I edge towards him. ‘Well that was…’
‘Yeah.’ He says it with black comedy, exactly like when he was joking with the medics on TV. It’s so him, it makes my chest loosen a little.
‘Where’s your family?’ I ask.
‘I didn’t really feel like… company. I only got out of the hospital an hour ago.’
I halt. ‘I can leave?—’
‘No, that’s alright.’
‘That’s fine, I’ll go?—’
‘Stay,’ he says, firmer. ‘Please.’
The lift’s loud ping plummets this to new levels of awkward.
‘Ok,’ I whisper.
We’re close enough that he could touch me if he wanted to. The skin’s raw under his jawline. His hands are spotted with friction burns, or maybe they’re second-degree heat burns. But, honestly, if those are the worst there is, it’s a miracle. He must’ve shagged Florence Nightingale in a past life.
His face softens with boyish amusement. ‘You have a zit.’
Before I can die inwardly at coming here on a spur-of-the-moment decision and not making myself presentableat all, his hand’s closing in on my face. I instantly recoil, shielding my chin. ‘Don’ttouchit. It’s disgusting.’
He laughs weakly. ‘Nothing about you is disgusting, Butler.’
I’m about to take way more pleasure in that than he probably meant when he turns like a stick man and baulks with a groan.
‘Neck?’ I offer.
‘Yeah.’ He cups the back and his breath sounds heavy. I wish there was something I could do.
He slowly starts shuffling towards the living room and I close the door behind me. ‘Did the doctors not give you a neck brace?’
‘And look like Avid Merrion? No thank you.’
‘Oh yes, wincing every step is much cooler.’
‘Shut up,’ he says, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
I stay in nice hotels all the time but this is something else. Panoramic views of the city cloaked in darkness, and one of the biggest living rooms I’ve ever seen. Every single surface is spotless. I run my finger along the sideboard to confirm it.
‘What brings you to my door at ten p.m.?’ he asks, pausing by the sofa in a pained way that’s obviously an attempt to stall sitting.
‘I…’ I can’t tell him the real reason,obviously. What kind of heartless schemer would I be if I did that? I just wish my excuse didn’t feel so weak now I’m standing in front of him, my laptop heavy and obsolete in my bag. I’ve got no choice but to forge on. ‘I figured there’d be some gaps in your noughties TV knowledge – with it being thrust on you by teenage girls and everything. I thought we could… rectify it.’
Why do I feel so embarrassed? I wrote a Substack about the curse of embarrassment, and yet my hands are currently saturated.
An eyebrow quirks for me to go on.
I clear my throat. ‘There’sGossip Girl…90210…The O.C.…One Tree Hill. Or we could just forget?—’
‘I haven’t seenOne Tree Hill.’ He slides his hands in his pockets. ‘It’s about basketball, right?’
He’s… open to the idea?
Really?
