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Chapter Text

3.

I knew you’d haunt all of my what-ifs

Contrary to some comments Alice has made in the past, Collins is an intelligent bloke.

That manifests in the way he is usually quite good at figuring out what other people are feeling. Which is how he knows Robert – his colleague / alleged boyfriend – has a bit of a crush on him. It’s why he’s able to maintain so many meaningful long-term friendships. It’s why old people tend to adore him.

It’s also how he knew right away six years ago that he’d triggered Farrier’s gay awakening merely by existing .

However, it doesn’t explain why he doesn’t come to That Particular Realisation while they’re getting ready for the church ceremony. Nor has he yet realised it when he and the other wedding guests first arrive at the reception, which is held at a charming, ancient farmhouse and its adjoining barn, surrounded by an orchard. Sure, he has more than one glass of both the champagne and the whiskey, but that’s no excuse.

Instead, the moment it does hit him comes a few minutes after he’s asked Murphy’s grandmother to dance. It’s early evening, the guests have gathered in the barn, the speeches and cake are over and done with, and Collins is overwhelmed by a sudden urge to move his body. Plus, the tiny old woman looks so lonely standing all by herself in a corner, her sad and envious eyes watching all of the young couples on the dancefloor, so Collins has no other choice, really. Contrary to some other comments Alice has made in the past, he is a gentleman.

Mrs Murphy is giggling with delight by the third time he’s spun her around, and as soon as Collins looks up from her wrinkled face, a big smile displayed on his own too, his gaze somehow meets Farrier’s across the room.

And Farrier … Farrier is staring back at him like he’s the centre of the universe. There is no other way Collins can describe it, no matter how cheesy it sounds and how much he wants to kick himself in the balls for his own inner soppiness. It’s the type of look the man gives the woman in one of those American romantic comedies that Farrier pretends to hate but secretly loves. Farrier is looking at him like there is no one else in the room. Like he’s about to walk down the damn aisle or something.

Nobody has ever looked at him that way before.

Farrier wants him back.

That’s it. That’s The Particular Realisation .

Fine. Perhaps he should have noticed it sooner.

After all, the signs were all there and altogether impossible to miss. Only last night had Farrier told him he was still in love with him. Then, in the car, he’d made innuendos that are still making Collins’s skin prickle whenever they flit across his mind. He’d charmed Collins’s sister and acted like the perfect son-in-law in front of his parents. Hell, he’d even washed the dishes for Collins’s mother!

So, yes. It’s obvious and Collins is an idiot.

Farrier is trying to win him back.

The thought makes his head spin. Though that may also be due to all the silly twirling he’s been doing over the last hour.

Or the whiskey. Could be the whiskey.

All the while, Farrier’s eyes are on him and burn into his side, through his clothes, into his skin.

Now that Collins is thinking back, even the whole Ewan situation earlier makes a whole lot of sense.

It was before they’d headed out to the church.

*

After lunch, Alice had laid down to take a quick nap and Collins’s parents had retreated upstairs to get ready. 

Collins and Farrier are in the living room, the latter pacing up and down and occasionally stopping to look at the pictures at the wall, and the former reading the newspaper in his father’s TV chair.

Collins refrains from telling Farrier that he already knows most of the photos anyway, from his last visit two years ago. His parents rarely add new ones – most of the pictures on the wall are still the same old baby photos of him and Alice. The only new ones are the ones with Sophie in them.

Speaking of Sophie …

‘She looks so much like your sister,’ Farrier says, smiling softly.

He points to a framed picture at the edge of the collection. In it, Sophie is splashing through a puddle, wearing mini-sized, scarlet red Wellie boots and a yellow raincoat. Her short platinum blond hair is braided in a wee plait and her smile shines brighter than the sun.

Collins’s heart swells just by looking at that photo. He’d even made it his phone wallpaper for a couple of months. Alice was right with what she’d said earlier – Collins and the little girl are bosom friends, of one mind. She has him wrapped around her little finger, and astonishingly, that feeling seems to be mutual.

‘She does, yeah.’

They lapse into silence again. Farrier moves on to the next part of the gallery wall, the one with Alice’s wedding photos.

An electronic ping informs Collins that he’s received a new message. He pulls out his phone.

I’m outside , it says.

He rolls his eyes. Can’t he ring the doorbell like a normal person?

Rising to his feet, Collins shoves his phone back into his pocket and makes his way into the hallway. Farrier’s eyes follow him, and Collins can tell that he’s biting back the question of where he’s going.

Good. None of his bloody business, anyway.

He opens the front door and there is Ewan, holding a black clothing bag and shuffling from foot to foot. Ewan’s whole face lights up when he sees him.

‘Hi, Jack!’ 

Collins smiles too and steps out of the house to embrace him. Since Ewan is one of those awkward huggers who pull back more than actually leaning in, Collins can’t help but feel a little relieved when it’s over, but immediately feels guilty about it. 

‘Thanks so much for stopping by, Ewan. I really appreciate it.’

Ewan, unlike him, is wearing a kilt, and Collins makes a mental note to tell his mother.

‘Don’t just stand around there. Come on in.’ Without looking if the other man is following, he leads the way into the living room.

Only when Ewan saunters through the living room door does Collins suddenly remember that Farrier is in there too.

Noticing it too, Ewan stops dead in his tracks. ‘Tom.’

With a jerk, Farrier’s head shoots up from the newspaper Collins had been reading just minutes prior. He locks eyes with Ewan. Within another second, his face has turned expressionless. Collins, who is standing between them, is startled by the sudden tension in the room.

