CHAPTER EIGHT
Elliot sees Mark at the school, leaning against the side of his Range Rover, celebrity aviators firmly in place. He watches a moment as one of the moms approaches Mark, flustered and attracted, talking with big smiles and excited hand gestures. It goes on for a minute, a hand to Mark’s bicep, an open-mouthed laugh. Mark plays along, but his good humor doesn’t quite meet his eyes. From inside his own car, Elliot chews on a nail.
When the mom finally moves on, Elliot puts a hand on the door handle and hesitates. He never gets out of his car to meet Sammy, and to do so now would be an act of pathetic desperation he’ll burn hot over when he’s alone later, alone, thinking about it.
It doesn’t stop him, though. He gets out, smooths his shirt, and strolls down the street towards the school. Towards Mark.
Mark senses his approach, or maybe he’s been watching the whole time, hidden behind the tinted lenses of his shades. He smiles when Elliot nears him, though, and maybe there’s a touch of awkwardness to him, but it’s better than nothing.
I didn’t fuck my husband, Elliot wants to say, but he can already see Sammy and a billion other kids swarming towards them, so what comes out of his mouth is, “Hey. Are we still on for this weekend?”
Mark nods, smile fixed firmly in place. There’s an odd chill to it. “Sure.”
Sammy comes up beside him, blinking at him in obvious confusion. Don’t embarrass me, Elliot thinks desperately, because Sammy’s likely to say something horrendous like “Did you really get out of the car just to speak to Wade’s dad?” but really he just stands there silently, and Mark stands there even more violently silent, and now Elliot just wants to go away. “I’ll bring the beer,” he says, before giving an entirely mortifying kind of salute and herding Sammy away, pretty much wanting to die.
“So it’s a sleepover with my friend but you’re coming too,” Sammy says, tone flat.
“Your friend’s dad happens to be my friend.” Kind of. Awkwardly. “Besides, I’m not sleeping over. I’ll be leaving you there.”
“Good. Because otherwise that’s weird.”
“Stop calling me weird.”
“Stop being weird.”
“I’m gonna send you to live with your pops,” Elliot says, to which Sammy shoots him a wholly appalled look.
He glances over his shoulder as he unlocks the car. Mark, his aviators now held loose in his hand, is watching him, even with Wade yammering his ear off. Elliot drives home without noticing the journey.
* * * * *
In the end, he decides he’ll make an excuse. Drop Sammy off, say something about work or a relative or whatever, and leave them to it. He’s never been one to cope with uncomfortable situations and, when it comes to Mark, he just keeps making a holy ass out of himself. It’s better for everyone if he stays away.
It knocks the wind out of his sails, therefore, when Mark opens the door wearing the world’s biggest, most beautiful grin, and combined with his sauce-splattered apron, dishevelled hair, and the dripping spatula he’s waving around, it’s pretty much the most adorable sight ever, and Elliot’s fucking powerless.
“Come in!” says Mark, jubilant, because apparently cooking barbecue ribs really fucking revs his engine. Or something.
Elliot, wordless, does as he’s told, his excuse for leaving dying on his tongue.
“Wade’s hibernating in his room, as usual,” Mark informs Sammy, going so far as to even ruffle his hair. And Sammy, the fake little shit, doesn’t call him out for it. “Go on up.” Sammy does, dragging his overnight bag behind him. Leaving Elliot alone with Mark, because obviously.
Although if Mark’s feeling any residual awkwardness from their previous encounters, he’s apparently ignoring it. “Beer?” he asks, soft smile in place, eyes twinkling—looking really fucking happy to have Elliot standing there before him.
And Elliot thinks, Shit. Beer. He told Mark he would bring the beer, back when he thought he was still gonna come hang out here today.
Which he is, apparently, because here he stands, hanging out.
“Shit, sorry,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. “I completely forgot.”
Mark laughs. “No, I meant would you like a beer? I stocked up.”
And—right. Okay. So they hang out. They crack open some beers, and they make small talk, and it’s difficult at first, all tense and heavy, but it’s okay. And then, around about drink three, when Elliot’s tossing a salad and Mark’s plating up ribs, it gets better. Elliot makes some stupid joke about cows, Mark laughs big and free, their eyes meet over the kitchen island, and something warm settles in Elliot’s stomach.
From there it becomes less about hanging out as dads, instead something more like sharing space. They eat as a group, almost like a family would, sat around the kitchen table and all four of them managing to cover themselves in barbecue sauce. The boys chat shit about gaming while Mark and Elliot pretend to understand, or even be interested—their gazes meeting over the top of it all, rueful smiles and shared secret eye rolls. Mark’s foot touches his under the table at one point, but Elliot pretends he doesn’t notice.
