Page 140 of In at the Deep End

This is ridiculous. He only lives next door.

And yet those little absences were beginning to leave surprisingly large holes in Owen’s day.

He couldn’t let things drift like this. Matt looked exhausted. Every conversation lately seemed to circle back to the dissertation.

Owen froze.

Perhaps that’s all it is. Maybe the poor guy simply needs a break.

When the idea came to him, he smiled.

Perfect. Exactly what Matt needed.

Owen had some arranging to do.

Matt sat in the conservatory, his laptop open, books scattered everywhere.

The chapter on vulnerability was Doing. His. Head. In.

Perhaps that was fitting.

It was arguably the biggest theme of his dissertation, asking questions that had followed male characters through decades of cinema. Which men were allowed to cry? Who got punished for showing weakness? Which men survived because they finally let someone in?

The issue wasn’t the subject matter.

The problem was that every time he read the word vulnerability, he thought of Owen, and his thoughts became an avalanche of statements that all pointed towards the same conclusion.

Owen doesn’t do relationships.

Owen loved Ben.

Owen has told me repeatedly that Ben was the love of his life.

Owen enjoys casual sex.

Owen has never suggested this is anything else.

I’m twenty-five.

Owen is fifty-two.

I fell in love.

That doesn’t mean he did.

Matt scrubbed a hand over his face. He wasn’t frightened of loving Owen.

He was terrified loving him changed nothing.

Because if Owen didn’t love him back, Matt was destined to become another chapter in an already extraordinary life.

He couldn’t bear that thought.

The dissertation had become an exercise in self-preservation. He told himself it wasn’t avoidance, but more a case of discipline, control.

Finish one thing before falling apart over another.

For four days he’d managed it.