Okay?

‘Ah, Ewan,’ Farrier says after a moment of awkward silence, and somehow makes it sound like an insult. ‘Jack mentioned that you’re lending him one of your suits. That’s awfully nice of you.’

‘Eh—’ Ewan makes dumbly.

‘It really is,’ Collins chimes in. ‘You’re really saving my arse here.’ He throws Farrier a deadly look that signals, What the fuck is your problem?

Farrier gives a simple shrug and, for his own part, continues to glare at Ewan.

‘What are you doing here, Tom?’ Ewan rounds Collins like he’s not even there and crosses his arms, gaze still fixed on Farrier.

‘I served with Murphy too, remember? He’s invited me.’

‘I meant here .’ Ewan turns to Collins again. ‘I thought the two of you broke up years ago.’

‘We did,’ Collins says. ‘Farrier just gave me a lift from London.’

‘Ah.’

‘Traffic was terrible, though.’ Farrier stands up and pushes his chair under the table. ‘And the weather too, blimey. Collins and I actually had to spend the night in a motel room together, can you believe it?’

Heat creeps into Collins’s cheeks again. Mostly due to embarrassment, yes, but fury as well. He’s already planning all the ways in which he’s going to murder Farrier as soon as Ewan turns his back or blinks for a millisecond.

That bastard makes it sound like we’ve …

‘Aye, well, my back still hurts from sleeping on the floor,’ he says, as indifferently as he can manage. ‘Can’t recommend it.’

Ewan’s face has turned red too, but he skilfully avoids Collins’s eye. ‘Didn’t you two break up after Alice’s wedding, back in the day?’

‘Not right after the wedding, no.’ Why the fuck is Ewan bringing this up right now? Collins doesn’t want to talk about this. Especially not with Farrier in the room. ‘A few months later. Why?’

‘Which one of you did? Break it off?’

‘I did,’ Farrier and Collins answer in unison.

Their eyes dart up and meet halfway in the air.

Ewan clears his throat. ‘Okay.’ The ‘O’ and the ‘A’ are rather long drawn.

Collins’s mind is reeling.

Farrier thinks he broke up with me ?

That concept had never even occurred to him.

To his indignation, Farrier is gaping at him like he’s thinking the exact same thing, only reversed .

The next moment, a burst of irritation fulminates in Collins’s chest, blazing and furious.

Farrier thinks he broke up with me ?

That arrogant wanker !

‘Jack.’ Ewan’s hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes it gently. ‘You might want to try it on. While we still have time.’

Ah. He’s talking about the suit he’s lending him – it takes a second for Collins’s muddled brain to catch up.

Something crosses Farrier’s face while he is watching them; his eyelid twitches. Collins holds his gaze irately for another second before he returns his attention back to Ewan and gives a terse nod. ‘You’re right. I should. Give me a minute.’

He takes the black bag up the stairs to his old room and leaves the two men in the living room on their own, not caring if they end up killing each other. They’ve never much liked each other.

What’s their deal anyway?

Collins shakes his head as he unzips the bag. He doesn’t have time for whatever this is.

Ten minutes later, he returns downstairs dressed in Ewan’s suit. When he steps into the living room, Ewan is nowhere to be found. Farrier has moved to stand in front of the Collins’ gallery wall again, and his two middle fingers brush against the glass of one of the pictures.

‘Where’s Ewan?’ Collins asks from where he’s standing in the door frame. The sound of his voice makes Farrier drop his hand and spin on his heels.

‘Jesus. You‘ve startled me. Your friend’s outside. Smoking, I think.’

He then drags his eyes up and down Collins’s body – examining his suit – and presses his lips together with something that looks an awful lot like disapproval.

‘Ah.’ Collins is beginning to feel uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze. ‘Didn’t want to join him?’

Now that Collins comes to think of it – Farrier hasn’t smoked a single cigarette since London. Maybe he’s trying to give it up.

‘No,’ Farrier replies instantly but once again doesn’t provide any explanation as to why he seems to hate Ewan so much. Instead, he draws closer.

Collins’s heart jumps into his throat.

‘Why aren’t you wearing a kilt, Jack?’

Collins blinks. His eyes wander down his own body. When he’d glanced at himself in the bathroom mirror upstairs, he’d thought he looked handsome in Ewan’s suit. Farrier doesn’t seem to agree.

‘ Because .’ He spits the word out like a complete sentence, like a ten-year-old. ‘What business is that of yours?’

Farrier has the audacity to smirk, the utter bastard. ‘I’m sorry, but this is just not your colour.’

‘It’s black ,’ Collins says blankly.

‘Exactly my point.’

And now they’re staring at each other again, Collins incredulous because of Farrier’s rudeness and nerve, and Farrier … God knows. God only knows what Farrier is thinking. Collins has given up trying to make sense of him. That man remains an enigma.

He always seems to know how to get under Collins’s skin.

What is worse is that Collins is now seriously beginning to question his own decision to wear the suit.

This is just not your colour .

Not that he cares about Farrier’s opinion, but …

Oh, damn it.

 *

‘Jack, I think I need to sit down for a bit, my boy,’ Mrs Murphy says breathlessly, cheeks glowing red.

‘Oh, I’m glad you said that.’ With his free hand, Collins fans himself. ‘I’m a bit out of breath myself.’

It’s not true, of course; he hasn’t even broken a sweat yet. But she looks so pleased with herself that he can’t bring himself to feel guilty about the little white lie. He takes her arm and accompanies her off the dancefloor. The heels of her shoes are clicking on the hardwood floor with every one of her tiny steps. Collins hopes if he ever reaches her age, he’ll be as fit.

