In Spite of You, page 13
Liz made an exasperated face, but they were at the bar now, and Anna ordered shots, and Jeremy lost himself in the bitter rush of tequila, trying not to think about Sam and his huge thighs somewhere behind him.
When they rejoined the dancers, Sam and his friends were nowhere to be seen, and Jeremy relaxed, buoyed by the tequila. Anna and Liz excused themselves to the toilet, but Jeremy kept dancing. Who cared that Sam was queer? What did that even matter? Jeremy found lots of people attractive and didn’t feel the need to do anything about it – it changed nothing. He spun around while a Cher song was playing, and when it ended he opened his eyes, and saw Sam in front of him again, shyly raising a hand in greeting. It felt like a spotlight was on him, and the rest of the room faded away, the browns and greens of Sam’s eyes shimmering brighter than the glitter on his face, the proximity between them shrinking until they were face to face.
The new song started, ‘Free Yourself’ by Jessie Ware, and they made equally delighted faces. As the dance floor erupted anew around them, Jeremy found himself moving in slow motion, leaning down, eye contact unbroken with Sam, almost daring him to pull away, until their lips touched, connected, and everything exploded in action.
In novels and other cliched writings, time always stood still, but for Jeremy everything suddenly accelerated – the feeling of Sam’s lips and tongue, warm and smooth and softer than temptation, Sam’s hand on the back of his neck pulling him down closer, the silkiness of Sam’s hair as he gripped it. He was lost in this moment, not a single thought except wanting more of this feeling, more of this.
They disengaged, reluctantly, and Sam looked him in the eyes and sighed, his breathing gratifyingly hard.
Jeremy looked back at him. And then Jeremy ran away.
CHAPTER 14
Looking in the mirror, Jeremy decided that everything was perfect for the wedding except for one huge potential disaster, meaning that nothing was perfect. That was how disasters worked; they were the pineapple on the pizza of events. Only one ingredient was needed to make the whole thing inedible.
All in all, Jeremy thought he’d scrubbed up pretty well. He was wearing the new suit and shirt he’d bought as part of the makeover component of the campaign – forest green with wide lapels, a white linen shirt left open at the neck, old-fashioned brown loafers. He wasn’t too humble to admit that the colour perfectly complemented his black hair (slicked back into a semblance of neatness for the occasion) and made his hazel eyes pop. Miles had always said that before he met Jeremy he’d thought hazel eyes were a myth, so naturally Jeremy would be wearing this suit to the reunion too. He’d contemplated a pocket square or a tie, or even a brooch, but instead he’d gone for two dangly pearl earrings as his only statement accessories. He looked classy and like he wasn’t trying too hard: both things that weren’t actually true.
The wedding, as he and Sam had plotted, would be the perfect trial run for the reunion. He’d turn up looking beautiful, with Giraffrey, the most beautiful and boring man in the world, on his arm, and he’d practise being a better version of himself. According to Patsie’s social media strategy, the wedding would also serve as an optimal time to ‘soft launch’ Giraffrey on Instagram.
The problem was that Geoffrey the giraffe scientist was an hour late, and Jeremy’s cool-guy attempts at sussing him out via text (Hey angel – just wondering about your ETA? Cya soon!) had gone unanswered.
The wedding was in the highlands, a two-hour drive away, and Jeremy famously didn’t have a car, so he couldn’t stress how fucked he’d be if his date didn’t show up. Plus, his mum would give him that sorrowful look that said, ‘I literally asked for one thing from you, just one thing,’ which would later turn into a kind of condescending pity. The whole revenge rehearsal would be ruined if he didn’t have his stupendously attractive giraffe scientist with him.
Jeremy realised he was spiralling and went and got a glass of water. He stood in the kitchen drinking it and staring blankly at the wall. He’d already checked the texts where they’d worked out the details, in case he’d accidentally sent the wrong time or the wrong date. Then he did the unthinkable and called Geoffrey. The phone rang out. But then, confusingly, a picture came through – a blurry photo of a bird.
What does that mean? Where are you? wrote Jeremy, his teeth gritted so hard he could hear grinding in his skull.
