Not Letting Go



  Not Letting Go

  Copyright © Danni Keane

  All rights reserved

  Cover design by Danni Keane

  Cover photo copyright © Shooting Star Studio / Shutterstock

  Cover photo copyright © npine / Shutterstock

  Cover photo copyright © Muamu / Shutterstock

  Includes:

  Sunshine and Buttercups (Not Letting Go 0.5)

  Copyright © Danni Keane

  All rights reserved

  With many thanks to Kim Alan

  Part One

  Sunshine and Buttercups

  It's been on the kitchen counter for a few days now: Exhibit Three in the mounting list of evidence as to why Josh Roberts' life is turning to shit.

  Exhibit One: the hospital appointment card pinned to the noticeboard. Mr. W. Roberts. 25 August 2012. 3.15 P.M. Oncology Department.

  Exhibit Two: the whispered and tearful conversation I overheard between Mum and Dad the evening of that appointment.

  And now, Exhibit Three, printed on yellow paper. Seriously. Yellow paper. Black lettering on a colourful backdrop. Cancer: Your Treatment, Your Choice. Your choice? Oh yeah, very cute. 'Hey, go down to the hospital to browse the treatments. Pick whichever one takes your fancy, and guess what? You get to take it home with you! Go for the one with the sweetest puppy dog eyes, why not? Never mind you're dying. Have a leaflet printed on paper the colour of sunshine and buttercups!' I'm surprised they didn't use Comic bloody Sans.

  I dump my kit bag on top of the pretty yellow leaflet. Not quite out of sight, out of mind, but at least Bradley won't see it if it's hidden under my stinking football boots. Not that he would anyway, seeing as he's already got his head in the fridge, sniffing out a pre-pizza snack.

  “Can I have one of these?” he asks, holding up a Tupperware tub containing last night's left overs, three blackened sausages. I peer at them. They look less than appetising, with a sticky film of fat covering them.

  “If you really want them,” I say. I lift my arm up and give my pit a hearty sniff. “Ugh, I'm going for a shower. Can you put the pizza in?”

  “All right,” he mumbles around one of the greasy sausages. He sits down on one of our breakfast bar stools, stretching his long legs out in front of him. He looks so comfortable, almost like he lives here. I didn't need to ask him to put the pizza in, he does it every week. All part of our Friday night ritual.

  Once we've both showered, we sit together on my bed, just as we always do. Me on the right, Bradley on the left. He smacks his lips together. “I love this pizza,” he says. “I keep telling my mum to get it, but she doesn't. She thinks that posh shit tastes better just 'cause it's got a thin crust and a ton of poncey herbs on the top of it.” He bites into the crust, a string of cheese oozing onto his chin. “Why can't my mum buy the cheap crap like yours?”

  “Oi! You calling my mum cheap?”

  “Nah,” he sniggers, wiping away the greasy trail. “Just her taste in pizza. You've gotta admit it tastes good though.”

  He smiles at me and I nod. “Yeah, I guess.”

  He's only wearing boxers and a T-shirt, and each time he takes another bite of pizza, his arm lightly brushes mine. I want to lean against him, to lose myself in the feel of his ever so slightly damp skin, and the spicy scent of shower gel that clings to it. But I don't. Instead, I sit next to him and eat my food, pretending he feels the same way about me as I do about him, just like I do every Friday night.

  Keep the ritual the same. Keep everything the same. Pretend the cheap pizza tastes just as good as the posh stuff. Pretend Bradley loves me. Maybe even pretend there's no fucking leaflet downstairs printed on paper the colour of sunshine and buttercups.

  * * * *

  The sweaty heat clings to Bradley's skin, forming dark blond curls at the nape of his neck. With a sleepy sigh, he absentmindedly lifts a hand to rub at them. He shifts on the creaky camp bed, the end of the twisted sheet wrapped messily around his legs. Both arms stretch high above his head and a soft yawn rolls like a wave through his body, easing him onto his back. The sheet only barely covers his stomach, and… oh God, he's hard. The thin cotton does nothing to hide it. He's with me, in my room, under my sheets and he's hard as a rock. Well, of course he is. He's still in that fuzzy, not-quite-awake state, most likely clutching at the wisps of a dream about Mia or Abbie or one of the other girls from school. Of course he's hard. When you're seventeen years old, when are you not hard, for fuck sake?