After, dirty plates stacked on the counter for now, they manage to convince the boys to play a board game, which earns them twin groans but a race to go find the Monopoly set all the same. Mark wrestles Elliot for the boot, which is all kinds of thrilling, that big warm body pressed up against his own and all the laughter, the gentle tackle, the breath hot and quick against the side of his face and his nerves, every single fucking one of them, sparking to life. He concedes the boot to Mark in the end. He didn’t really want it anyway.
The boys last about forty-five minutes before boredom and frustration kicks in, and they start arguing over property sales and go-to-jail cards and income tax, like they’re little miserable adults in the real world. “All right,” Mark says, knowing a potential meltdown when he sees one, “let’s call this one a draw, okay? Why don’t you go set up Mario Kart in the living room.”
That boosts the mood; the boys race off, leaving Mark and Elliot to pack away the Monopoly game. “I would’ve kicked their asses anyway,” Mark says, stacking up all the fake paper money. “Wade has no business instinct.”
Elliot snorts. “Competitive even against your own kid.”
“I mean, I am a sportsman.”
“Was,” Elliot corrects, because he’s a dick like that. “Now you make ribs and play board games and host sleepovers.”
Mark looks up at him, dice and Monopoly pieces loose in his hand, and looks at Elliot with something blazingly warm in his eyes. “Having a better time,” he says, and then—and the he fucking looks down the length of Elliot’s body and back up. A blatant onceover. Not even trying to fucking hide it.
Elliot swallows. He doesn’t really know what’s going on, but he does know there’s something. He’s not stupid—Mark’s reaction to seeing Lucas like that, the awkwardness of it all, the general vibe between them that’s existed since the first time Elliot came to this house. And while he’d like to think it actually is something, really he’s got no fucking idea what it means.
So he smiles swiftly and grabs plates and heads to the sink. He can clear up, and he can let the moment settle, and then maybe he can get up the nerve to ask Mark if there’s anything he should be aware of.
He doesn’t make it far. He puts the plates in the sink, turns on the water, reaches across for a cloth and then there’s Mark, right there, hand on his arm and a slight pressure, an urge to turn around and Elliot does—turns to face Mark, heart leaping into his throat and stomach flipping over and Mark’s eyes dark and intense and determined and—
Mark kisses him. It’s abrupt, sharp, bruising. It’s a press of unsure lips against his own, brief and hard and making some kind of fucking point. It’s not enjoyable, exactly, full of too much tension and the weight of suffocating uncertainty, and it lasts bare seconds at most, but it’s a step, the veil lifting from the confusion, and it’s enough to make this moment one of the best moments of Elliot’s entire fucking life.
Not that he gets to revel in it. Doesn’t even get to unfreeze his shocked body and touch. Doesn’t even get to taste. Mark’s wrenching away a heartbeat later and almost choking on his immediate mortification.
“I’m sorry. God. I’m so fucking sorry. Please—”
“What—”
The kids come crashing in. Elliot’s still standing frozen, Mark’s got a hand shoved in his hair and a look of abject horror on his face, and the fucking kids…
“Can we have ice cream? Also we can’t get the thing working on the big TV.”
Mark blows out a breath. His face is red; his hand, when he drags it out of his hair, is shaking. He doesn’t look at Elliot. “Okay. Okay. You know where to find the ice cream.”
The boys rush to the freezer, shoulders jostling as they reach for the best supply, then Wade’s dragging his dad into the other room to fix the thing on the big TV and Elliot—Elliot’s not sure he’s taken a breath.
Mark looks over his shoulder just before he’s whipped around the corner, something dramatically miserable on his face. He holds Elliot’s gaze for half a second but he doesn’t say anything, and everything about his expression suggests he doesn’t fucking want anything said at all.
Left alone in the kitchen, Elliot scrubs both hands over his face and wonders what the actual fuck he’s supposed to do now. His lips are still pressed warm, the join of his neck and shoulder still holding the imprint of gentle pressure where Mark had rested his hand. His mind, god, his entire thought processes are narrowing down to that kiss and Mark’s face and the complete fucking confusion of it all.
He can’t be here when Mark comes back into the room, alone and drowning in awkwardness. He needs to breathe, and he needs to let Mark breathe, and maybe when he goes home he can fall asleep and wake up and realize none of this happened at all. He never came here. It’s all a dream.
It’s a painful wish.
