The Boy Toy - Nicola Marsh Page 0,35

his dad.

Samira would never deliberately do it, but first would come the pity, then the questions, then the changes: the waiting for him to complete sentences with the slightest hint of impatience, the occasional awkward glance away when he couldn’t get a word out, or the worst of them all, trying to finish a word or sentence for him. Fuck, he hated that the most.

So while he had no clue where things stood with Samira, he’d stop overthinking it, and what better place to do that than the rec hall?

Amelia wouldn’t be here today, though she dropped in occasionally on a Saturday afternoon like he did to build informal relationships with the kids. Building trust was the first step toward encouraging them to take part in the program once it was up and running. Being migrants and refugees, most of their parents hadn’t heard of speech therapy or they viewed health professionals skeptically.

That was where he came in. If the kids bonded with him over shooting a few hoops or kicking a footy, and he opened up about his own therapy, they’d be more likely to welcome Amelia’s intervention when the time came.

Pushing open the wire door that led to the courts, he spotted a motley crew of boys and girls aged from eight to sixteen. He knew most of them but spied a few new faces. Out of the group of eighteen, at least six kids could do with speech therapy. Two with stutters, four on the spectrum. Those kids tended to hang back and not engage with the others.

He knew the feeling.

It didn’t matter that he’d attended one of the best private schools in the city; kids still mocked the same the world over. It had been easier to shut his mouth than be ridiculed for it, and while he may have been tall and strong for his age when he hit his early teens, it didn’t make the bullies back off. If anything, they taunted more, hoping he’d lose his cool and end up fighting. He never had, but most days the punching bag in his workout room at home copped a beating.

He’d been to these courts several times now, and most of the kids knew him, but that didn’t make them any friendlier. Considering some had come from war-torn countries and witnessed horrific atrocities, he didn’t blame them for their mistrust of adults in general. But he persisted because he wanted them to have every chance of treating their speech impediments.

One of the kids, Davey, a boy of about nine, spotted him and waved. He felt sorry for Davey because Ds were particularly difficult for stutterers, so the simple act of introducing himself to anyone was tough on this kid.

Rory strolled over to the outskirts of the scuffed court where a half-hearted game was in progress, the older kids jostling for position and shooting hoops.

“Hey, Davey, how are you?”

“G-g-good,” the kid said, avoiding his eyes like he usually did, as if ashamed of his affliction.

“Shot any hoops yet?”

Davey shook his head, taking any opportunity to use a gesture rather than speak. Rory had done the same at a similar age. It had infuriated his father. But what was the point of speaking when it would earn him a pitiful glance or a sentence finished by someone else? Later, in his teens, he’d let his fingers do the talking, the middle one in particular.

“Want to join in the game?”

Another shake of the head, but Rory caught the longing glance Davey sent the other kids. One of them tripped, and the others laughed uproariously, but it was good-natured as they helped the kid to his feet and continued playing.

“Sure? It looks like fun.”

Davey reluctantly dragged his gaze from the kids to focus it on him, and Rory hated the pain in his wide eyes. “I c-c-can’t c-call out for the b-ball. It t-takes t-too long b-b-because I t-talk like this. K-k-kids d-don’t like it.”

Rory’s chest tightened, an ache that spread and made him want to rub it away. He knew the desperate yearning to be part of the gang but also the fear of being ridiculed that came with it.

He’d had no friends at school and didn’t have any now beyond acquaintances from the movie industry. His fault, for deliberately distancing himself from anyone before they got too close, a relentless cycle of holding people at bay for fear of slipping up, stupid and self-flagellating, because real friends wouldn’t give a fuck if he stuttered or not.

But it