  I'm hard too. I shouldn't be watching him like this. I shouldn't be thinking about him like this, but I can't help it. He'd be okay with me being gay, I know that. He wouldn't have a problem with it. Bradley never judges anyone, he's the kindest person I've ever met. But the way I feel about him? If he ever found out about the countless Saturday mornings I've spent with my eyes cracked open just enough to catch glimpses of the way his back moves with each breath he takes.... That's something I can't risk. Especially not now. I need a friend, and I need that friend to be Bradley.

  “Boys!” There's a knock on the door, and Mum pushes it open and breezes in. Bradley fumbles with the sheets, bunching them against his groin. The idea that he wasn't as asleep as I thought sends a shiver of shameless lust through me, but I'm being stupid. What teenage boy isn't accustomed to covering himself up when his mum—or worse still, his best mate's mum—walks in first thing in the morning? Just a reflex action. I've certainly had enough practice.

  “What time's your match?” she asks. She wrinkles up her nose. “Ugh, Josh, it stinks in here. Get the window open.” It's obviously not an instruction because she strides straight over to the already partially opened window, and pushes it open herself. The air outside is just as still, doing nothing to disperse the sweaty, adolescent pong offending her nostrils.

  “For God's sake, Mum,” I moan, rolling my eyes at Bradley. He returns my look with an embarrassed grin that forms a little dimple in his cheek.

  “Seriously, it's disgusting!” she says. “So, what time's the match? If you need a lift, you'll have to get a move on. Dad and I are going out in a bit.”

  I peer at the alarm clock on my bedside table. “Not 'til ten,” I tell her. “So we've got ages. And anyway...” I've finally caught Bradley's yawn, and I lift my arms above my head, cracking my knuckles together. “It's a home game.”

  “So you don't need a lift?”

  “I've got my bike,” Bradley says. His voice is low, thick with sleep. I like the way it sounds. “We're gonna cycle, aren't we, Josh?” He raises an eyebrow at me.

  “Yeah, sure.” I shoot a look at Mum, urging her to leave us in peace.

  “All right. Like I said, we're going out, and I'm not sure what time we'll be back.”

  “Where you going?” I ask, and her posture stiffens.

  Her tone is clipped as she gives her one word answer. “Oxford.” The hospital. Fuck. My stomach clenches, but before I have a chance to say any more, she carries on. “You can sort yourself out some tea though, can't you?”

  “Mum, I think I can manage some beans on toast!”

  Mum dramatically wafts her hand in front of her face. “Please Josh! No more beans!”

  “Mum...” I whine, but Bradley sniggers.

  “See!” Mum looks daggers at me. “At least Bradley appreciates my sense of humour!”

  “He's just being polite,” I tell her.

  “Well, good. At least he knows how to behave in someone else's house.” Mum runs a hand through her ginger hair. “I hope you laugh at his mum's jokes.”

  “Yeah, I do,” I say. “But Bonnie's funnier than you.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake! The abuse I have to put up with. I know when I'm not wanted. I'll see you later. And Josh….”

  “What?”<
br />
  “Don't be late.” She smiles at me. “I hope it goes well.”

  You too, Mum.

  * * * *

  I do end up making myself beans on toast when I get back. I take it up to my room and go online, checking Facebook to see if anyone's around for a chat. A few of my mates are, but the only one I really want to talk to isn't, so instead I resign myself to an evening of killing time.

  I open up my laptop, and with shaky fingers, type the word 'cancer.' Six hundred and seventy nine million results. Jesus Christ. I don't even know what kind of cancer my dad has, or even if he's got it. I'm pretty sure he had it a few years ago, but even that is hazy. I have vague memories of him going into hospital and having an operation, but I was never really sure what for. I don't remember the 'c' word ever being used, but just being aware of its presence, loitering silently in the background.

