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For an hour or two, he's a different person. We're in the kitchen making breakfast, and he's almost like the Juice we patched in years back: happy and lighthearted. He claims my kitchen looks like it's owned by an old lady. I make eggs and tell him that I don't like redecorating. He makes coffee and toast and says that buying a kettle from this century isn't really redecorating. Or what about a water-cooker? Well, a kettle cooks water, doesn't it. So that's that.
He holds up the crocheted potholders my aunt made for me. I hope you didn't make these, he says and the serious tone of his voice makes me laugh. I slide the eggs over on plates and promises him a pair for Christmas.
When we sit down to eat I get this strange feeling of familiarity. It makes me think of Fiona. It's nice to have company for breakfast.
"You often eat breakfast with your sleepover guests?" he asks, cutting a piece of his toast.
"I don't have guests that often. But if someone's here, of course they get breakfast."
"Not that often, huh, you leave with girls all the time."
"Not all the time," I argue, "less than before."
He lights up as he discovers my radio hidden in between salt- and pepper shakers and a canister with sugar that used to belong to my grandma. You radio is also from a different century, he says and turns it on. It's just static at first, but then he tunes into a local rock station. They play Sabbaths 'Fairies Wears Boots' and his entire face breaks into a wide smile. I had forgotten about that smile. Genuine happiness meets childish discovery.
"Sabbath okay?" he asks.
"Absolutely."
"I think it's it's hard to connect," he starts and gets a thoughtful look, "I mean, the crow-eaters, they're fun, but I feel like I can't talk to them about stuff. With all the crazy things that's been going on, can't really talk to anybody."
"I know the feeling, kid." All too well, I think. "It'll pass."
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In the end, I fuck it up. I get caught up in the idea that he could be like this all the time, and ask him why he doesn't just come clean.
"Juice, whatever it is, it can't be that bad. And the guys, they won't kick you out for that stuff with your Da. You should know that."
I'm glad he's almost finished with the breakfast, cause he just stops eating instantly, put his knife and fork down on the plate. I wish I bit my tongue instead of saying anything, cause that carefree kid is gone in a second. His shoulder sinks together, his head bows down, his eyes won't meet mine. It's like his body has collapsed. It makes him look small.
"I doesn't help to come clean," he says. "I've done something I can't change."
There are plenty things that are hard to fix. But 'can't be changed', that's something different altogether. Around here, it usually involves a dead body. I look at him till he looks at me, eyes worried, and I realize I hadn't thought about that. I thought it was something small, a stupid secret he had to keep, like having a black Da, or wanting to fuck guys or... I don't know. Not something that 'can't be changed'.
I reach out and touch his hand over the table. He doesn't pull away, but his hands are cold. I'm going over everything that has happened the last couple of months in my mind, trying to figure out what he's done.
"Am I gonna regret this?" I ask.
"This what?" he asks cautiously.
"This. Being close."
He looks away and nods. "Yeah, you're gonna regret this." His breath hitches before he adds: "You're gonna hate me."
I'm gonna hate him.
When I get up to give him a hug, I know it's the last one we'll have for a while. The pieces are still not in place, but when he's says it like that, I know he's right. He stands up, not knowing what to expect, and gives me a relieved look when I put my arms around him. He grips me tight, breath warm against my chest. I bury my face in his neck with a sigh.
Familiar. And then gone.
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