Mrs Murphy, huffing and puffing, allows him to lead her to a table in the sitting area. He lends her a hand when she goes to sit on one of the white, cushioned chairs and pours her a glass of water, which she accepts gratefully.

‘Thank you.’ She gulps down more than half of it and inhales heavily. Collins plops down on a seat next to her and lets his gaze drift through the room, carefully avoiding looking at the corner where he knows Farrier is standing.

‘You should get back on the dancefloor, dear. Don’t mind me.’ Mrs Murphy says and gestures at the dancing couples. ‘I wouldn’t want to deny all those young ladies the pleasure of having such a nimble-footed partner.’

Collins can’t bite back a snort. ‘I think I’m good for now.’

‘Though it might not only be the young ladies who are after a dance with you.’

His head jerks around. ‘Excuse me?’

Her smile is a million years old. ‘I’m ninety-five, my boy. My eyesight may not be the best these days, but I’m not entirely blind yet, you know. That handsome lad over there’ – not overly subtle, she points in a certain direction – ‘has been staring at you all day.’

Collins doesn’t need to follow her gaze – and deliberately doesn’t – to know whom she is talking about.

For fuck’s sake . Somebody kill me, please.

‘Has he?’ he replies, a little too indifferent. ‘Blimey. I must have got salad stuck between my teeth or something.’

She laughs. ‘Hardly. Is he your sweetheart?’

Not able to contain it, Collins snorts a breath through his nose at the word ‘sweetheart.’ If Farrier could hear that … The term seems so inappropriate, so inadequate to refer to someone like Farrier, who is built like a brick shithouse.

Which is unfortunately still very sexy.

Bad. Very bad. Stop, brain.

Before Collins can inform her that Farrier is most definitely not his ‘sweetheart’, Mrs Murphy goes on saying, ‘He is a very attractive man.’

The denial gets stuck halfway in Collins’s throat. He finds himself glancing at Farrier’s corner for the first time in a while, only to be oddly disappointed when he sees that Farrier is now in a lively conversation with Greg and his wife and isn’t watching him anymore.

No. This is good . It’s good that he’s not looking.

God, it’s embarrassing how hard he’s trying to fool himself.

Because the truth is: Mrs Murphy is right. Farrier is a sight for sore eyes in his insolently sexy dinner suit. He’d put a bit of gel in his hair before the church ceremony, which has mostly come out by now and gives the strands a look of controlled messiness. Because he is one of those men who would have to shave twice a day to be considered clean-shaven, a hint of stubble has already started to appear on his chin again. Collins likes him better this way anyway, a bit scruffy. Not taking the dinner suit into consideration, Farrier looks the way he used to, back when they were in the RAF together – like he’s just climbed out of his aircraft. 

It shouldn’t be this attractive.

Collins brings his eyes back to the table. His tongue feels slightly coated.

‘Aye,’ he mutters. ‘I suppose he is.’

‘Take it from an old bird like me: Good men are hard to come by. If you’ve got your claws in one, don’t let him get away.’

‘Thanks.’ Collins grins. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

‘I used to have a good man too,’ she says and leans back against her chair. It is rather obvious that it’s meant to be the preamble of a much longer story.

Collins briefly wonders what it is about him that makes elderly women always seem so eager to tell him about their deceased husbands, but feels strangely flattered by it all the same.

Succumbing to his curiosity, he takes the bait. ‘How did you two meet?’

‘It was in 1940. During the evacuation of Dunkirk.’

Collins can feel his jaw drop. This, he did not expect.

‘I was sixteen, helping my father with his boat. The Navy had asked for more ships. We decided to go to France too.’ A thoughtful expression enters her face. ‘We never made it there, but we did manage to fish a few of our Tommies out of the channel after a Luftwaffe bomber destroyed their ship. And then there he was. Soaked and slick with oil, dead tired. They’d been in the sea for quite a bit. He looked at me like he’d never seen a woman before.’ She giggled like a little girl. ‘Which I suppose, they all did, after a couple of months in France without lasses. It made me feel uneasy with some of them. But when he did it, it didn’t bother me at all. He had this way of looking that made me feel … seen. It made me feel special.’

Collins knows the type of look she’s describing too well. It’s the kind that sends electric shocks down his spine whenever Farrier …

‘He was five years older than me, but I didn’t care.’ Her glassy gaze turns inward, or is focused on something unseeable, far away. ‘He asked me to become his wife two years later, while he was on leave. We were married for fifty-three years.’

‘That’s a lovely story.’

‘I wonder how many other people can say that they hold that day in fond memory, that last day of the evacuation.’

‘Not too many, I’d imagine.’ He grins. ‘Churchill, maybe. If he were still alive.’

‘It was a memorable day for our country.’ She smiles and pats his cheek. ‘But what I mean to say with all this is that you can trust me because I know a good man when I see one. You’re one. And your sweetheart over there – he’s one too. You should ask him to dance. I’m sure he’d love to.’

‘Eh – I’m quite knackered,’ he mumbles. ‘Think I’ve done enough dancing for the time being.’

When, a couple of minutes later, Mrs Murphy’s niece comes over to talk to her, Collins excuses himself and leaves Mrs Murphy to her own devices to go to the loo. There he locks himself in a cubicle and rests a heated cheek against the cooling wood of the door.

Why is everyone suddenly so keen to bring up the subject of Farrier with him? Why can’t they just leave him in peace? First Ewan, now Mrs Murphy.

In between, Alice.

