“I’m saying you’re wearing the same hoodie you wore the last time I came over, and though you’re cute as hell in it, it looks as if its chemical balance might need a little adjustment too.”
Finding stuff in Luke’s kitchen is far easier than I anticipated. He’s pared down his cutlery drawer since I last visited, which makes me feel as if hot chocolate is running through my veins as well as heating up in a pan on the stove. Like fridges, his food cupboards have internal lights which come on when the doors open. Very cool. I make a mental note to see about installing them in my own place.
I sense Luke’s not hungry, but I make him eat anyway. Given that I’m not seeing him again for a while, I draw out being here for as long as possible. I praise each mouthful swallowed like he’s a toddler, until he rolls his eyes at me.
“What’s the problem?” I cut another piece of toast, slathered in butter, into soldiers. “I’m new at this situationship business, okay? Give me some slack.”
“I thought you didn’t dosituationships,”he observes around a mouthful.
“I’m making an exception for this guy I met recently, who keeps diva plants alive and has the sweetest-tasting dick. And who is a little bit stubborn, a little bit shy, even a bit self-conscious, but way cooler than he thinks he is. He also cures flaky rashes. Anyways, he’s turned my head.”
Not yanked or tugged. Just made me look. Made me want to look again and again.
“He’s also quite flaky himself some of the time.”
“Thus he makes me feel useful.”
I take Luke’s empty plate away, then stand over him until he’s drunk every last drop of chocolate. Turns out I’ve developed a nurturing side. Perhaps it was there all along, waiting for the right reason to reveal itself.
“Right,” I say, satisfied he’s adequately nourished. “Sleep time for you, young man. Hop into bed, lie down, and don’t move until morning.”
“This sounds like a robbery. My watch is a fake, you know. Not worth stealing.”
I’d say something corny—the only thing stolen tonight is my heart—but I’d make myself feel unwell, never mind Luke.
Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed, holding his cool hand in mine.
“I’m sorry you had a rubbish day,” he murmurs sleepily, tilting to look up at me.
“Shh. It doesn’t matter at the moment.” His hood has slipped a bit, and I tuck it back into place with a surge of protectiveness. I guess he’ll remove it when I’ve gone. One day soon, I hope he’ll trust me enough to not wear it at all.
“If I text you every day, will you answer? If only to remind you to ensure you water my lilies? Especially the imaginary one. He’s a delicate flower, needs a lot of pampering.”
“Is that what you want?”
“Of course. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” I bring his hand to my lips and kiss each knuckle, one by one. “I’m not saying I like it, but I’m trying to understand that you don’t feel like seeing anyone. But I’ll worry if I don’t hear from you.”
“I’ll do my best. Don’t take it personally if I don’t. The mobile signal is patchy around the house.”
I nod, despite a nagging in my gut that says he’s not telling the whole story. Not lying, merely trimming the edges. Next time he has a downer, I’m staying put. He’s falling? He falls into my arms, not some lumpy damp Welsh bed. Or we’ll travel to this cottage in Wales together, even though, for a city boy like me, desolate countryside makes me feel as if I’m about to have a starring role in a true crime podcast.
But for now, it’s time for me to go. I lean across to kiss him. “I’m taking you out on another date when you’re feeling up to it, rash whisperer. Just so you know.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Only if you can’t handle being spoiled.”
Five days later, I haven’t heard from Luke. Alaric doesn’t seem terribly concerned, but then his situationship is in his house and his bed every single fucking night. Mine—if Luke counts—is who knows where: choking on the scent of cow shit in some godforsaken rural Welsh outpost.
He warned me he’d disappear inside himself, so I’m trying not to take it personally. But,fuck,I’m not accustomed to waiting around for the hot guy to callme. In the quiet of my flat, as doubt inevitably creeps in, I’m both comforting myself and defending him out loud.He’s not stringing me along. Luke’s not like that. He’s ill.I leave my phone unmuted; every text and every call has me reaching for it. When a fortnight slides by,concern curdles to annoyance. I can’t help it. I need to know he’s okay. I need him generally. And yes, I know I’m a selfish bugger. So far, I’ve had a couple of bland one-line texts assuring me he’s feeling a bit better and one of a muddy field full of sheep. How hard would it be to phone? For sure, he’s dealing with his mental health, but another quick text or call isn’tthatdifficult, is it?
My niggling worries about Luke, combined with trying not to take out my frustrations with my eyes on Ezra, add up to me not being the most fun person to be with. Who’d have thought? The bar staff give me a wide berth, that’s for sure. Unless I’m simply not spotting them in my vicinity, thanks to my worsening peripheral vision. And those little white pissing tablets? Nope, nope, nope. Without Luke’s gentle encouragement, they can absolutely get in the bin.
Ezra, pushing forward with our plans for expansion, arranges a meeting with the health and safety inspector. Cue more realms of paperwork. Which is how I find myself, down in our windowless basement, sandwiched between him and a very nice lady from the local council. We have one torch between us. It’s musty and cold, and, thanks to tripping down the last few uneven stone steps, I’m nursing a bruised tailbone, stinging palms, and a wounded ego. I laughed it off, of course, but now, squinting at a complicated blueprint dictating the legal requirements for escape routes and ventilation, I’m clinging onto the end of a very frayed rope.
With one of his elegant fingers, Ezra indicates to the confusing diagram on his iPad. His nails are immaculately painted—jet black—and I experience a pang of envy. He can accomplish that without painting half his hand, too. I tried my toenails a couple of days ago and… let’s just say I’m glad I was sat on the bathroom floor tiles, not my bedding.
“I think we should make this area here the principal muster station and fire exit,” Ezra states. The health and safety womanhas trotted back upstairs to check the precise coordinates of the building’s sewage outflow. “What do you think?”
