Page 61 of Seen
“No. I didn’t.”
“Even though this isn't going away.”
“Correct.”
As if they know we’re discussing them, my eyes prickle. A too-big feeling presses up against my throat, and it’s not a lump of semi-digested yoghurt. One wrong word, one fucking sympathetic look from him, and I’ll tip right over the edge.
Ez shoots Luke a what-the-hell glance so sharp it could cut through steel. “You’ve known about all this for a while?”
“Yes.”
“Leave Luke out of this,” I bite out. “He’s the reason I’ve found the balls to tell you.”
Ez nods. “Does this retinitis condition have any other symptoms?”
What, like destroying property and friendships and business partnerships? Nah, that’s all me.
“No. Just a gradual loss of vision,” Luke confirms. “Most people don’t even realise they have it until they’re about Neil’s age. And it’s a spectrum. Some cases are slower to progress than others.”
“But Neil’s is progressing a bit faster than most?”
God, I’m glad Luke’s answering these totally reasonable questions. I’m not sure I’ve got the strength.
“We hope the speed waxes and wanes over time,” he confirms. “But yes, possibly.”
Ez swings that unbending gaze back to me. “So it doesn’t affect your brain, Neil? Your memory, for instance?”
“No.”
Ez whips out his phone. These days, he’s nothing like that gangly, lost teenager I picked up that first Saturday night. I must only have been a cocky eighteen myself. I’d been out with the bunch of wild students I used to hang around with, and was on my way home, feeling high and horny. I’d come across him begging down by Euston Station, wrapped in a blanket. He’d looked harmless, cold, and fucking delicious. We fucked, shared a spliff, and fell asleep on the sofa. Things kind of spiralled from there.
Ez is still gangly and pretty, but now he’s cool and street smart, a great dad to Jonty and in love with his adopted brother. And I’m in love with the beautiful nervy man holding me tight, a man brave enough to take me on.
“Just give me a moment,” Ez orders, thumbs flying over the screen. He holds it to his ear. “Alaric,” he says when it’s answered. “You got a second? I’m with Neil.” His world-weary eyes flick over to mine. “Yeah, that Neil, and yes, you can relax. He’s fine. Mostly. Except for the part where he’s been a fecking idiot.”
Hands on hips, he huffs a massive sigh, staring at me as if I’m an annoying plot twist to his day he hadn’t anticipated and isn’t sure how to solve. “In that case,” he continues, after promising Alaric he’ll call him back later, “if this disease doesn’t affect your memory, then you’ll remember perfectly well all those late nights I crashed at yours because it was pissing down outside, and you didn’t want to kick me out. And all the times you split your tobacco with me, and your weed, and your beer. And that time you came to my appointment with social services, sat down and refused to leave. You said you’d phone the local papers and kick up a fuss until they’d guarantee that me and Jonty—whose asthma was really bad—were next on the list for a flat. And then you chatted up your mate’s dad so he’d give me a cash job washing up, in order that I could afford the rent, even thoughat the time I didn’t have a fucking fixed address and looked and acted exactly like the homeless, penniless, druggie that I was. Remember any of that? Or is that going the way of your eyes too?”
“I remember.”
“Good. Because I’ll never forget it. Any of it. So if you think for a single nanosecond that becoming blind is your brilliant excuse to abandon me and the amazing, amazing business we’ve built together, then you can fucking think again, babe. Earth Bar is us, Neil. Not me. Us.”
I don’t notice Luke’s arm slipping around my back, only that it’s there. I fall into him, resting my head against his shoulder. I don’t notice when my useless eyes start leaking tears, either. Only that they do, and I can’t control them.
CHAPTER 27
LUKE
A week later, I slip into the back of the club, halfway through Neil and Ezra’s lowkey acoustic set. Since the first time they tried it, after Neil banged his head, it’s become a popular impromptu fixture, especially as Neil’s band, Pretty Vacant, are on hiatus until he’s back to having two useful arms. They generally play a mix of Ezra originals mixed with some funky covers. Later, the DJ will ramp things up, booze will flow, and the place will hum. But for now, as people wind down after a week at work, the vibe is chill.
Ezra strums his guitar as Neil sings. Neil’s also playing a cajon, one-handed, nestled between his thighs. Lucky cajon. Since he left my place, I’ve fretted about him every minute of every day. He’s not confessed to any recent mishaps, but I’m relieved to see he’s sitting down, not prowling the stage.
He doesn’t spot me, obviously. I’m just another shadowy face in the low light filtering across the stage. Leaning against a pillar, I sip my beer and watch the early evening crowd tapping fingers and toes. He looks younger, up there in the golden light, beating out a one-handed rhythm. His voice is strong and hishair loose, falling to his shoulders in messy curly waves. He’s applied eye makeup. When the light lands just right, I kid myself I can make out the shape of his nipple piercing under his T-shirt.
I didn’t really think I had a type, but if I did and made a list, singers called Neil, with silver barbells, retinitis pigmentosa, and a penchant for Maltesers would be right at the top. Unfortunately, my type is also petrified, proud, and downright obstinate about facing his eye issues head on. Given my mental health history, a psychologist would probably advise me to run as far away as possible. But, listening to Neil’s rough voice slip and slide over Ezra’s pretty lyrics, every living molecule of me wants to stay. I haven’t seen him for a few days; he’s been busy getting back on track with Ez and I’ve been doing the same at the hospital. So tonight is date night, the one he promised me before life went astray.I’ve missed him,I think. I’ve missed seeing him being himself, doing this thing he loves, in a place he’s poured his soul into.
I want him so badly it hurts.And if my latest bout of misery has taught me anything, I need to stop worrying about the hangover while I’m still at the party.
Towards the end of the very last song, Ezra mutters something to Neil. Immediately, his gaze conducts a slow sweep of the room until it lands on me. My heart hitches as—just for a beat—he falters and then goes on singing. It’s another one of Ezra’s compositions, soft and bittersweet. I know for a fact he penned it for Isaac. At this moment, though, every note and every word feel like quiet threads running straight to me.