*

They are outside the church in Edinburgh and Alice is dragging him aside with a firm, forceful hand on the collar of his shirt. The bride and groom had climbed into their car and driven off just a few minutes ago, and most of the other wedding guests are rushing to their own vehicles to follow them to the reception – which isn’t being held in the city itself but in a small village south of St. Andrews – so no one is paying attention to them. 

‘I don’t hate him anymore,’ Alice proclaims as soon as they have rounded a corner and are out of earshot of the crowd, but her voice is still far too loud for Collins’s liking. 

He shushes her with raised hands. ‘Do we have to do this now?’ 

‘Aye, we do.’ Alice raises a brow. ‘I’ve tried to hate him, for your sake, but I can’t pretend any longer. The truth is, I adore him. I know he broke your heart and all, but you need to get your shit together. You should have seen how he looked at you in the church when you walked in. That man is whipped for you.’

He crosses his arms in front of his chest, assuming a defensive battle stance. ‘Great. I love it when everybody keeps telling me how I should feel.’ 

‘He’s sorry, Jack. Any idiot can see that. Let it go.’

‘You make it sound like we broke up due to a silly trifle.’

‘All breakups happen due to silly trifles.’

‘Not ours.’ That familiar ache pierces his heart again. It never seems to have gone away. ‘He was such a dick that night I went to Tintagel with Alex. I wasn’t going to put up with that. Nor the rest.’

She sighs. ‘It’s in the past, brother dearest. Give the man a chance. I think he’s going to throw himself off a bridge if you won’t sleep with him soon.’

‘Don’t joke about that!’ he snaps. ‘Mum was right. Your humour really is taking it a step too far.’

‘Relax. I’m just saying. Everybody deserves a second chance, right? He’s been to hell and back, so maybe it’s time to give him a break.’

‘Not a chance.’

*

And now Collins is here, locked in the bathroom like a lovesick teenage girl after yet another person has told him to get over his anger and forgive Farrier. But things are not that simple. Nobody can look inside his head, so they couldn’t possibly understand the devastation he’d felt two years ago.

It had all started with a letter.

Collins closes his eyes and suddenly he’s back in Farrier’s flat on that sunny morning in December.

*

Blinking against the brightness and his own fatigue, he’s half-blindly walking down the hallway to get the newspaper. Why Farrier still needs to read a physical newspaper when he could get an online subscription is beyond him.

At the front door, Collins bends down to pick up the post of the day.

The usual. Invoices, flyers, leaflets. The Guardian .

Then his fingertips brush over the envelope, soft and creme-coloured. On it, Farrier’s name and address are written in actual black ink, in the fanciest handwriting Collins has ever seen.

The Honourable Thomas William Albert Farrier, the first line says.

Snorting, Collins carries the letter, alongside the other post, back into their bedroom. It’s one of those rare mornings during which Farrier is still in bed after Collins has already got up. For once Farrier has allowed himself to sleep in; the previous night, he had been out late at a work event and didn’t get back until three a.m.

Collins crouches on the bed next to Farrier’s motionless, drowsy frame and bends down to brush his teeth over Farrier’s ear before whispering teasingly, ‘Good morning, Honourable Thomas William Albert Farrier, Sir .’

For good luck, he also plants a kiss between Farrier’s naked shoulder blades, right above his pilot wings tattoo.

Farrier stirs with a languorous sigh, then rolls around and grabs Collins’s shoulders when he tries to withdraw again. After pushing himself up a half-sitting position with his elbows, Farrier drags Collins’s mouth down to meet him in a wet kiss.

‘What did you just call me?’ he asks when Collins pulls back for air a little later.

‘Sir,’ Collins replies with a grin.

‘You know that’s not what I meant.’

‘Oh, you mean the other thing. Right. You got a letter.’ He holds it up and spins it between his fingers.

Farrier’s smirk fades away as he eyes the letter suspiciously. ‘Ah.’

‘Can’t believe I’m dating a bloke who has an ‘Honourable’ as a prefix. I’m going to have to burn my “Eat the Rich” T-Shirt before we get married.’

‘Are you proposing, baby?’ 

‘Not just yet.’ Collins grins and hands him the letter. ‘Are you not going to open it?’ 

‘Fine.’ Farrier rips the letter open carelessly with his index finger and pulls out what looks like a wedding invitation. His eyes flit over the words swiftly before he shoves the card back into the envelope.

Collins raises his eyebrows. ‘So? What does it say?’

‘It’s nothing. Just an invitation to one of these fancy upper-class balls. My mother’s already told me there would be one.’

A ball? Collins’s eyebrow rises even higher. ‘The rich still hold balls? Good Lord.’

‘Look at you, my sweet, innocent, middle-class boy. Of course they do.’ Farrier ruffles through his hair and Collins ducks away. ‘Doesn’t matter. I’m not going to go.’

‘Why not?’

‘These things are a downright bore, trust me. My mother made me go to a few of them and I hated every second each time. You’d understand if you’d ever been to one.’

‘Well, I bet we could make it fun.’ Collins doesn’t know why he says it, or where the words are coming from. Maybe it’s an attempt to better understand Farrier’s world. Maybe deep down Collins just likes the idea of accompanying Farrier to a ball .

Oh bloody hell. Is he a stupid Disney princess now?

When Farrier’s eyes dart to meet his, the expression in them is unreadable.

‘I mean … dancing. Fancy clothes. Talking shit about rich people. I could imagine worse things,’ Collins goes on with a shrug. ‘All I’m saying is I’m in if you are.’

