Belinda McKeon - Tender

Nothing good, anyway. Nothing that could ever be allowed.

* * *

James was waiting by the railings of the arts block when she and Zoe came out of their Modern Painting lecture that evening; Zoe spotted him first, and ran over to him, waving and calling his name. Catherine held back, still shaken from what had happened that afternoon, still unsure of herself and of how James would be with her, but he was smiling, laughing as Zoe put her arms around him, kissing him; he looked at Catherine over Zoe’s shoulder, and winked.

“Surprise,” he said, as Zoe released him, and he stepped over to kiss Catherine.

“How was your day?” she said, too brightly, and she thought she saw a sneer or a smirk in his eyes for a moment, but no, she was imagining things; he was smiling just as before, and he was nodding.

“Good, good,” he said, indicating his camera bag. “I found myself a darkroom. It’s here on campus, actually. I bumped into your old flame Aidan this morning and he put me in touch with someone in the Photography Society.”

“ Aidan did?”

“Yeah. He knows the treasurer quite well, apparently.”

“Don’t you have to be a student here to use the PhotoSoc darkroom?” said Zoe.

“ Well …” James looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “Technically, of course. But the promise of sexual favors always opens a door or two, I find.”

Zoe screeched with laughter at this, grabbing James as though she had to hang onto him to stop herself from falling, and James, laughing himself, took in her reaction with obvious satisfaction. Catherine felt again the odd stab of jealousy she had felt in IMMA on Saturday, watching the two of them getting on so easily, so readily, but it was stronger this time, and it felt like real irritation; she had a sudden desire to step in and knock Zoe away from James, to turn the conversation around to something entirely different, something that was not fueled by this stupid, cheap innuendo. She hated the way Zoe fed on it, and asked with her eyes for more of it, as though that kind of talk was all that James was good for, the only language that he was capable of speaking—

“So I’m going to be on campus a good bit, that means,” said James, who had by now detached himself from Zoe anyway. “Which is good news, I think? Isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Catherine managed to say.

“ Of course it is,” Zoe added enthusiastically. “We can have coffee all the time! We can have lunch! I can introduce you to Simon!”

James raised an eyebrow. “Who’s Simon?”

“He’s my gay friend, ” said Zoe, making a show of fluttering her eyelashes.

James shot a look at Catherine. “Oh, yeah?”

“He lives in England,” Zoe said, more bluntly. “But he sometimes visits! He might be visiting sometime this year!”

“Oh, goodie,” James said drily. “I’ll put it on my calendar.”

“Ah, come on,” Zoe said. “Don’t be like that. We’ll find you another man in the meantime. Won’t we, Catherine?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, there’s always the LGB Society!”

“Oh, yeah.” Catherine turned to James guiltily. “I actually meant to say that to you. There’s a society—”

“Thanks, girls, but I’m all right for now,” James said curtly, and for a moment Catherine thought he was annoyed, but when Zoe cozied up to him again, he took her arm without hesitation, laughingly mimicking the purposeful face she was giving him.

“But first of all, James,” Zoe said. “Are you coming to the Buttery?”

“What’s in the Buttery?”

“Booze, at Tuesday night prices. And boys. Lots and lots of boys. Are you coming, Cits?”

“I have my meeting with Dr. Parker.”

“What meeting?” Zoe said.

“About the essay I want to write. About Sylvia Plath.”

Zoe grimaced. “Jaysus. OK, well, when you’re finished with your Dead Poets Society, you can catch up with James and me? OK?”

“OK,” Catherine nodded, and she watched them walk away.

“So, Citóg,” Conor said, coming up to her as she stood at the bar of the Buttery an hour later. “I hear you’re laying your pipe with The Doyle now. Jesus, there’s no stopping you.”

“What? Did he tell you that?”

“Sure he didn’t have to tell me. Sure the pair of you were spotted sneaking out of publications together yesterday evening.”

“For fuck’s sake! We talked for about a minute!”

“ Relax, Cits.” He put a palm to her forehead. “You’re very agitated. A bit like your friend over there.”

He indicated the table at which James and Zoe were sitting; several other people had joined them now, including Aidan and Liam, a Northern Irish guy Aidan had befriended lately in the library, and James was being the life and soul of the gathering. He was describing something now, wildly gesticulating, his face frenetic with hilarity and excitement; he was almost shouting, breaking down frequently with laughter, and Zoe, too, was shrieking with laughter, which was only egging him on all the more. He had been high like this when Catherine had arrived from her meeting, and in truth, he was slightly getting on her nerves; she had come up to the bar not because she needed another drink, but because she needed some respite from the noise. Still, it was one thing for her to feel like this about James; it was quite another for Conor to comment on him. She looked at Conor warningly now, hoping that this would deflect him, but as usual with Conor, it had the opposite effect.

“I’m glad you told me he was gay,” he said, smirking. “Sure I’d never have been able to work it out for myself. Sure look at him.”

“Sorry?” she said sharply.

“‘Notes on “Camp,” ’ Citóg. Ever read it? ’Cause I’m pretty sure your mate has.”

She saw from his reaction then — his eyes widened, his mouth frozen in the act of saying whatever it was next going to say — that her face contained everything that she felt in that moment. She was shaking with anger, and she saw him take this in, too; saw his eyes read this and decide something about it.

“Fuck off, Moran,” she said, the words spitting out of her. “Fuck. Off. Do you hear me? Are you listening to me?”

He tried to laugh, but the sound fell out of him, hanging in the air awkwardly a long moment. “Jesus, Cits,” he said, and he reached for her. “Here. Listen—”

“No,” she said, pulling away before he could so much as touch her. “I will not listen. I will not fucking listen. You listen to me. James is my friend. James is my best friend .”

Conor’s expression changed then, hardening, mockery pinching itself into it. “Ah. That’s sweet, Citóg.”

“And you can take the piss out of anyone you want,” she went on, clenching her fists now, “but you will not take the piss out of him. Not like that.”

“I’ll do and say whatever I like, love.”

“No. Not when I’m around.”

He laughed; a single, shocked peal. “Cits. Get a hold of yourself, for Christ’s sake. This is just embarrassing.”

“I am not fucking joking, Conor. I mean this.” To her horror, she found that she was close to tears; they were there as a pressing, growing fullness at the back of her throat, and now they were pricking her eyes. Conor, she saw, had noticed them, and at the sight of them, his scorn slid into something else — not concern, but astonishment — and he glanced over to James and back to her.

“This is insane,” he said, and for a moment he looked as though he was almost going to cry himself, but that was not Conor, that would never be Conor, and instead he lifted his chin and gave a short cough. “Fuck this,” he said, and he shrugged on his rucksack.