Page 17 of Sunshine Boy

Despite his inarticulate rambling, Aisling seemed to understand. She offered him a charitable smile that, just a few months ago, he would have mistaken for vain superiority, but which today, in the tropical warmth of the flower shop, seemed to Rahul so compassionate he could have cried.

“I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I was rather unkind to you. Mostly because I never understood how you really felt until it was too late. Putting myself in your shoes, I wouldn’t have liked me very much either. So let’s say we’re even and leave it at that, eh? Forgive and forget.”

She held out a hand for Rahul’s. He tentatively put his hand in hers. It was cool and damp and soft. She squeezed his hand with earnest affection that Rahul felt he didn’t deserve. When she let him go, he almost felt worse than he had before her forgiveness. He’d had her pegged wrong all these years. Why did it take something awful like Julian stepping out on her and her dumping him for Rahul to finally realise that they could have been friends all along? He really was a human pile of refuse.

Aisling put the finishing touches on the bouquet, wrapping the parcel in a shiny white ribbon that matched the fresh, dew-speckled white flowers nestled in the paper. She held it out to Rahul gingerly, the way one might hand over a baby, and smiled a brilliant smile around her vivid pink lipstick. “Here. On the house.”

Rahul hadn’t thought it was possible to feel worse, and then she had to go and do something like that. “No, I couldn’t possibly. How much is it? Really, I don’t mind.”

“No, no. They’re on me. Just tell your nice new boyfriend where you got them. In case he’d like to repay the favour. And tell him I said ‘hi.’ Maybe we can all grab a pint sometime and you can introduce me.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” Rahul said with a forced smile.

They stood there awkwardly for a moment before Aisling said, “Well. You know where to find me. Don’t be a stranger.” She said this with a measure of sadness in her sparkling green eyes, as if she knew she would never see him again but wished it didn’t have to be this way.

Rahul forced another tight smile, turned tail and left before he could achieve another, wholly unpleasant level of gut-churning guilt.

Chapter Nine: Why Can’t I Touch It?

Julian was flitting about Michael’s flat like a goth butterfly. He would alight upon the armchair to retrieve his shirt, duck under the table to fetch his boots, dither in front of the hallway mirror to triple-check his reflection and tweak his hair to back-combed perfection.

Michael, reclining on the sofa with a copy of The Guardian and a cup of Earl Grey, sipped and said, “You’ll make yourself dizzy.”

“I can’t be late for work again,” Julian moaned for the fifth time that morning. “Mel’s family and all, but even she’s had it with me. She’s told me as much. She said if I don’t get it together she’s gonna start docking my wages. I’m already short on rent this month as it is.” He spirited away to the bedroom for some elusive purpose, voice getting louder as he disappeared from view. “And that’s the third month I’ll be late on my rent. I’m on notice as it is. I’ll have to give my landlord a blowie if I’ve any hope of not getting chucked out.”

“You’re short on rent?” Michael asked as Julian reappeared. This was the first he was hearing about it.

“Yeah, sorry, I won’t be able to go out as much until I’ve got it sorted.” He leaned over the back of the sofa to peck Michael on the cheek. “So long as you don’t mind me staying over and raiding your pantry.”

“I can lend you money if you’re hard up,” Michael said, frowning.

Julian coloured and shook his head, edging towards the door. “Nah. You don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine. Honest, I will. I was only joking about giving my landlord a blowie.”

“Look, it’s fine.” Michael chuckled, rising from his seat to retrieve his wallet on the credenza. He could never understand how proud the working class could be about matters concerning something as trivial as money. He had it in abundance and Julian was in need of it. It was only logical he should accept it when it was freely given. “You don’t have to worry about paying me back. Whenever you get around to it. Never, even. Consider it a gift.”

“No, really, Michael. Don’t.”

Ignoring his protests, Michael withdrew a hundred-pound note from his wallet and pushed it into Julian’s hand. “Hopefully that’s enough to cover whatever you owe on the rent. If not, let me know.”

Julian’s fist clenched around the note, his gaze distant and inward all at once. Michael thought he was trying to work up the courage to thank him, but when he finally spoke he said, “I wish you wouldn’t do things like that.”

Michael frowned, taken aback. “Things like what?”

“Like this.” He held the note in his fist between them, looking at his own hand as if he suspected it of being an imposter. “Just giving me money. Makes me feel like a whore or something.”

Michael blinked at him from behind his Cartier glasses. That had been the farthest thought from his mind when he’d made the decision to lend him money. Though some amount of bribery may have been in his subconscious.

Julian had repeatedly told him that nothing was wrong, but Michael had noticed a subtle yet distinct shift in him ever since the night of the double date. It wasn’t the disgust or fear Michael might have expected. Those were even sentiments he might have understood, considering how Michael had treated him. Yet Julian’s change was harder to grasp. He seemed to be… waiting for something. Michael would catch him sometimes, just looking at Michael, watching him. Waiting. He would roll over in bed to find those enormous blue eyes laser-focused on him, searching his expression, trying to decipher him, trying to work out when the wait might be over.

Not having the slightest idea what Julian might be expecting, Michael felt increasingly uncomfortable and more than a little paranoid. He had been particularly strict with himself since that night, keeping his darker nature on a short lead and doing everything he could to appear the attentive, affectionate boyfriend. He had even stopped following Julian as much, telling himself he was trusting the young man and doing the right thing, as if the boy in question might somehow subconsciously sense how considerate Michael was being.

But with this bizarre scrutiny, every kiss Michael gave him, every kind gesture, every innocuous statement, Michael rethought and questioned: was this what he was waiting for? No? Could it be this? Why wasn’t it this? What if he changed it, did it differently? Would it be “it” then? He was becoming increasingly more desperate, and it wasn’t as though he could simply come out and ask Julian. The boy had already said that nothing was wrong. If he insisted, Julian would simply become frustrated, possibly tell him he was projecting. And what if he was projecting? He felt guilty, after all. Perhaps he was only seeing a change in Julian because he expected to see a change. If that night had really changed how he felt about Michael, he wouldn’t continue to let Michael touch him, continue to enjoy their lovemaking, continue to come over to eat Michael’s cooking and cuddle up with him on the sofa as they split a bottle of wine.

So perhaps it was equal measures bribery and to assuage Michael’s guilt that he had offered him the money. But in many ways this had always been Michael’s final recourse. After all, what else did his family have to offer but that?

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Michael said, trying not to sound snappish. “How is this different from me buying you dinner?”

“It just is,” Julian said, looking at Michael as if he’d grown a second head. “Being out on a date, treating me to a drink or food, that’s normal. That’s couple stuff. You’re not handing me money, giving me the price of dinner.”