‘Jack,’ Farrier begins, and his heart sinks instantly. It’s not one of Farrier’s good ‘Jack’s. ‘These people, they are not exactly … progressive.’

‘Meaning they hate gays.’

‘Most of them vote Tory. Scratch that, all of them vote Tory. They’re a bunch of stuck-up conservative arseholes with right-wing tendencies and polo equipment. It’s … not your milieu.’ When he sees the sceptical expression on Collins’s face, he adds quickly, ‘Nor mine!’

That is only half true, though. Because Farrier is one of them, whether he wants it or not.

Collins tries to turn away to hide his disappointment. He can’t even say why this upsets him. It’s not like he doesn’t know where Farrier comes from, what expectations he has to fulfil. Collins has always known this, from the beginning. Holding his wealth and societal standing against Farrier would be unfair – it’s not Farrier’s fault that he was born into the upper class. He can’t change who he is.

A rational portion of Collins’s mind knows all this, but sometimes it’s still hard not to feel like they’re from altogether different planets.

Farrier’s hand takes a hold of his chin and pulls his face around. ‘Don’t be mad. I have no intention of going there. We can both stay at home that night and pick up something from Nando’s. Just the two of us. It’s been a while since we last had a date night.’ To punctuate his words, Farrier kisses him and pries his lips apart with his tongue. Once he pulls back, he adds with a smirk, ‘And after, I’ll fuck your brains out the entire night. Feel free to call me ‘sir’ anytime you want.’

In stark contrast to his eye roll, Collins can do little else than rasp into Farrier’s mouth as he is being rolled onto his back.

Still, he does feel appeased after that.

*

Back in the present, Collins lets out a groan against the wall of the toilet stall.

During the last two years, he’d tried so hard to avoid remembering those little snippets of his relationship with Farrier, but they all come rushing back with a vengeance now. It’s like Farrier has torn down the floodgate to that particular area of his brain, and the mental walls Collins has built up around that time are getting washed away by the force of a tidal wave.

A tidal wave with steely grey-blue eyes and an eight-pack.

To rid himself of the memories, Collins throws a glance at his watch. It’s almost midnight. He must have danced for longer than he’d thought.

He’s also in dire need of another drink, so, after splashing a bit of water into his face, he returns to the barn.

The party is still in full swing. Smiling, Collins watches Alice slow dance with Campbell to a Taylor Swift song on the dancefloor. Little Sophie has already gone home with Collins’s cousin – her babysitter for the night – a few hours previously; the little girl is not old enough to stay up so late. Before she’d left, Collins had to promise his niece to stick around in Scotland for one more day and come over for a playdate with her tomorrow. Sophie is not even two yet and has only recently started to speak, but Collins is under the impression she’d understood his meaning just fine.

He walks farther into the barn and straightens his collar, which is a bit wet now. On the far side of the room, his dad is sitting at a table with several other older men, engaged in what seems to be a heated discussion about Scottish independence and the referendum in 2014. Not unusual during half-English, half-Scottish weddings. Old rivalries die hard.

Farrier is nowhere in sight.

‘If you’re looking for Tom, he’s at the house.’

Collins spins around to find Ewan behind him, his long limbs outstretched on one of the white chairs.

‘I wasn’t,’ he says reflexively, but then repeats in confusion, ‘“The house”?’

Ewan gestures in the vague direction of the courtyard. ‘The farmhouse we went through earlier when we got here. It’s part of the venue too. They’re serving a midnight buffet there.’

Ah. That makes sense. Leave it to Farrier to go where the food is. All that muscle tissue needs fuel, probably.

Collins doesn’t reply and instead steps closer to Ewan’s table to pour whiskey from a bottle into an unused glass. He brings it to his lips and downs it. The taste burns in his throat and makes him grimace.

Ewan eyes his now-empty glass with a frown. In the back of his mind, Collins registers that the other man himself only has a glass of coke next to him on the table. Perhaps he’s driving.

‘I don’t know what you see in him,’ Ewan says suddenly. ‘He’s an arrogant prick.’

Collins groans. ‘Why does everyone keep bringing up Farrier with me today? I’m not here with him. Not his bloody keeper either.’ He slams his glass back down onto the table. ‘But you’re wrong. He’s not an arrogant prick.’

‘Oh, but he is. He’s been staring at you all day in that possessive way, like you belong to him. It’s creepy. Like he’s entitled to have you.’

‘Well, his dad is a baron or something. Entitlement happens to be a big thing in his social circle.’ Why does it piss him off so much that Ewan is talking shit about Farrier? He shouldn’t care. In fact, he should agree .

‘You deserve better. After everything he’s done.’

Collins chuckles darkly. ‘Spare me, I beg you. I have zero intention of getting back together with him.’

‘Good.’ Ewan draws in a deep breath. ‘Because—’

‘Jackie!’ Out of nowhere, Collins is assaulted from behind. Two big arms are wrapping themselves around his waist and lift him in the air. The yelp he lets out is rather undignified for a fighter pilot, and he sends a plea up to heaven that nobody’s heard it.

Two seconds later he is put back onto his feet. Campbell releases him from his tight bear hug and steps back, instead slinging one arm around Alice, who has come up behind him.

‘Enjoying your night out without the little one?’ Collins asks them and mimics overdramatic kissing with his mouth. ‘Finally danced enough, have you?’

‘Never.’ Alice boxes his shoulder. ‘We’re only taking a break.’

‘Aren’t your feet killing you?’ he asks.

‘Are you calling me fat?’

‘Are you calling my wife fat?’ Campbell cuts in and raises both of his fists, boxing style.