He passes by the living room, where Mark’s kneeling in front of the TV and the boys are collapsed on the couch, slurping ice creams. “I better go,” Elliot says, and yeah, maybe his voice cracks a little, but it’s the least of his problems right now. “Um. I’ll be back for you in the morning,” he says to Sammy, who’s looking at him curiously. Elliot tries to give him a smile.
Mark doesn’t even glance up from where he’s fiddling with wires. But the back of his neck is flushed red, and his entire form is as stiff as a board. “Yeah, bye,” he mumbles.
“Ohmygod, why isn’t this wooooorking,” wails Wade, mashing buttons on the controller.
“Dude, I’m trying.”
Elliot leaves—or tries to. In the moment he nods sadly to himself and steps away, Mark looks up at him. Their eyes meet, and the tension held in that locked gaze is enough to make Elliot want to run away.
So that’s pretty much what he does.
*
FROM: Mark
so after having some time to calm down, i can’t help feeling like the biggest idiot on the planet
TO: Mark
Why?
FROM: Mark
i shouldn’t have done what i did. i can’t even explain it
TO: Mark
It’s okay.
FROM: Mark
no it’s not. you’ve got shit going on with your husband and i’m meant to be your friend. i hope this isn’t gonna stop us from hanging out. i made a mistake and i’m stupid, but i swear it will never happen again
TO: Mark
Mark. What shit have I got going on with my husband?
FROM: Mark
well i don’t know. he was there. undressed. doesn’t take a genius to figure it out
TO: Mark
No, but it takes an idiot to jump to conclusions. Can you talk right now?
FROM: Mark
kids are in wade’s room
It takes Elliot a while to get up the nerve to press Call. He stares at his phone in the lamp-lit glow of his bedroom, a tower of pillows stacked behind him to hold him semi-upright—he’d had a vague inclination to read, but had instead spent the past hour watching YouTube videos on his phone. Until that first text message came through, slingshotting his heart into his throat.
Eventually, he makes himself tap the button. It rings only once before Mark picks up and offers a breathy, “Hey.” It makes Elliot’s spine tingle.
He draws in a breath for strength and just comes straight out with it: “Lucas needed a place to crash for the night. He slept in the spare room.” Small talk isn’t going to get them anywhere, and right now, Elliot doesn’t have the patience for it anyway.
“I mean,” Mark says after a pause, “he is your husband.”
“On paper. These days he’s just my friend.” He stops, waits for a response that doesn’t come. He can hear the soft cadence of Mark’s breath—even louder, the oppressive silence of them both not saying much at all. Someone needs to take the reins.
“What happened today?” Elliot asks, soft and clear like his racing heart isn’t threatening to steal his voice.
Mark heaves an almighty sigh. “I’m so sorry,” he says miserably, which—no. Elliot’s not having that.
“Stop apologizing.”
“I just… I wasn’t thinking.”
Right. Something bitter settles in the pit of Elliot’s stomach. “It was a mistake,” he says, tone flat.
“Well I thought you and your husband had a thing going, so yeah, I guess.”
I guess.
Elliot freezes, just for a moment, before pulling himself fully upright, back straight and alert, mind spinning.
I guess.
He crosses his legs, switches his phone to the other ear. “But we don’t have a thing going,” he says.
“I know that now.”
There’s an edge to Mark’s voice. Regret, maybe? Frustration? Elliot can barely get his thoughts in line, let alone analyse Mark’s tone and pitch. He just needs a definitive answer to one thing, before he goes into full-on freak-out mode. He has to know.
“So was it a mistake?”
He can practically feel Mark’s struggle to find the right words. “I shouldn’t have done it like that,” he says cautiously. “You didn’t get a say in anything and I just—”
“Mark.” He can’t stand the tiptoeing, the caution, the double speak. He’s desperate—achingly desperate—to know if Mark’s even in the same book as him, let alone on the same page.
If he dares to even hope.
“Was it a mistake?” he repeats, and he waits, and waits, and Mark breathes, steady and sharp.
Then, with a push to his voice like it’s a release: “Not on my part.”
Elliot flops back against the pillows, his whole body feeling like its floating up into the clouds, his stomach squirming with an almost sickening level of giddiness. It’s hard to talk past the urgent need to confess all of his feelings. “We need to talk,” he says, tight and barely constrained. “In person. Are you free one morning this week while the boys are at school?”
“I can, uh—” Mark doesn’t sound in any better shape. “I can do Wednesday.”
“You know Geoff’s on Main?”
“About ten?”
Elliot swallows. “I’ll be there.” He’ll be fucking early, probably, an anxious mess staring at the door and tapping his foot and maybe, maybe contemplating running away again.
But he won’t. Nothing in this world could make him.