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“Nice enough to turn you into a football fan?” asked Oliver.
“Pftt!” Rafferty scoffed. “The drinks weren’t that good! And I can think of better things to do Saturday afternoon than watch a bunch of blokes kick a ball around. Don’t you worry, sports will never be my thing. Unless it’s tennis. Tennis is ace.”
“And civilized.” Oliver pitched forward, the rumble in his stomach urging him to eat. “No tripping, no punching, no spitting.”
“Unless you’re John McEnroe.” Rafferty let out a lengthy sigh. “Oh, Ollie, it’s good to hear your voice.”
“Why, what’s up?” He dipped a fry into the blob of mayonnaise on his plate.
“Only another disastrous date. Being a single fortysomething in London sucks.”
“What happened?” Oliver stuffed the chip in his mouth and chewed quickly, the yummy combo of salty and tangy making him temporarily forget his dismal day.
“A poster, Ollie. A poster happened.”
Slipping into a squint, Oliver swallowed his mouthful. “Go on.”
“So I went for tapas tonight with this guy. We talked for hours, shared several pitchers of sangria. By this point, things were starting to get, you know, spicy, and we couldn’t kiss without people staring, so I invited him back to mine.” Rafferty began speaking louder over a high-pitched whistling kettle. “We snogged the entire journey, gave the cabbie quite the show.” He laughed. “Then, we stumble inside, and he spots something, breaks away mid-kiss. I open my eyes and he’s staring at the Mystic Pizza poster on my wall.”
“Ah, you finally hung it!”
“Yeah, ’cause it’s the best birthday gift ever, thanks to you.” Rafferty’s voice lowered to a normal volume as the kettle’s squeal faded. “Shame my date didn’t agree. Within seconds, he blurts out this excuse about waking up early so he can hit the gym. Next thing I know, he’s racing out the door like my flat’s engulfed in flames.”
Oliver furrowed his brow.
“He didn’t say ‘Thanks for a nice time’ or ‘I’ll call you.’” The faint sound of pouring liquid filled Rafferty’s pause. “I got nothing, not even a half-assed wave goodbye.”
“That’s rude. Maybe he has a deathly allergy to Julia Roberts?”
Rafferty grumbled. “More like he realized that despite my advanced age, I’m still an immature loser who decorates his flat with posters like some spotty kid at uni.”
“Advanced age?” Oliver shook his head. “You’re forty, not eighty!”
“Might as well be.” His voice cracked, competing with the clink, clink, clink of a spoon stirring his tea. “Obviously, he thought getting involved with me was a daft mistake.”
The quiver in his delivery, the self-deprecating comments, the insomnia…Oliver knew the signs. Rafferty was sliding into the depths of melancholy, which, if left to fester, often deepened into a serious depressive episode. Since meeting ten years ago in a group therapy session, Oliver had always been there during the dark times, but with an ocean now between them, he couldn’t just whip ’round to his flat with takeout baked potatoes from Spudulike or sit by his side in silence, letting him cry or vent. It hurt to hear Rafferty so upset and be so far away.
Leaning over the couch’s armrest, he grabbed the pen and pad of paper beside the answering machine and wrote order Raff flowers, send chocolate care package.
“Raff, trust me on this.” Oliver shifted back into the couch’s cavernous cushions. “You’re not the mistake—he is. Anyone who doesn’t see how wonderful you are is an insecure jerk. You’re funny, stylish, smart as a whip—”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re my best friend. You have to say that.” A slurpy sip surged through the phone.
“Yeah, I do, ’cause if I say it enough, maybe you’ll finally see what I see,” said Oliver. “You’re amazing, Raff. Please don’t let this loser dull your shine. And seriously, why does he get to dictate what you can and cannot love? Small-minded people like him, they’re only happy when everyone else likes what they like. I think it’s great you love film posters and vintage magazines, and music festivals—”
“Oh! My second favourite f-word. Does this mean you’ve changed your mind about Glastonbury? ’Cause we don’t have to camp all weekend if you’d rather not.”
Massive crowds of drunk revellers, smelly porta-potties, torrential downpours, and the mud slicks left behind that sucked your rubber boots straight off your feet? It all added up to Oliver’s idea of soul-destroying hell.
Balancing on the emotional seesaw of wanting to cheer Rafferty up but also wanting to avoid false promises, he opted for the kind but honest approach. “I’ll definitely visit next summer, but standing in a muddy farmer’s field squinting at a band half a mile away…” He winced into a pause, hoping his lack of enthusiasm would provide a gentle hint.
“Oh, Ollie, you are SUCH a grandpa!” Rafferty sassed, the bounce in his reply curling the corners of Oliver’s mouth.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Grandpas always have the best candy!” He bit a fry in half.
“What? Like those rock-hard peppermint monstrosities? With the stripes? Ollie, for the love of ABBA, puh-lease spare me another rant about Polkagris and how they’re Sweden’s greatest sweet.”
“But they’re delicious and—”