‘She’s my sister, I’m allowed to.’ Despite his words, Collins holds his palms outward placatingly. ‘And no. I’m calling her pregnant .’

Alice throws one of her arms around his waist. ‘I know you love me. No matter how much you’re trying to hide it.’ She gives him a once-over from the side. ‘You look good, by the way. Mum was nearly bawling earlier while you were dancing, she looked so proud.’

‘I’m glad you’ve not let me down, mate.’ Campbell grins at him. ‘When Alice kept going on and on about black tie, I was beginning to get a bit worried I’d be the only one properly representing the Scottish fraction at this thing here today.’

Self-conscious, although both Campbell and Ewan are wearing theirs too, Collins rubs a palm over the tartan of his kilt. ‘Well, Alice has already accused me of failing to preserve my national heritage once today. I won’t stand for it a second time.’

At least that’s what he’s been trying to tell himself this entire afternoon and evening. He’s only doing it to prove a point to Alice. Maybe also to make his mother happy. It has nothing to do with Farrier’s words.

Not a single thing.

The sound of his stomach growling cuts through the silence. ‘I’m going to grab a bite. I’m starving. Did my fair share of dancing too, tonight.’ He turns to Alice. ‘Do you want me to get you something?’

His sister shakes her head and threads her arm through his. ‘I’m actually going to come with you. I could eat a bloody horse.’

Leaving Ewan – who is avoiding Collins’s eye for whatever reason – and Campbell behind at the barn, the two siblings head over to the farmhouse.

The venue is incredible. Collins catches himself thinking that if he ever did decide to get married – which he probably won’t, but hey, a little daydreaming doesn’t hurt – this would be the perfect place for it. The house and farm must be centuries old by the look of them. Olivia had told them during her wedding speech that the barn used to house horses at some point in the 19 th century but has long since been transformed into a party hall. It’s been family-owned for decades.

The courtyard Collins and Alice are walking across now is illuminated by orange lanterns and fairy lights. They remind him of the ones Alice had bought for her own wedding, which he and Farrier had helped put up – and struggled with – for over an hour. 

Here in the courtyard, they set a rather romantic atmosphere.

‘Lovely here, don’t you think?’ Alice is one of the few people who are always able to read his mind.

‘Aye, it is.’

‘Deep down, you’re a soppy romantic too, admit it.’

The funny thing is that Collins doesn’t even think that part of him is buried too deeply. It’s close to the surface, his emotional side. Most of the time – at least when he’s not in the middle of a panic attack – he feels quite comfortable talking about emotions. It doesn’t make him uneasy as it does some other men.

Unless it’s with Farrier.

That’s only because he’s been burned before, though.

 *

Two months after he’d first seen the letter, Collins has already forgotten all about it. Farrier has never mentioned it again either.

That night, the night it happens, begins with Collins in the car next to Alex.

The two of them are on a road trip, on their way to Tintagel, Cornwall. They have been planning that weekend getaway ever since Alex mentioned he’d never been to that part of the country. He’s also not yet seen Tintagel Castle. Although Collins has, he doesn’t mind visiting it again – if only to assist Alex with closing that particular gap in his education.

Just joking. He couldn’t care less about Alex’s education – that train has left the station.

Any excuse to go to an old castle.

They’d invited Farrier to come along too, and he’d tried his best to get some time off work, but in the end, it wasn’t approved by his boss. His firm is planning to finalise a big take-over in the next few days, so Farrier – who is in charge of the project – is required to be on call at all times.

Which is why it’s just him and Alex.

Collins is already sort of regretting this. Within the last twenty minutes, Alex hasn’t once stopped running his mouth to take a breath. Collins’s head has long since started buzzing while trying to remember the names of all these women Alex has allegedly shagged in just the last two months. After a while, he gives up. It’s impossible to keep track.

They’ve barely made it out of London, crawling forward inch by inch through the slow evening traffic, when he realises he’s forgotten his phone at home.

Fuck .

Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. Collins doesn’t mind leaving his phone behind when he goes out. On the contrary, sometimes he deliberately chooses not to bring it. It feels good to just focus on the present and be more in the moment.

This time, however, he needs it.

Because Alice’s due date is imminent. It could be today; could be tomorrow. Any day now. She’s going to give birth down here in London too, so there is no chance in hell he is going to miss out on that. She’s already promised him he’s going to be godfather.

‘We need to turn around,’ he cuts into Alex’s stream of consciousness.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Alex turns to gape at him.

‘I forgot my phone at home. I need it. My sister could give birth any day now. If that happens, I need to know – I have to be there.’

‘You must be joking.’ Alex points to the road, pissed off. ‘You’re telling me I have to turn around on the fucking M25, at this time of day? Do you know how bonkers that is? We won’t make it to Tintagel till long past midnight!’

‘Sorry.’ The apology comes out rather half-heartedly because Collins couldn’t give less of a shit. He needs his phone. ‘Would you please go back? Pretty please? I’ll call the B&B from your phone and tell them we’ll be late. Perhaps they can put a key under the doormat or something.’

Alex groans and doesn’t talk to him for the next ten minutes but drives off at the next exit anyway. Collins’s shoulders relax when London’s skyline eventually reappears in front of him.

Over the next one and a half hours, he kind of has to admit that Alex may have had a point. London traffic is a nightmare at this time of day.

But what would have been the alternative? Alice’s first child is – and rightfully so – his first priority right now.

When they finally reach Collins’s street, Alex stops the car engine in a no-standing zone and tells him to hurry the fuck up. Collins gives him a one-fingered salute but, on the way to his flat, walks a bit faster than he normally would anyway.

