I say over the top of him. I reach down to the floor and pick up a shirt that’s lying there. It’s not mine, but it will do. I don’t want to have this conversation naked. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, post-coitus probably isn’t the best time to be doing this, but I feel the need to open up to him, I need to give him something about me. I feel so guilty right now, like I’m leading him astray and tricking him into caring about me, he needs to know what he’s getting into. “I’m listening,” he says, his eyes boring into me. “My family isn’t dead Elliot. They're all alive and well – as far as I know anyway – they kicked me out when I was fifteen, and I’ve been lying and saying that they’re dead so people don’t question me.” I let it all out in a rush of breath and then hold it, waiting for him to react. “They what?” he asks looking down at me, deep furrows between his brows. “They’re not dead,” I repeat. “No, no – I got that; I’m asking about the other part.
