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“I’m not trying to sacrifice myself for the team,” I yell. “I’m trying sacrifice myself for—I’m not trying to sacrifice myself at all. I just…want to be with yez and I can’t if I work for you.”
“But—” Jonathan tries again.
But nothing. I’m not letting himbutme so Ibuthim first. “And no offence I think you’d make a better boyfriend than you do a boss.”
He scowls. “Then perhaps I should date the entire branch.”
“You should dateme,” I tell him real earnest like. “Because you want to. Because I want to. Because we’re both allowed to have nice things even if we tell ourselves we aren’t.”
“It’s not that si—”
“Itis, Jonathan. It’s exactly that simple. Unless you’re going to tell me you’re secretly an alien from the planet wanker, and you need to go report back to your people and even then, tell 'em to fuck off. It’s not a good planet in the first place.”
He’s not scowling so much now. He’s almost letting himself look amused. “Why is my home world called the planet wanker?”
“I don’t know. It may come as a shock, but most times I ask afeller out he doesn’t ask me to invent science fiction universes off the top of my head.”
“You’re still basically calling me a wanker.”
“Yeah, it shows how well I know you.”
“Except you don’t know me.” He grips his mug tighter than ever. And I remember, once again, that we’re having this emotionally fraught discussion in the corridor of a Premier Inn. “You’ve got amnesia. If you…if you remembered what you thought of me, you wouldn’t be here.”
I really wish I’d never started the amnesia thing. Although I guess if I hadn’t, I’d have been sacked three weeks ago along with everybody else. “Jonathan, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re surrounded by people who care about you, and want to spend time with you, even though they are fully aware of what a complete dick you can be sometimes.”
“They’re my family. They’re required to.”
I sigh. “They’re not required to. They choose to. Just like I’m choosing to.” Honestly, this is crossing the line from romantic into humiliating. If I’d realised he was going to be this stubborn, I’d have brought a PowerPoint. “Because, Jonathan, you’re not the boss of me. Not anymore. On account of how I quit. And I’m staying quit whether you date me or not.”
As soon as I say it aloud, I realise how true it is. This isn’t just best for the team, it’s best for me, Jonathan Forest or no Jonathan Forest. I’d sort of convinced myself it didn’t matter what job I did. But, looking back, I think it was just a symptom of…of…stuff not mattering in general for a while.
I’m still getting nothing from Jonathan, which is the worst sort of rejection because it’s like he can’t even be bothered to tell me to fuck off. On the bright side, at least I’ve got a good bad date story out of it. It’s not skydiving and vomit but in its own special way it’s scary, cold, and lumpy.
“Alright,” I say. Because there’s not much else I can. “Bye then.”
My stuff’s still in my room, which is only eight feet away. Between getting a taxi down here and then just going next door afterwards it’s a toss-up whether my big dramatic chasing him down moment or my big dramatic walking away was more pathetic.
In any case, it makes no difference. Because I only get about four feet before Jonathan catches me up, turns me around, and kisses me.
I wouldn’t say he’s calmed down exactly from the last time we kissed. More sort of honed. Which given how he runs his business doesn’t surprise me. He’s nothing if not efficient, is Jonathan Forest. Though at least in this he was willing to take some direction. Of course, the problem with a Jonathan Forest who’s taken direction is that it’s a Jonathan Forest who’s pretty much unstoppable. Because once he’s worked out how to do something, he does it all the way and so now he’s kissing me like he’s taking me apart. In the good way. In the didn’t-know-how-much-I-needed-this way. In the moaning, breathless, tangle-your-hands-in-his-hair-because-your-knees-are-going-weak way.
We fetch up against the door of my room and here’s me trying to swipe the key card one-handed without looking. I feel a bit like a straight bloke trying to undo a bra. From his general enthusiasm I get the impression Jonathan’s fine where we are but given the last time all we had was a sofa, I’d quite like to get him on a bed. Besides, we’re probably tanking the Tripadvisor score of this otherwise blameless hotel: couldn’t get my suitcase through because two blokes were getting off in the doorway, one star.
Of course, the other problem with being distracted from the door you’re both trying to open and leaning against is that when it does open, it catches you off guard. The door swings inwards andI pitch back into the room with Jonathan still clinging to me. He makes a valiant attempt to catch me romantically, but while he’s not exactly scrawny and I’m not exactly hefty, gravity is not to be trifled with. We end up in a heap on the floor and it seems falling over, like a fisting a chicken, is precisely the kind of sophisticated, cerebral humour that gets Jonathan going.
“Are you seriously laughing?” I ask once I get my wind back. “I’ve chased you across Sheffield, quit my job, poured out my heart, and gone base over apex in a Premier Inn. And that’s the sort of thing you find amusing?”
Jonathan eases himself to his elbows so he’s not crushing me quite as badly. Then grins down at me. “Mostly I’m just happy. Though also, as we’ve established, I’m kind of a wanker.”
“You’re happy you pushed me on my arse?”
He gets all flushed and sincere. And I like it, though I’m not used to it. “I’m just happy you’re here. That we’re here.”
“You soft bastard.”
“You were just complaining that I mocked your misfortune.”
“Aye,” I say. “I’m a complex man of many moods.”