Only so long as Alex is watching him in the rear-view mirror, though.

In their building, Collins quickly climbs the stairs and gets his key out, then unlocks the door to their flat. As he steps into the broad, dark hallway, his ears catch the sound of two voices – Farrier’s, and that of a woman.

Collins smiles to himself. Maybe Farrier had decided to invite Liz over for a movie night after all. Nobody can be working all day long, not even a workaholic like Farrier.

Quite certain that he’d last used his phone in the kitchen, Collins decides to look there first. Alex’s threat to hurry up is still ringing in his ears.

His memory hasn’t deceived him – his phone is there on the counter, still sitting exactly where he’d left it.

Not wanting to waste more time, Collins picks it up, shoves it into his pocket, and rushes to the door. He checks his watch quickly – they can still make it to Tintagel at a reasonable hour, he gathers, if Alex drives like a maniac. Which he always does anyway.

As soon as he’s pulled the kitchen door shut behind him, he freezes.

A gorgeous dark-haired woman has walked out of the living room and is now gawking at him from the other side of the hallway. It’s definitely not Liz. Nor is it any other of Farrier’s female friends.

For a split second, Collins is too surprised by the sight of this stranger to say anything. Then he clears his throat. ‘Eh – hi.’

‘Who are you?’ she spits. ‘Why do you have a key to Tom’s flat?’

His stomach lurches.

Who am I? Who the fuck are you?

But his chest feels so tight that the only thing he can think of to say is, ‘I live here.’

That’s when he first notices that she’s dressed in a floor-length, scarlet ball gown. The dress is cut out a tad too much to still be considered decent. The woman is also wearing a ton of makeup and a diamond necklace, which makes her look like she’s walked straight out of an edition of Glamour magazine.

‘You what?’ she says, still in that shrill, rude tone. Without waiting for an answer, she turns to the open living room door. ‘You didn’t mention you had a roommate, Tom.’

He must be dreaming. This has to be a nightmare. His mind hasn’t fully processed yet what’s happening, but something is going on.

The next second, Farrier appears behind her in the doorway. His face is a flushed mask, adnd he looks as thunderstruck as Collins feels.

Collins’s knees are about to give in. It feels like a confirmation of some sort. If Farrier is looking at him like this – if he feels guilty – then …

That means there has to be something for him to feel guilty about .

‘Jack.’ Farrier sounds winded. ‘I thought you’d—’

‘Be halfway across the country already?’ Collins may still be too shocked to grasp the meaning of it all, but he senses that whatever this is, it’s bad. ‘Sorry to disappoint.’

What the hell is going on here?

‘We have to go, Tom.’ Red-dress tart says after glancing at her jewelled wristwatch. ‘Doors open at nine.’

Farrier ignores her and continues to stare at Collins.

Doors open at nine?

Oh, fuck. Farrier is wearing a fucking dinner suit .

That’s when it hits Collins.

‘Oh my god. You’re going to the thing .’

That seems to wake Farrier from his stupor, because he abruptly bolts forward. By instinct, Collins staggers back at the same time. His shoulders collide with the wall behind him.

‘Jack—’

‘You’re going to that ball,’ Collins says, out of breath like he’s run a lap around the block. His eyes flick back and forth between Farrier and the woman. ‘You’re going to that ball … with her .’

Every single word comes out like an accusation. That’s how he intends it, too.

He’s never felt so betrayed in all his life.

He can see Farrier wince. ‘That’s not what—’

‘“It’s not what it looks like?”’ Collins lets out a dry laugh, even though he feels like he’s dying inside. ‘Seriously? Do you think I’m stupid ?’

‘No, no, that’s not—’ Farrier has finally crossed the hallway and comes to a stop in front of him. He reaches out and tries to touch his face, but Collins flinches away.

‘Don’t you dare fucking touch me right now!’

‘I’m not—this is just for tonight!’ Farrier implores, voice laced with desperation. ‘I’m only going to the party with her! Other than that, it’s nothing, I swear! You have to believe me!’

Collins’s initial shock has passed – he is fuming . ‘Nothing! If it’s nothing, why wait until I’m out of the city? As if you were having a fucking affair behind my back! I even asked you to go to this thing with me!’

With pleading eyes, Farrier extends his hand again. Collins slaps it away.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck .

‘“Affair?” What the fuck is this?’ Red-dress tart gapes at them, her lips parted. ‘Is he your fucking boy toy or something?’ She spits out the word ‘boy toy’ like it’s the most disgusting insult she can think of. Collins has never felt the desire to hit a woman before, but he could make an exception for this one.

‘Shut up,’ Farrier snaps at her. ‘He’s my boyfriend.’

The weight of the situation hits Collins in the face with the force of a freight train.

Farrier is going to that ball with that tart. For no other reason than that she’s a woman .

He can spin the facts around in his head all he wants, look at this from all angles, but the fundamental, devastating conclusion remains: Farrier would rather go with this hellcat than with him, his own boyfriend.

Enough to lie about it.

Enough to do it behind his back, like a fucking adulterer.

All of a sudden Collins is overwhelmed by a powerful urge to punch Farrier in the face, something he’s never felt before. He needs to punch something . His hands ball into fists at his sides. He’s going to go crazy if he doesn’t get to release this tension.

Another side of him just wants him to curl up into a ball, bawl his eyes out, and die.

Farrier is ashamed of him.

Fuck. That knowledge hurts like fuck.

