Free Gaudete by Amy Rae Durreson Page B

said, “Steady on, mate. Alright there?”
    “Yes, er, thank you,” Jonah managed, feeling his cheeks go scarlet. “Sorry.” He looked up, but the words dried up in his throat and he could only blush more. His rescuer was exactly the sort of gorgeous Jonah never had the courage to approach: laughing brown eyes and dark curls pulled back into a ponytail, and was that actually a rainbow-striped plug in his earlobe? It certainly looked like one, and even Jonah’s crappy gaydar couldn’t misread that, unless it was just a statement of solidarity or a fashion statement, or maybe this was just a chap who liked rainbows, and oh God, he really, really needed to stop staring now.
    But Mr. Gorgeous was staring back, his eyes wide and a little amazed. Just as Jonah was starting to wonder why, he said, that warm voice suddenly uncertain, “Joe? Jonah? Is that you?”
    Jonah gaped at him. Now that he could see past the initial rush of attraction, the guy did look familiar. It was in the brightness of his smile and the way he hunched his left shoulder in uncertainty. If you trimmed his hair down to an even inch and stripped off a foot of height and ten years of age….
    The way the corners of his mouth turned down in disappointment sealed it. “Dude, I’m sorry. I thought you were an old friend….”
    “Callum,” Jonah breathed, and smiled.

1998
     
    T HE ICE - SKATING choirboys were the funniest thing Callum had seen all day. For a start, they were all wearing long green dresses and they kept falling over on the ice, and there was some old posh bloke flapping around pointing a camera at them and bellowing encouraging words that clearly none of them were listening to.
    He snickered a bit, and then said hopefully, “Mum! Can I go ice skating?”
    “No,” Mum said without turning around.
    Callum sighed heavily and kicked the side of the stall, making the chestnuts rattle on the grill. “I’m bored.”
    “It’s only for the weekend, lovey, and I can’t afford the skating.”
    “We can’t afford anything good,” Callum complained, and then felt awful when he saw Mum’s shoulders sag. You weren’t supposed to talk about money or the fact they didn’t have any, and you weren’t supposed to get in the way when Mum was trying to make some, neither, even if it did mean you spent every weekend sat round the back of the stall at some rubbish craft market or car boot sale.
    He wasn’t going to say sorry, because apologizing made his throat go all tight and hurty, but he could change the subject. “Can I just go and watch the skating, then?”
    “I don’t want you wandering off on your own.”
    “Mum,” he groaned. “I’m not a baby.”
    “You’re my baby,” she said, which was even worse. Yuck.
    “Mother,” he said, as seriously as he could. “I’m eight. ”
    “Exactly,” she agreed, and then turned away as a couple of customers drifted past. “Hot roast chestnuts, pound a bag!”
    Callum waited until she’d finished the sale, swinging his feet, before asking, “ Please can I at least go and watch them skating? Please, please, please, plea—”
    Mum sighed. “Fine. Don’t go anywhere outside of my line of sight. Don’t talk to any grown-ups you don’t know….”
    “…Don’t take sweets from any strange men, and don’t get in any strange cars,” Callum finished. They did stranger danger at school at least once every half term. “I know.”
    “Go on, then,” Mum said, and though she was trying to sound stern, Callum knew she didn’t mean it. “Mr. Know-It-All.”
    Callum bolted away before she could change her mind, hurling himself across the cobbles in sheer relief at being able to move. He was going so fast he didn’t stop before he hit the side of the rink with a satisfying bang and bounced straight off again, landing bum first on the muddy grass.
    “Are you okay?” a very polite, very posh voice asked, sounding worried, and Callum looked up to see one of the choirboys looking down