Another photo of a different bird came through, this time with some ocean in the background and a long hiking track disappearing into the distance.
ARE YOU COMING TO THE WEDDING? Jeremy texted, channelling his mother’s message style. Gays only texted in all caps when they were VERY distressed.
There was no answer.
He tried to call again, and it rang out.
Jeremy paced around the kitchen, trying to work out what he was meant to do now. He could go alone and just hang out with his mum and try to weather the pity of being unable to hang on to yet another boyfriend – that would be fine, if not enjoyable – except he couldn’t drive there, and the regional train would take far too long. He could cancel, but that would actively piss off his mum. An Uber would be an astronomical price, and the idea of two hours of small talk was even more terrifying.
Emergency, he texted Sam, almost intuitively, before immediately regretting it.
He’d been dodging Sam’s messages since the whole ‘pash and panic’ thing at Mardi Gras, over two weeks ago now. Every time he thought of that night, his stomach squirmed with anxiety. He’d told Anna and Liz about the kiss, having needed to explain his escaping the suddenly claustrophobic confines of the party. But in the days after, he’d spun it as a drunken mishap, laughing about how funny it was that he’d ever thought Sam was straight, and continually calling it all a ‘messy night’.
‘Oh, I’m so embarrassed! I was so messy!’ he kept saying, sometimes even implying he’d been so ‘wasted’ that he’d had to vomit. But the reality was his embarrassment was about both the kiss and the subsequent escape. It was humiliating to have thrown himself at Sam when he wasn’t even attracted to him, when they were both there with other people.
Of course, he’d said none of this to Sam, keeping his replies minimal and non-committal, and refusing many invitations to meet up, and gradually the texts had dried up, which made Jeremy feel both relieved and indescribably bad.
So, he was a little surprised when a text came back almost straight away.
Are the characters in your TV shows being mean to each other again? Sam wrote, referring to a particularly embarrassing evening when Jeremy had cried during a re-watch of Game of Thrones.
Giraffe man DISAPPEARED! Wedding today!!! Everything ruined! wrote Jeremy. Panicking!!!!
On my way, Sam wrote back.
No, it’s fine, answered Jeremy, but no word came back.
Fifteen minutes later, after more pacing and some desperate public transport googling, he answered a knock and found Sam in the doorway, smiling shyly and wearing a simple black suit and tie, and white sneakers that kept the look from being too funereal. He was, Jeremy was ready to admit, handsome as all hell, his usual rough stubble shaved to a cleaner look, his thick hair glossy and wild, the suit pants perfectly moulded to his strong legs and the roundness of his ass, the jacket fitted to the breadth of his shoulders.
‘Wow. What?’ asked Jeremy stupidly. ‘What are you … doing?’
‘It’s wedding time,’ stated Sam in the fashion of a Power Ranger, before looking intently at Jeremy. The way his eyes lingered on him, sweeping up slowly before stopping on his face, made Jeremy self-conscious. The way his sharp gaze softened into a small smile, however, had him on the verge of blushing.
‘U-uh,’ stammered Jeremy. ‘You look respectable for a change.’ He grabbed Sam by the shoulders and twisted him around to inspect him. When he tried to let go, it was like his hands were somehow glued to Sam’s biceps, or attached by magnetism. Good lord, he had to get fucked soon, because he was getting desperately horny about the first guy to turn up in a nice suit.
‘I hope it’s okay,’ Sam said. ‘It’s the only suit I have – bought it for my grandad’s funeral.’
‘You look perfect,’ said Jeremy truthfully. ‘But honestly, you do not need to come! I don’t even know these people. We’ll mostly be hanging with my mum – it’s going to be stupendously dull.’
‘Too much is at stake,’ said Sam with mock gravitas. ‘Every campaigner knows that sometimes, when something falls through at the last moment, you just have to get in there and do it yourself. Besides, it will be fun. And you know, I haven’t seen you since Mardi Gras, so I had to check you hadn’t fallen down a well and were too embarrassed to ask for help.’
Sam’s tone was casual, but when he mentioned Mardi Gras, his thick eyebrows narrowed with intention that was at odds with his words.