‘Not anymore,’ he manages to hiss and rips his arm away when Farrier tries to grab him. ‘I’m done. If you’re this embarrassed to be seen with me—’

‘What—’ Farrier reels, eyes blown wide with shock. ‘Jack, no —’

His eyes have begun to sting, and he has to get out of here. There is no way he’s going to break down in front of that woman and Farrier.

Taking advantage of the adrenaline that’s rushing through his veins, Collins shoves Farrier out of the way and dashes out of the flat in a dizzy haze. By the time he reaches the door, his vision has already turned blurry.

While he rushes down the stairs, jumping down two at a time with each step, he hears Farrier call after him, desperate, pleading.

He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t stop.

They are so over.

 *

‘I hope they have those Mini-Burgers,’ Alice says, ripping him out of the memories.

Collins clears his throat; it feels dry. ‘Mini-Burgers?’

‘Are you even listening to me? Christ.’ She waves a hand in front of his face. ‘Pay attention.’

They are standing in front of the midnight buffet in the farmhouse. Alice’s plate is already half-full – his own still empty.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles.

But Alice isn’t even listening to him anymore. She’s moved on, farther up the buffet, and is shovelling a variety of different types of sandwiches onto her plate. Collins watches her with fascination. How can someone so small eat so much? Sure, she may be tall for a woman, but she’s still his little sister. How does all of that stuff even fit inside her?

Ugh.

He realises he’s lost his appetite, despite his stomach’s rumbling protest – it’s still growling every once in a while. Maybe he can come back and have something later. 

A quick glance at the clock on one of the wood-panelled walls tells him that it’s almost two o’clock.

Christ. Where did the time go? Wasn’t it midnight just a few minutes ago?

Perhaps he’s drunker than he’d thought.

For some reason that one How I Met Your Mother episode he’d watched with Brad a couple of years ago creeps to the forefront of his mind. He remembers that quote from it, which was also the episode’s title:

‘Nothing good happens after 2 a.m.’ 

Collins can only hope it’s not a bad omen.

While he’s putting his plate away again, the sound of music from the adjoining room makes his ears prick up. Curious, he rounds the corner and enters the hall. It’s a big room – not quite a ballroom, but large enough to hold a minimum of fifty to sixty people. In the centre of the room, he spots a group of mahogany tables and upholstered sofas. The walls are adorned with paintings and tapestries, which gives the room the look of a Victorian establishment. Perhaps the owners of the venue – who seem to be in some way related to Olivia – hold weddings in here too in the winter, when celebrations outside in the barn are made impossible by the cold.

This room isn’t as busy and lively as the barn, but some members of the wedding party have found their way in here too. Candles on the tables and walls, as well as a fireplace, are the only sources of light, casting a warm glow. In the middle of the room, Collins can just about make out the groom and bride, Murphy and Olivia, snuggled up against one another on one of the couches. Half asleep already, Olivia is resting her head against Murphy’s shoulder. He, in turn, has both of his arms wrapped around her. It’s a picture of joy and happiness, of bliss and harmony.

Collins can’t help but smile; not only is he happy for his mate, but he’s also grown very fond of Olivia over the last year. The two of them make a good couple, it’s plain to see.

It makes perfect sense that they are exhausted, though. It’s been a long day for them.

At that moment, Murphy raises his chin up from Olivia’s hair and meets Collins’s eyes. They grin at each other. Collins gives him a thumbs-up. Good job not messing it up with her, twat .

Murphy gives him the finger, clearly instinctively knowing what Collins is trying to tell him without words. Then, with a smug grin, he points to the far side of the room and mouths something that looks an awful lot like get laid.   

Collins follows Murphy’s gaze.

A small group of people has gathered there, standing some distance apart. With his curiosity ignited, Collins crosses the room to see what they’re doing. The music gets louder with every step he takes.

So this is where Farrier has gone off to . Collins’s breath hitches when it dawns on him what scene he’s stumbled upon.

He stops a few feet away from the back of the piano and leans his backside against the scratchy backrest of one of the couches. That’s when the little crowd in front of him parts and reveals the man sitting at the instrument.

Farrier’s fingers are dancing over the keys like he’s never done anything else, like he’s been born on one. 

Knowing Farrier’s mother, Collins actually wouldn’t be too surprised by that. 

It’s been such a long time since he has last heard Farrier play that he’s almost forgotten he knows how to. And even then, back in the day, Farrier only used to play on a number of special occasions – birthdays, Christmas, the usual. Once, Farrier had played solely for him too, while they were on their first vacation together in South England in the middle of the night in an old country house, and only on Collins’s explicit request. He hadn’t been able to sleep. Farrier had played for him until he’d drifted off on the couch next to him. That’s perhaps one of his top ten memories … ever.

But Farrier had only played silly little tunes at the time.

This, right now, feels different. This is something else entirely. 

Farrier isn’t looking at any of his spectators; rather, all of his attention seems immersed in the task his hands are occupied with. Collins has never heard the song he’s playing, but it doesn’t matter because he doesn’t have to know it; all he can think is that it sounds otherworldly, mesmerising.

A young red-haired woman in a green dress next to him is crying silently, eyes fixed on Farrier too.

I had no idea he could play like this .

If he’d known, he would have made him play all the time. The odd Christmas song couldn’t compare.

Then, seconds before the last notes of the song roll from the keys under his fingers, Farrier raises his head and finally brings his gaze up from the piano.

Like they’re guided by an invisible force, his eyes find Collins’s across the room. In this light, they look more grey than blue. Collins can’t avert his own; he’s trapped.

The only rational thought his mind manages to produce is, Nothing good happens after 2 a.m.

And also,

I’m so, so fucked.