“Would you do it again?”
A sound squeaks out of my throat, and I turn to look at her. What I see elicits another chirrup from me. She’s not wide-eyed, her jaw’s not set, teeth not clenched. Instead, her head’s tilted to the side, and there’s a line between her brows that almost looks sympathetic.
It could be a trap.
“Would you?” Her voice is so quiet. I only hear because I’m staring at her mouth.
“Hot dog and a chocolate fudge sundae?” says a waiter, interrupting the moment and saving me from the trauma of answering. We pull the side tables out, and he places our food and drinks down in front of us. A heavy dose of sausage meat and onions hits my nostrils, and my stomach cramps with longing.
I have to be honest with her. She has to know that I can’t keep this part of myself to myself any more. I’m twenty-four, am I just supposed to pretend for the rest of my life that I don’t have a need to explore things further?
I guess it doesn’t have to be with Pi, even though I’ve spent the past three weeks thinking of nothing but his lips, and his moustache tickling my nose, and the hard warm press of hisbody, and his massive fake tits, and the way he just tucked his cock back into his hot pants afterwards like it was no big deal. I suppose it could be with any dude.
“Would it ruin everything we have if I said yes, I would kiss him again?” My breath stutters as I say this.
“What do you want to happen here?” she whispers. “Do you want me to break up with you, or . . . ?”
“No, I don’t want that. I love you, but you should know the truth, and if you decide to end things, I totally understand. It’s one hundred per cent my fault. I just don’t want you to hate me.”
“I don’t hate you, babe.” Megan looks me right in the eyes as she says this.
“Sshh!” It’s the row behind us. I hadn’t even realised the movie had begun.
“Sorry,” I say, turning around to see a man and a woman on the sofa. “We’ll shut up now, promise.”
“Oh shit, you’re Finn Eggington,” the guy says. He turns to his companion. “That’s Finn Eggington.”
“Ssshh!” This comes from the row behind them.
I face the screen, and Megan lifts my left arm, dropping it over her shoulder, and snuggling up to my chest.
I eat my hot dog, watch Jonathan Bailey, and try—but fail—not to think about my friend and teammate, Aiden Campbell.
The house lights switch on slowly, giving people’s eyes a chance to acclimatise, but most folk are already on their feet, gathering their belongings. Neither Megan nor I move. I’m desperate for a piss, and I know Megan must be too since she has a bladder the size of a gnat’s pinkie, but we stay still. As though time has stopped. Maybe if we don’t move, life won’t see us.
Her sundae sits untouched on the fold-down table, looking more like a shake than an ice cream. The guy from the row behind asks me for a selfie. I stand, snap a pic quickly, and sit back down.
“I don’t remember a single thing that happened during that film,” Megan says a few moments later.
“Me neither. I’m sorry, that’s my fault.” I’ve ruined one of her favourite movie franchises.
“It’s . . . fine, actually. I’ll go watch it in a couple of weeks with George.” She grabs my hand with both of hers before speaking her next words. “I don’t want to break up with you.”
“But?” I say, because at this point the “but” is bigger than the rolling credits on the screen.
“Honestly? No buts. I still want to be with you. I’ve been thinking a lot—all the way through the movie in fact—and I think we’ve always had . . . an unusual relationship. We’re not like regular couples. You know? Like we could go months without seeing each other, or DMing. Half the time, neither of us even knows where the other is. You have a kid. I’ve met him like one time. He called me Auntie Bum Bum because he couldn’t pronounce Megan.” She laughs. “What we have works out well . . . for us. We can just keep things casual?” The last part is a question.
“So you don’t want to break up with me?” It’s like she’s saying everything I need to hear, but at the same time, I’m not fully buying it.
“No. For two reasons. One, there ain’t nobody—literally nobody—who gives head like you do.”
I doff my imaginary hat. Gotta learn to take a compliment when one’s thrown at you.
“And two . . . I mean, we’ve talked about this before,” she says. She must see the confusion in my expression. “About thedistinction between matters of the flesh versus matters of the heart and head.”
Memories come flooding back, and I laugh. “Okay, yeah, I remember that conversation now.”
It had been, quite literally, one of those drunken campfire discussions where I’d spent the entire time wondering just how stoned my girlfriend really was, and whether either of us would recall it the next day.