  I stare at the screen, unsure what to look at. So many words that mean nothing to me, but sound bad. Really fucking bad. When that appointment card went up I looked up Oncology. A branch of science that deals with tumours and cancers was as far as I got then. But now I have a whole list of new words to scare the shit out of me. Cells, abnormal, malignant, invade, destroy. Wikipedia helpfully provides an alphabetical list of cancer types. Apparently you can get cancer in body parts I didn't even know existed. What the hell is Hairy Cell Leukaemia?

  I click on a breast cancer site. I don't know why. Maybe because it's pink and colourful, and looks weirdly friendly, or maybe because at least I know it's safe to look at. It's not like my dad could have breast cancer. I scan down the list of bullet points. There at the bottom is: Understanding Male Breast Cancer. I hurriedly close that window. Fuck.

  Another word catches my eye. Secondary. What does that mean? If my dad had cancer before, then has it spread from wherever it started? Is that what secondary means? Further down the page, someone has asked the question, 'What is the chance of surviving cancer that has spread?' A clammy chill trickles through my body. I close my laptop down before I'm tempted to find out the answer.

  * * * *

  Bradley and Mia are by the lockers. He's got his hand on the door, swinging it lightly backwards and forwards as they chat. Mia's laughter is all high pitched and giggly, and she's carelessly running her fingers through her hair, the way girls do when they fancy someone. I can't blame her. If I was a girl, I'd be like a prize pony, shaking its mane whenever I was within spitting distance of Bradley. Mia's a really nice girl. Even I can see how pretty she is, although she wears too much make up. Her and Bradley got off with each other at Peter Clayhill's house party last term. Even though I hadn't had that much to drink, I still threw up.

  Bradley sees me and raises a hand to wave. Mia looks over and then turns back to him, her fingers rubbing lightly against his waist. “See you later,” she says.

  “Yeah.” He smiles. His voice sounds extra deep against her flirty tones.

  I walk up to him. My hand aches to brush away all trace of Mia's touch, but that would be weird, so instead I settle for a playful clap against his shoulder. “You back with Mia?” I ask as casually as my voice will allow.

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Mia? Shit, no. Is that what it looked like?”

  I shrug.

  He nudges me gently with his arm. “I can't be back with her anyway. I was never with her in the first place.”

  “That's not what Mia thought,” I tell him, and he sighs. He knows what I'm talking about. Mia's Facebook status changed to 'In a relationship,' after Peter Clayhill's party. Bradley's didn't.

  “Oh God....” He leans against his locker, his head dropping back against the metal. “I like her,” he says, making my guts twist. “But I don't like her, if you know what I mean?” The tight ball in my stomach starts to unravel. “Do you think I'm leading her on?” he asks, but doesn't wait for me to answer. “I would've thought after what happened at the party, she'd have realised, y'know?”

  “What happened?” I ask. “You know you never told me.”

  His hands go up to cover his reddening face. “Oh God, it's so embarrassing.” He gives a nervous laugh. “Look, I'm only telling you this 'cause you're my best mate, okay?”

  I nod.

  “Put it this way. I must be the only guy in this school who can't get it up for Mia Franks.” He's not.

  “I'm really worried about Jake's party this weekend. I think she thinks we're going to get it on again. And the thing is, she's pretty and all, but she's not my type.” He shakes his head. “Far too much make up.” He sounds like he's trying to justify it. I know how that feels. “And besides...” He straightens up. “There's somebody else I like.” He looks directly at me, running his fingers through the blond strands of his hair. The buzzer goes, signalling the start of the next lesson. “Come on,” he says. “We're gonna be late.”

  * * * *

  It's obvious Bradley's already been drinking by the time I get to the party. He looks up and waves a heavy hand somewhere in my direction, as his unfocussed eyes meet mine. Mia's sitting in the middle of the sofa, with Jason Alder on one side of her, and Bradley on the other. She's chatting to Jason, while her hand rests lightly on Bradley's leg, absentmindedly stroking against his chinos, like he's her prize bloody poodle or something. I take a sip of the drink I've been given, some bright blue concoction that looks every bit like Antifreeze, and by the way my taste buds contract when it touches my tongue, it probably is. Standing on the outskirts of a small group, I feign interest in their conversation by offering a laugh or smile every now and then, but still my eyes keep fixing on that irritating hand and the way it creeps upwards a little with each stroke. I gulp down my drink, and reach for another one from the row of glasses on the coffee table, all shimmering with turquoise liquid.

