“I’ve got nothing to say to you,” she says snidely.
“That’s good, because I’ve got plenty to say to you and it’ll be so much better without any interruptions.” Elliot takes a step closer, so that his face is just inches from hers. “You have to be one of the most vacuous (look it up), inane (look it up), stupid (you should know that one) people I have ever met. And if it wasn’t for the fact that you have just really, really hurt my best friend, I wouldn’t even be wasting a single pascal (look it up) of breath on you.”
Megan turns to Ollie. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that?”
Ollie looks at her blankly.
Elliot laughs. “Oh, please. He’s probably too busy wondering whether this is a good time for a selfie.” He turns to Ollie. “It’s not, by the way; it’s a very bad time. But anyway—what was I saying?” He turns back to Megan. “Ah yes, you are easily, without a shadow of a shadow of a doubt, one of the ugliest people I have ever met.”
Megan visibly recoils.
Elliot nods. “It’s true. You’re so bitter and fake it actually oozes out of your pores. Just like pus!”
Megan gasps.
At this point, the waitress comes out of the kitchen holding the tray with our milkshakes. “Oh,” she says, when she sees us standing by the counter.
“It’s OK. We can have them over here,” Elliot calls, “with our friends.”
I look at him and he gives me the tiniest wink. The waitress puts the tray on the counter, then disappears back into the kitchen.
“Ready?” Elliot says to me quietly as we turn to pick up the glasses.
“Ready,” I reply.
We both pick up our drinks and we turn and we throw them over Megan and Ollie. And if there was an Olympic event for synchronized milkshake throwing, we would have just won gold. Megan and Ollie stand there gasping in shock as sludgy brown milkshake drips down from their heads.
“OK,” Elliot says to Ollie. “Right now? This would be an excellent time for a selfie.” Then he turns to me. “I think we’d better go.”
I nod. “Yep.” But before I leave I lean in close to Megan. “You’re pathetic,” I say. “And I’m not the only person who thinks so.”
Then Elliot and I turn and we run.
We don’t stop running until we’re up by the station. I clutch my side and try to catch my breath.
“Oh my God, that was epic!” Elliot gasps. “Even my favorite revenge fantasies aren’t that good.”
“You have revenge fantasies?”
“Oh yes. But they were nothing compared to that.” Then suddenly his face clouds over.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’d totally forgotten that I’ve run away.” We both look over at a homeless man lying in a doorway next to the station. His face and clothes are black with grime.
“There’s no way you’re sleeping rough tonight,” I tell him. “You’re coming home with me. I’m sure Mum and Dad won’t mind you staying over. They were only saying yesterday how much they’ve missed you since New York.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And then maybe we can get Dad to talk to your parents. You know how good he is in a crisis. He’ll know what to do.”
? ? ?
Dad knows exactly what to do. As soon as we arrive home and tell him what’s happened, he tells Elliot that he’s welcome to stay for as long as he likes and then he goes around to have a word with his parents. It turns out that Elliot’s mum had been really distraught when she read his farewell note—apparently his farewell note was five pages long so it was more of a farewell essay really—so she said she was going to have a serious talk with his dad when he got home.
We spend the evening eating pizza and watching old episodes of Friends and every so often turning to each other and whispering, “Oh my God, the milkshakes!” and dissolving into fits of giggles. It feels so good to have this kind of normality again. But all the time I’m aware of a nagging sadness deep inside me that no amount of pizza or laughter is able to heal.
At about eight o’clock, Elliot’s dad calls around, asking to have a chat with him. While they talk in the kitchen, I wait nervously in the living room. But there are no raised voices and at one point they even laugh. Elliot finally emerges with a nervous smile on his face.
“I’m going to go back home,” he whispers. “He’s said I can keep my laptop and phone.”
“But what about . . . ?” I give Elliot a pointed look.
“Apparently he’s going to go for ‘counseling”’—Elliot mimes some quotation marks—“to help him come to terms with ‘my sexuality.’?”
“Wow. Oh well, at least he’s trying.”
Elliot laughs. “Yes, very trying!” He hugs me tight. “Love you, Pen.”
“Love you too.”
Once Elliot’s gone, I make a mug of camomile tea and take it up to my bedroom. What a day it’s been. I think back to how I’d been feeling yesterday and I breathe a massive sigh of relief. Tom was right; it felt great being able to face the world again and stand up to Megan and Ollie like that.
I look down at the floor at the unopened Christmas gift from Ollie. I wonder what he got me. I pick the present up and tear off the wrapping paper. Inside there’s a framed photo—of Ollie. It’s one of the ones I took of him down at the beach. I can’t help laughing. What kind of person gives photos of themselves as a gift? I immediately think of Noah and the presents he gave me. Princess Autumn, the photography book, the song. All of them were about me, not him—the way presents should be. Once again I feel that crushing sense of pain and disbelief. He seemed so genuine, so caring.