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If he wanted to, Oliver could call any number of people to meet him for a drink or split a pizza or go and watch a film. He could call his mum and get an invite to go round for dinner, or one of his former classmates who he was still in contact with and sit in an elegant wine bar, sipping more mulled wine.
The one thing he didn’t have—and hadn’t in a long time, if he was honest with himself—was someone to go home to. He hadn’t taken anyone home to his bed in a while. Hadn’t visited anyone else’s in even longer.
Dating in his thirties had proved to be a nebulous beast. Gone were the days when Oliver went to a gay bar, danced all night, took shots of brightly coloured liquor that tasted disgusting, and stumbled home at two in the morning with someone half-dressed and moderately attractive.
Those nights had defined his twenties and Oliver had no regrets—absolutely no regrets—those times had been a lot of fun.
He was just looking for a different kind of fun these days.
Feeling melancholy, despite the excess of cheer in the air, Oliver went home alone.
Did you know that guy you hate is a famous author?
Jack seriously considered throwing his phone across his living room in frustration.
I don’t really care Stu
He is though. Oliver Rowe. Look him up.
Jack didn’t have time to look him up—Stuart sent him a long list of links, starting with Rowe’s Instagram, then an article from when he’d won an award and worn a very well fitting tuxedo to the awards ceremony. Then several links to his books.
Then Rowe’s website.
Stuart wasn’t subtle; Jack knew what he was doing.
Despite what Stuart (and Darcey, for that matter) thought, his dating life was just fine. He’d broken up with Gary earlier in the year because Gary was a prick who hadn’t come to terms with his own internalised homophobia, and the emotional wounds from that relationship had taken a while to heal. It was healthy to take a bit of a break when recovering from something like that. It wasn’t like Jack couldn’t get laid if he wanted to.
He’s not my type
LIAR!!!
That was Darcey, Jack could tell the difference between their texting styles.
Jack hit the button to call Stuart. Darcey picked up.
“Stu says he’s really cute,” she said instead ofhello.
“Stuart has terrible taste,” Jack drawled.
“Rude.”
“In men. You shouldn’t interrupt people, Darce.”
Jack examined his fingernails and fought a smile.
“He does have terrible taste in men, come to think of it. He thinks Robert Downey Junior is hotter than Chris Evans.”
“Not this argument again.”
“This argument forever, Jack.”
“Don’t I know it. You know there’s been, like, a hundred Marvel movies since those came out?”
“I don’t care. I like the classics.”
“I know you do.”
“So, tell me all about him.”
