The Book of Firsts

Sixty

Details about the reason for Tomas' arrest slowly trickled out during the two-week break, and by the time we were back for the final term it had all been thoroughly hashed out on the forums, and the only question was whether his parents would push for a psychiatric defence—and whether Meggan would now get back with Bran.

Why this was even a question had me confused until a few photographs were posted of Meggan and Bran at a café. It bothered me, and I took a day or so to examine that feeling, but there was nothing really surprising. I liked Bran. I liked all three of them, had become very used to being a hidden fourth in their friendship, and was going to face an uncomfortable time next year as they drifted into new relationships. However, I very much doubted Meggan was going to be part of their future, especially when the photographs showed Bran sitting upright. A formal posture and a solemn face didn’t suggest a positive conversation when Bran was involved, any more than his usual brooding scowl.

Dropping down into the garden on Tuesday, I found him lying face-down on the picnic table, seemingly asleep. Or arranged so I could admire his beauty.

"Should I check for head injuries?" I asked, sitting on the bench beside him.

Sooty lashes quivered, but he didn’t move otherwise as he said: "Nothing’s fallen on us lately."

"But you can’t be sure he didn’t leave you any surprises."

That opened his eyes, and after a moment he shifted to lie on his back, gazing up at the sky. "We’ve cleaned and replaced everything we can think of, but even though he’s locked up, I doubt we’ll ever accept anonymous edibles again. Even though he didn’t succeed in his schemes, he’s permanently marked us."

"What are the chances he’ll come for you again after he’s served whatever sentence he ends up with?"

"Greater than zero. We don’t want him living in our heads for the rest of our lives, so we’ve hired a firm of investigators to monitor him. A much easier task with all the passwords to his accounts that we’ve provided. They’ll send us a bill once a year, and contact us if he steps over certain lines."

"Oh, good sense. I’m not sure I would have thought of doing that."

"I hate wasting time on people that don’t interest me."

"Rather go camping?"

He smiled, a rare glowing expression that transformed him from gorgeous to heart-stopping.

"I’d say I like the silence, but the woods are so noisy. Especially at two in the morning, when you’ve been telling each other ghost stories."

I laughed. "Terror is the attraction? You’d get along with my parents. My dad tells the best horror stories, and my mother likes deconstructing them, as if she was Velma, pulling off the latest villain’s mask."

"Does he have a horror pen name?"

"Blake Sevenmore."

"Never heard of him."

"No, it’s not a very successful genre for him, though they’re super creepy novels. He’s written half a dozen, and hasn’t given up hope of them one day taking off. It’s nice when he gets a burst of popularity on one of his older names—reprint and translation money comes in—but the Hardison pen name has been the only one that’s been earning relatively well all along. That’s one of the reasons I always lead with it when talking about my dad—Rock Hardison has paid a lot of rent."

"Five percent of the reason. Ninety-five percent enjoying the reaction."

"Probably ninety-eight percent," I said, smiling down at him.

"At least you’re honest." He reached up a hand, curled it around the back of my neck, and pulled me down for a kiss.

The top of a picnic table wasn’t ideal for snuggling, so Bran soon let me go and hopped off the table. His sleeping bag was waiting in the shade of a few tree branches hanging over the garden wall. Kicking off his shoes, he slid in smoothly, then looked up at me.

"Waiting for an invitation?"

He’d chosen a smaller bag than Rin’s and Kyou’s, but it wasn’t too hard to wriggle in with him.

"This is certainly a good city for camping. So many national parks within a day’s drive."

"We fit in a couple of days over the break. Ad Astra Park, which I’d never been to before, since it’s so far south."

He shifted me so my elbow was no longer in his stomach, and then threw away talk for more kissing. Since the sleeping bag challenge had been one of Bran’s, I was not at all surprised when his mood after undressing me turned subdued. Camping was something he loved, and Meggan in a sleeping bag surely a fond fantasy. He’d become much better at controlling his reactions, however, and put aside unhappiness in favour of a tender and extended encounter that made me wish we really were by a lake in the wilderness, without the hum of cars and occasional shouts from the sports fields drawing attention.

"Are you going to tell me ghost stories now?" I asked much later, snuggling lower into the bag. Bran was warm, and more than pleasant to curl up against.

"Needs a fire and pitchy shadows to make worthwhile," he said.

"The faculty would definitely notice if we started toasting marshmallows," I said, finding my eyelids were a little heavy. Pushing temptation away, I said: "How did Rin’s audition go?"

"Nothing surprising. He has to go through a second stage, but he was among the best tier there."

"Would you ever be tempted to follow him into the Conservatory with your cello?"

"Perhaps. But my interest in performance is…I don’t think I’ll ever untangle my feelings about performance."

"How did you feel after filling in for those missing band members?"

"Like a bone surrounded by a pack of hungry dogs. But also exhilarated. Stupid to enjoy something I hate."

"Or to hate something you enjoy. I love fresh cut pineapple, but if someone made me eat it for every meal for years, I’d probably vomit at the sight of it. Maybe after a long break I’d recover my taste for it, though."

He clicked his tongue. "You don’t love pineapple like you love bridges. If you were forced to…is there a part of designing bridges you don’t enjoy?"

"I’d probably be very bored if someone made me do the calculations for the exact same bridge every day. I expect I’d be able to do it on autopilot soon enough, though, and then let my thoughts wander. Still, I’m not sure how anyone could manage to force me to design bridges, and if we’re proposing that my parents took leave of their senses when I was a kid and ruined the fun of maths for me, I think I’d be too different a person now, and would have a different set of emotions about quite a lot of things, and couldn’t begin to guess how I’d feel about anything."

"Let’s not get into causality. Do you like to perform, Cheshire? Are you the shining moment of every karaoke party?"

I shrugged. "I’ll take my turn, but I don’t get a particular thrill out of it, and my voice is pretty mediocre. Not on my list of important things."

"Bridges, your parents, Lania."

"Lania and Millie. A few other things." I kissed him, because it didn’t seem to be a good idea to continue the conversation, and we indulged until my phone alarm ended our day.