Merry Measure - Lily Morton Page 0,1

unerringly picks the queue that begins to move as soon as we join it. Things even go smoothly in Customs. Usually, my naturally guilty expression results in me being searched and asked prying questions about my intentions, like I’m a drug-smuggling Mr Darcy, but today we sail through. Probably because of Jack’s choir-boy expression.

We emerge into the bustle of the Departures lounge. I inhale the scent of coffee and look hopefully over at the nearest coffee shop. Jack shakes his head, but obligingly makes his way over to it.

The place is warm and bright, with Frank Sinatra in the background entreating everyone to have themselves a merry little Christmas. I lean against the glass display case, eying the baked goods as my stomach rumbles.

“Are you having caffeine withdrawals?” Jack asks, coming up next to me. “You’re looking rather jittery.”

“That’s the understatement of the year,” I mutter. “I was in a bit of a rush this morning, if you didn’t get the memo.” He laughs and leans against the counter as I place my order. “Want something?” I ask him. “A croissant?”

He makes a face. “Not this early, thanks. Anyway, they’re full of sugar.”

“That’s the best bit,” I say, mystified.

“I’ll have a cup of green tea, though.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Why?”

Humour tugs at his full mouth. “Because it’s very good for you and gets rid of toxins.”

“So does coffee.”

“Since when?”

I wave my hand airily. “It was in some study I read.”

He chuckles, and I take my drink, smiling a thank you at the barista. I remove the lid immediately and, closing my eyes, inhale the scent greedily.

“What are you doing, Arlo? Don’t you normally use another orifice for drinking with?”

I open my eyes and direct a mock glare at him. “Don’t rain on my moment of holy communion. This smell has the power to make me wake up, regardless of how much sleep I’ve actually had.”

He shakes his head, taking his own drink and smiling at the barista. She looks like she’s considering swooning. I can’t blame her. I’ve been close a few times myself.

“How do you cope with school hours, Arlo? Or do your students come in a lot later than I remember?”

I smile at him. “They’re six, Jack. They come in when they’re dropped off by their parents, and knowing some of those, I’m eternally surprised that we’re not forced to do sleepovers. Private schools are run by the parents. Don’t let anyone ever tell you any differently.”

He laughs and makes his way out of the coffee shop, the crowd obligingly parting for him like he’s Jesus with a bread roll.

I follow him, attempting not to ogle the gorgeous swell of his bum in his jeans. It’s a losing battle and one I’ve fought since I was eleven and eating soup in the kitchen of my family home. Young Arlo had looked up and seen a vision at the door—Jack in sweaty football gear that clung to his fifteen-year-old body like glue. And then Young Arlo had promptly had several revelations about his sexuality. He’d had to shelve thinking about them for a few hours, however, because he inhaled a crouton and, while choking, fell over and knocked himself out on the kitchen table.

Not my finest moment, but looking back, not my worst either.

That summer, I spent several months following Jack and my brother around, much to my brother’s mystification, as we were at that point in our relationship where he frequently wanted to batter me. I ceased my youthful pursuit of Jack when two things happened. The first was that my brother threatened to pull off my arms and legs slowly and then tell mum, if I didn’t stop following him and impeding his wooing of his crush at the time. The second was that Jack got himself a girlfriend—Samantha Hampson. I’d wallowed in misery for at least a month, and then my natural optimism surfaced, telling me that he’d notice me soon and that Samantha was a total ho and unworthy of my beloved.

He never did notice me, of course. Samantha went the way of many of his girlfriends, and then, after he came out as bisexual, his boyfriends. They were all perfect-looking, and they dated exclusively and generally looked like something from toothpaste commercials. But invariably something went wrong, and they’d vanish, only to be replaced by the next perfect specimen.

I curl my lips at the thought of his latest one. Steven, who is spectacularly good-looking but also a complete twat. He’s cold and deeply possessive