Jeremy laughed slightly too loudly and blew his cheeks out. ‘Yeah, I’m probably still recovering. Blergh! So messy, but welcome to Mardi Gras! Did you have a good time? Do you feel at one with your community?’
Sam nodded, and Jeremy could tell he was disappointed. He was probably still feeling awkward about Jeremy being so slutty and forward.
That had to be it.
‘Well, just so you know, you absolutely do not have to do this,’ Jeremy said, changing the subject back to the present. ‘And I don’t remember the name of anyone there, so I will be doing that thing where I say, “Have you met my boyfriend Sam?” and make them introduce themselves to you. Oh …’ He realised what he’d just said. ‘Sorry, no, you don’t have to pretend to be my boyfriend – that’s too much.’
‘No, no, it’s what I expected,’ Sam said, waving away the awkwardness. ‘In many ways, I’m just as invested in this plan as you. This is going to be fun. It will be like one of those Christmas movies on Netflix. I’ll be your fake boyfriend and teach you how to love the festive season.’
‘Bah humbug!’ said Jeremy. ‘But seriously, I feel silly asking you for help so often. I’m sure you’re getting sick of me being so weak!’
‘The strongest people I know ask those they care about for help,’ Sam responded sincerely, with a small smile.
Jeremy felt himself smiling broadly. It was one thing to watch Sam put himself out there for other people, but it was another thing entirely to be on the receiving end of it again. He really was a spectacular person. But just because he could acknowledge that, didn’t mean Jeremy was attracted to him. And even if he was – which he was pretty sure he wasn’t – that didn’t mean Sam was attracted to him. And even if they were mutually attracted, just because two people could sleep together, didn’t mean they wanted to. But then again, here Sam was dropping everything to squire him to a wedding. But then again! He routinely did nice things for everyone in his life.
‘Okay,’ Sam said, interrupting Jeremy’s silent spiral, ‘if you’re ready, let’s go – but I’m driving, so I’m choosing the music.’
That was how Jeremy found himself in the passenger seat of Sam’s car – not electric or powered by wind or anything like he’d half assumed – Taylor Swift blaring. Sam, unselfconsciously, was singing along as he checked Google Maps on his phone.
‘I think we’ll make it on time,’ he confirmed.
‘So, uh, you’re a Swifty, are you?’ ventured Jeremy, as Sam attempted and failed to reach the high note in ‘All Too Well’, warbling like an old cat.
‘I adore her,’ Sam said simply. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had an emotion that hasn’t been captured in some way by at least one of her songs. I also appreciate that they’re all just absolute bops.’
‘I can’t believe I ever thought you were straight.’ Jeremy shook his head. ‘She does have some hits. I once cried listening to “22” because I was turning twenty-nine and I could no longer relate to the song. And yes, that was only one year ago. I’m probably more of a pure pop lover myself – Carly Rae, Lady Gaga, Britney …’
‘That also makes sense.’ Sam nodded. ‘Glad we could be civil about our pop girlies.’
‘I may be wrong, but I believe that’s feminism,’ quipped Jeremy.
There was a moment of silence, and the landscape changed from red roofs and industrial estates into the broader roads leading out of the city. For the first time in months, Jeremy realised he could see into the distance, unobstructed by buildings and rooms and cars and traffic. He breathed a sigh of relief.
‘You know, she reminds me of you actually,’ Sam said, casting a sideways glance at Jeremy. ‘Taylor Swift.’
‘A beautiful and successful country-pop-fusion phenomenon?’ asked Jeremy.
‘You’re in your Reputation era,’ Sam explained. ‘That’s her most vindictive self. Those songs are about spite and revenge and getting even. It’s a great era! Some absolute bangers. It’s also super important because the songs are about being strong and empowered. People make a lot of jokes about it, assuming it’s all about hate … but it’s not. And her songs, at heart, are all about wanting love.’
Jeremy nodded along, knowing Sam was being absolutely fair with this comparison, but still a little stung.
‘Just wait until I tell you my theories about the different eras of Kylie Minogue and how they represent Australia as a nation,’ Sam added.
