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“That’s great. I’m glad.”
“You?”
He nods. “Yeah, good.” He drops the damp, crumpled napkins on the bar and sits on the closest barstool. He gestures to the one beside it. “Do you want to talk?”
Do we have anything to say to each other? We’re not lovesick teenagers anymore. Our lives have probably gone in wildly different directions. I doubt we have anything in common anymore. Except we do, or we wouldn’t both be here right now.
“Sit,” he says with a touch of firmness to his voice.
I sit so fast that they’d use canned laughter if this were a comedy show.
“What are you doing now?” he asks.
“I’m a librarian.” Hey, look at that. I can use multisyllabic words again. “At the British Library,” I add.
“Wow. The British Library? You used to love visiting. I bet it’s a dream come true to work there.”
I don’t want to smile, but I can’t stop my lips from curling upwards. “It is.” I sip my drink. What’s left of it anyway after I threw the rest of it over us. “What about you? Are you still playing rugby?”
“Yes.” His grin widens. “I’m a tighthead prop for Harlequins.”
“A—?” I can’t help but smirk. “You’re making that up.”
He laughs, reminding me how damned beautiful the sound of it is. “I’m not. I’m part of the front row, along with the loosehead prop and the hooker.”
“I—” I shake my head. “Who came up with those position names?”
He shrugs. “No clue, but I should go back in time and thank them.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because telling you my position made you smile.” He reaches out as though he’s going to graze his knuckle over my cheek like he used to when we were sweethearts. He doesn’t. He drops his hand onto his huge thigh instead.
“Playing for Harlequins was your dream,” I recall. And the reason we broke up.
“Look at us, both living our dreams.” He gestures to me. “And you’re into Daddy kink.” He presses the point of his finger against his chest. “And so am I. What are the odds of that?” He looks at me as though he’s expecting me to give him a mathematical answer or something.
“I don’t know.”
“I’d guess the odds are pretty low, but you were always better at maths than me.”
“Hardly. English was my best subject.”
“And my worst.” He scratches his jaw. “I came out.”
“That’s great. I’m glad.” I stumble over my words. Was that the right response? “When?”
Was that an appropriate thing to ask? It’s not as if it’s my business. I’m not sure why he told me. Yet I can’t help but be curious. I want to know when he came out and why he decided to come out. My heart hurts almost as much as it did the night we broke up. Maybe he found someone worth coming out for. Fuck knows I wasn’t that guy.
“Not long after I started at the academy. I came out to them. To my parents.”
“Your—were they okay?”
“Yeah. They were. They were great, in fact. They hugged me and told me they loved me.”
“That’s great. I’m pleased for you.” I am. I never met his parents, but I always wanted to believe that they would accept him for who he was no matter what. I’m glad I was right.
He reaches towards me but lets his hand fall short again. “I went to find you after you’d gone to university.”
