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“I wouldn’t have thought that was the sort of thing you’d care about.”
“Rude.”
“No…” He looked flustered—which was not devoid of charm. “I just meant… There’s all kinds of masculinity, aren’t there?”
“Says the rough-handed, bearded man who lives on a boat.”
One of those rough hands clenched anxiously. The ironic thing, of course, was that I used to have rough hands myself: calluses from holding pencils and paintbrushes, the occasional nick from a palette knife or abrasions from making my own canvases.
“It’s not about that,” he said. “I just wanted something that wasn’t—I wanted something to help me be different.”
“And that includes Personalised Towpath Rescue?”
“You’ll take the piss.”
That was worryingly accurate for someone who barely knew me. “Do I look like I’ll take the piss?”
“Yes.” But he cast his eyes wearily to the ceiling and continued anyway. “It’s the same thing. About being different. I don’t know how to do that except day by day, one act at a time.”
“That’s very deep,” I told him, deadpan.
He shot me a look I couldn’t read—a little bit teasing but also a little bit not. “I get that it’s trite. But it’s where I am.”
“Geographically or emotionally?”
“Both. And if I wasn’t, you’d still be on that towpath.”
I’d never been good with sincerity. Or rather my sincerity was what I saw and how I saw it, traced through brushstrokes like fingers on skin. Except now I didn’t even have that, and all that was left was suggestive looks and snide remarks.
“Anyway”—Leo was once again directing his attention to my propped-up foot—“this needs ice.”
Not the most subtle of segues. I rolled my eyes. “Where are you going to get ice at this time of night?”
He laughed. Then stopped laughing abruptly when he realised I hadn’t intended to be funny. “Back in a bit,” he said.
Predictably, he was far more prepared than I was for the weather, pulling on boots, gloves, a slouch beanie that ought to have looked abominable, and a heavy-duty waterproof fleece before vanishing up the stairs and out into the night. It felt odd being on the boat without Leo—after all, he belonged there, and I didn’t—but it let me indulge my curiosity a bit. As much as I could, anyway, while bundled in a blanket and stuck on a sofa.
What surprised me most was the way such a restricted area—basically a corridor—could feel so…unlimiting. And this from me, someone who could catch a whiff of claustrophobia from a lover lying too close in bed. Perhaps it was the cool, clean lines of the wooden floor. Or the use of colour, simple though it was—the ceilings and the upper half of the walls painted cream, with accents in a wintery grey-blue only a few shades paler than Leo’s eyes. Or perhaps I just liked how neat and compartmentalised everything was: the galley kitchen separated from the sitting area, where I had been settled, by a rather adorable dinette. There was a wide window right next to it, blinds drawn over it now, but it was easy to imagine what it might be like to sit there, in that carefully constructed space, with the quiet of the river all around and the flow of the light unhindered.
The thought shivered through me uneasily. Had I ever pictured myself in the other house when we had first been shownit? Even when Edwin had said the attic would make a wonderful studio? Or had I simply followed him around, waiting to catch love like the flu, or pretending that his love was enough for both of us?
The doors opened briefly to readmit Leo and a swirl of cold air. He stripped off his outerwear efficiently, stowing it in a cupboard next to the staircase. This, too, I found disconcertingly appealing—his practicality and the way it felt as much a part of the boat as the boat seemed a part of him. Because he had designed all this, hadn’t he? Probably built it too. He had laid this wood. Fit those shelves. Set these cushions where he wanted them to be. He moved through his fifty-something-foot world too confidently, too instinctively, for it to be otherwise. Everything had its place because he had made it so.
Would his hands place me if I allowed them?
He had, I saw belatedly, collected a bagful of ice from the river and its surroundings. No wonder he had laughed at me earlier. After crushing it against the kitchen countertops and wrapping it in a tea towel, he brought it over and helped me settle it against my ankle. It took a moment or two for the cold to soak through the cloth, but it was exquisite when it did, easing the hot, stretched-too-tight skin. So strange, so oddly decadent, for such a pleasant chill to exist in the all-encompassing warmth of the boat. I melted into the sofa with a sigh so deeply felt it was as though it had swum up from my toes.
And suddenly Leo didn’t seem to know what to do with himself.
“Sit,” I told him, lifting my legs so he could slide beneath them.
Since there was nowhere else for him to go, unless he retreatedpointedly to the dinette, he settled next to me—and partially under me—on the sofa. He was no closer than he had been when checking my foot for breaks or helping me wrestle off my jeans, but it was different. We both knew it was different.
“I haven’t been very grateful,” I offered finally.
“You don’t have to be.”
I couldn’t help flinching as he settled his hand over the ice pack, holding it in place for me, but it felt good. Too good. “I don’t want to be someone who needs to be taken care of.”