‘I can’t believe I ever thought you were straight,’ Jeremy repeated.
‘I feel the same way about myself,’ admitted Sam.
‘I like to think you’re right.’ Jeremy leant his head against the window, feeling it vibrating into his skull. ‘That there’s a big love waiting for me, that getting fucked over and doing this whole spite plan will pay off in some way. Not sure if it’s true though.’
Sam shrugged. ‘You deserve to be loved. I think most people do.’
‘Well,’ Jeremy chuckled, ‘considering I can’t even stop a fake boyfriend fucking me over, I might be firmly stuck in my reputation era for a while yet. Do you think I should tack on a revenge plan against Geoffrey after I’m done with Miles?’
Sam didn’t answer, and they drove without speaking for a while, a slower Taylor Swift song Jeremy didn’t recognise playing softly over the silence. He looked over, noticing the soft yet firm way Sam held the steering wheel, a far cry from the death-grip with which Jeremy used to strangle it on the rare occasions he drove. Sam’s suit jacket was folded in the back, and his shirt sleeves were rolled back, showing a tanned expanse of thick forearms dusted with auburn hair. Jeremy found himself imagining himself being held by those arms, steered confidently like a car. Good lord, he needed a cold shower. Sam glanced his way, looking strangely serious, and he took off his sunglasses to give him a quick, searching look.
‘Look, you don’t have to answer, but speaking of Miles … would you like to tell me what exactly happened between you two? What he … did?’
The question was way more effective than a cold shower. Jeremy realised how small and confined Sam’s car was, how trapped he was. He imagined flinging himself onto the highway like a McDonald’s thickshake.
When he failed to respond, Sam backtracked. ‘Look don’t worry about it. I was just being nosy, and I don’t want to lower the tone when we’re on our way to the happiest occasion anyone can think of – the marriage of two people we do not know.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ said Jeremy, laughing in a non-joyous way. ‘You deserve to know, considering you’ve done so much for me, including driving me to this random heterosexual wedding.’
‘I don’t want to make you uncomfortable though,’ said Sam, looking like he regretted bringing it up.
‘It’s mostly just embarrassing,’ Jeremy admitted.
Sam’s left hand, shockingly warm, was suddenly resting on Jeremy’s leg – comforting and firm. Jeremy sighed, and started talking.
‘I guess you’ve never read Amour No More?’
Sam shook his head.
‘Good – promise me you never will. It’s Miles Martin’s debut book, technically described as an “autofiction”, which is a wanky term for writing about your own life in a super annoying way and using different names so you can’t get done for defamation.’
‘Amour No More?’ repeated Sam derisively.
‘I know. So, picture this – we’d been together for four years. Met when we were nineteen, in our first year of the writing workshop, and he was this smart, polished, somehow adult-sounding person who everyone was obsessed with. He was the clear talent of our year – there were only twenty of us, and we were all trying different things with our writing, muddling through different stages and styles. I had a horrible Bret Easton Ellis period where I was just writing about hot men who murdered people. But Miles was always so confident and talented.’
‘Disgusting,’ said Sam.
‘Yeah, but you can imagine how hard I fell when he was interested in me. He was like an ultra-literate Disney prince. I was obsessed with him. In my third year, I won a writing workshop residency thing to go to Rome for three months to study writing … and I didn’t go, because I didn’t want to leave Miles. I was that obsessed.’
Jeremy explained everything in a monotone, staring out the front window as the scenery changed to rolling hills, the hint of the ocean in the distance.
He’d realised things were rocky after they graduated from the workshop. Miles had stayed on to do postgrad, but Jeremy had immediately started looking for work, deciding he wasn’t interested in the academic side of things. This had meant they weren’t seeing each other every day, having to commute to different cities. Jeremy thought the emotional distance was just strain from the physical distance, from the stress of finding a job, from Miles’s postgrad workload.
He’d organised trips together, cooked dinners, travelled late at night after work back to their university town, just to spend a couple of hours with Miles – but things still felt off between them, strained, for no reason he could work out. Panicking, he’d organised a huge surprise party weeks before Miles’s birthday, hoping it would be a big enough romantic gesture to help patch things up.
