
Colin had been impressed—and frankly a wee bit turned on—by Andrew’s defending his honor against George’s insults. But he wondered how his boyfriend could be shocked at the reaction to his retweet, both online and from his family.
As a self-proclaimed master of social media, Andrew must have known he’d cause an uproar. Maybe he just enjoyed pissing off his family. Or maybe he wanted to confuse his haters—including the person who’d chucked a rock through his window.
Or maybe he’d shared Colin’s tweet because deep down he agreed with it. Maybe it wasn’t a rash act at all, but a courageous one. Maybe he’d be open to more truths.
As they began to cross the enormous Forth Road Bridge, Colin cleared his throat. “Before all this, your mum seemed pure supportive of you and me. As a couple, I mean.”
Andrew grunted. “Guess I ruined that, didn’t I?”
“She said my story inspired you, the things I’ve overcome.”
“It does.” Andrew reached out and squeezed Colin’s hand. “You’re amazing.”
“But I’ve not overcome anything yet.”
“You will. You’re on the right track. You’ll finish your degree and find a job and be a huge success.”
“That’s the thing, see.” Colin ran his teeth over his upper lip, trying to work out how to explain reality to someone like Andrew. It felt like the day Emma had asked him point-blank whether Father Christmas was real. “Remember that family in the tower block with no electric?”
Andrew frowned. “Yes, of course.”
“The husband, Mr. Henderson, he phoned me the next night to ask a few questions. It turns out, he and his wife have both got bachelor’s degrees. She works at a nail salon and he works at one of those payday-loan places. Minimum wage, both of them.”
Andrew’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “How is that even possible? Why haven’t they got better jobs?”
“Because there
aren’t
better jobs, not enough of them.” Colin looked away from Andrew, over at the red steel skeleton of the Forth Rail Bridge. Beyond the hills on its other side glowed Edinburgh’s city lights. “That could be me one day, no matter how clever I am, no matter how hard I work.”
After a few moments of tense silence, Andrew said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
Colin kept his eyes on the horizon as the bridge’s suspension cables whizzed past him in the foreground. “People at the bottom, like me and the Hendersons, we’re not asking to live in luxury. We just want to stop being afraid.”
He shut up then, knowing he must seem pathetic. But if he couldn’t be pathetic with Andrew, there wasn’t much point in being in love with him.
Andrew took Colin’s hand again—softly this time, with no patronizing squeeze or words of false hope. He simply held onto it as he drove, the passing bridge lights flashing golden over his sad, pensive face.
Colin closed his eyes and savored Andrew’s silent presence. For now, it was all he really needed.
= = =
Andrew’s Starbucks order confirmed Colin’s suspicion that his boyfriend had barely slept last night.
“Venti French roast, no room for milk, please.”
“Hardcore, you.” Colin ordered his usual English Breakfast tea with milk and sugar. “A table outside just cleared. I’ll get it.” He hurried away, ignoring Andrew’s protests.
Settling in at a table beside Buchanan Street’s bustling pedestrian section, Colin noticed he did feel strangely exposed. Crowds had never bothered him before.
Though Colin and Andrew wouldn’t see each other for ten days—when the world would be different no matter the referendum’s result—they’d not made love upon returning to the flat late last night. Andrew had claimed he just wanted to sleep, but from what Colin could tell, he’d stayed awake most of the night, sitting up in bed with his laptop. When asked what he was working on, Andrew had mumbled something about “the future” and angled the screen away from Colin’s eyes.
Andrew arrived with their coffees and breakfast wraps. Colin tore off the wrapper and tucked in, too hungry to worry about how quiet his boyfriend remained. As he ate, he watched a busker set up her amp, mike, and guitar case outside the Apple Store across the street.
After several half-hearted bites, Andrew set down his own wrap. “I feel I should say something.”
Colin stopped chewing, the eggs and sausage turning to sawdust in his mouth. Was Andrew having second thoughts about them? Did Colin’s rough edges suddenly seem less attractive, seen through the eyes of Lord and Lady Kirkross?
No. He had to have faith, had to stop jumping to catastrophic conclusions every time Andrew turned serious.
Colin swallowed his food past the lump in his throat. “What is it?”
“I’ve put you in an awful position.” Andrew tore off a corner of his wrap, frowning at it instead of eating it. “Facing all that wrath from my family, not to mention Twitter.”
Colin shrugged. He’d stopped reading the replies after the first half-dozen
rent boy
comments.
“I was dreadfully naive,” Andrew continued. “I underestimated the forces against us. You didn’t sign up for this.” He sighed. “So I wanted to say I’m sorry, and that if you’d prefer to—to leave me before things gets worse, I’ll understand. But I really…” Andrew’s fingers trembled on the lid of his coffee cup. “I really, truly hope you prefer to stay.”
“Okay, listen.” Colin took a long sip of tea to clear his voice. “I’ve been hurt a lot in my life and still survived. Nothing your family or the bellends on Twitter say could ever cut like my mum’s words, or those bullies at school.” He put his hand on the back of Andrew’s chair and leaned closer. “The haters cannae cut me down, cos now I know what I’m worth. And that’s partly because of you.”
Slumped over his food and coffee, Andrew gave him a smile, its brilliance only marginally diminished by his exhaustion. “Thank God. I thought for sure these last twelve hours would’ve sent you running.”