  Several drinks later, the lights and noise in the room are making my head swim, and I almost miss the yell from Bradley's side of the room. “Josh!” Chloe pushes at my arm, and I swing round to see Bradley lolling against the side of the sofa, his arm outstretched towards me. “Joshy,” he slurs. “Come 'ere.”

  Mia's arm is draped around his shoulder, but she moves it away when I get there. “What's up?” I ask.

  His arm hooks around my neck and pulls me towards his face, his breath hot against my ear. “I'm fucked,” he whispers. His glazed eyes do their best to focus on mine. “Help me.”

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask, trying to keep my voice low, even though the beat in the room is loud, and control of my speech is hindered by the several glasses of blue crap I've drunk.

  “Ah shit, yeah, okay,” he slurs. Even to my muddled brain it's obvious he's making no sense at all. He turns his head to Mia. “I've gotta talk to Joshy here.” He lowers his voice just below foghorn level. “He's got some problem he needs to talk to me about.”

  I'm too confused to even try to decipher Mia's reaction before Bradley rises unsteadily to his feet and pushes me towards the stairs. “Come on, mate,” he says.

  He opens the first door on the landing. Inside is dark and cool, untouched by the party's sweaty atmosphere. Although the incessant beat from the music quiets as he shuts the door behind us, a muffled pulse still pounds in my fuzzy brain. Bradley flops onto the bed, and fumbles with the lamp on the bedside table. At first, the light wobbles under his fumbling hands, casting a shaky glow over the world of pink we've found ourselves in. Bradley turns onto his back, stretching his arms high above his head. “D'you think this is Jake's room then?” he sniggers, eyeing the pink duvet cover, curtains and knick knacks scattered around the place.

  I laugh. “Yeah, I reckon Jake's well into pink.”

  A giggle bubbles from his mouth. “It's like a five-year-old's room. I thought Jake's sister was older than him.”

  “Yeah, I think so. I dunno, only like a year. Isn't she a dancer?” I look up at the shelf of trophies above the bed. “That's where they've gone. A show or something.” I'm feeling unsteady, so I sit down on the end of the bed, nudging Bradley's feet out of t
he way. “Budge up.”

  He lifts his feet up, simultaneously toeing off his trainers and flinging them across the room. He plonks his socked feet into my lap. “Jeez, I'm so fucked, Josh.” He lets out a massive sigh.

  “You're not gonna throw up, are you?” I ask him, scanning the room for a bin. Unsurprisingly, there's a pink one under the dressing table.

  “Nah, I'm okay, I think,” he says. “I just needed to get out of there. It was doing my head in, all the noise and Mia and everything. Thanks.”

  “No problem. What are mates for?” I try to focus on the row of trophies, but they just blur and swim in front of me.

  “So, what's this problem, then?”

  “Huh? You said it, not me. I thought you were trying to get Mia off your back.”

  He rubs his hands over his face. “I dunno, you seem quiet at the moment. Not your normal self.” He prods me on the arm. “You know, your normal, weird self.”

  I shrug. “I'm fine.” My head's spinning. “I've drunk too much of that turquoise crap, that's all. I feel a bit sick.” I reach out for the bin and put it by my feet.

  “You look like shit,” he says.

  “Thanks, mate!” I shove him gently on the shoulder, but my hand rests there, my thumb brushing lightly against the crook of his neck. When I look at his face, all I notice is the sheen of light on his wet bottom lip, and how it dances and shimmers in front of my eyes. His mouth looks so soft, I could just dip my head down and kiss him.

  “Come on, what's the matter?”

  I'm so fucking scared.

  “Nothing.”

  Bradley drops his head back against the pillow. “All right. I just thought....”

  A sudden wave of drunken emotion rushes through me, and I shut my eyes tight, embarrassed by the tears threatening to force their way out.

  “I'm... it's... it's... my dad.... I think he's….” I draw a shaky breath into my lungs. “I think he's got cancer.” Hot, fat tears squeeze out from behind my lashes.