by Lily Morton
“Shit, did I go to sleep?” I say groggily.
Misha looks over at me, his smile not entirely concealing the concern that’s been in his eyes for months. “As soon as we got out of the garage,” he says. “It appears that Taylor Swift actually has a somnolent effect on you, which has sent her a couple of points up in my estimation.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry.”
He looks blank. “Why?”
I watch his long fingers on the steering wheel controlling the car with such ease. I jump when I realise that I’m spacing out. “Because I just left you to drive while I went to sleep. You haven’t had anyone to talk to.”
He shrugs and clicks the indicator to turn left. “Yes, but I had your super-duper happy playlist to keep me company.”
I stretch and yawn widely. “Shit, I can’t believe I’m so tired.”
He shoots me a look before focusing back on the road. “Maybe this weekend is a bad idea. It’s going to be wall-to-wall drinking and…”
I know what he was about to say. There’s only one thing that Misha hesitates over, and that’s giving me his opinion on my current boyfriend, Harry. After we had words over Harry and didn’t speak for a week, Misha’s been religious about remaining neutral. I think back to that period of silence and wince. It was horrible.
It’s not like me to cut anyone off, let alone my best friend. I was brought up in a household that stressed communication and I knew at the time that Misha was right. I just couldn’t bring myself to admit it.
Something about Misha’s flippancy at the time caught me on edge. He’d seemed so gloriously removed from it all. Happy in his single state with no cares or concerns to interfere. Just endless hook-ups with beautiful men. After I’d shouted at him, he’d been so nonplussed that he lost his temper too. The result was the two of us licking our wounds and not talking for a week, while Harry wandered around with a huge smile on his face. There is nobody that Harry dislikes more than Misha.
Misha and I had given in at the same time, and I’d been so frantic with relief to have him back that even Harry’s ensuing two-week sulk hadn’t impacted me. If there was one fallout from the row, it was Misha’s new reluctance to criticise. It’s almost as if he’s frightened to poke the sleeping bear.
“I know you were going to say something about Harry,” I say in a singsong voice.
“Oh no,” he says quickly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You’d certainly dream of it. You just wouldn’t do it.”
I look around with pleasure as we drive along the seafront. Big Georgian houses, painted white and cream with the odd rebel blue, line the road overlooking the turquoise-painted railings that guard the entrance to the beach. The grey mass of the Atlantic Ocean is topped with white horses that hurl themselves onto the pale dun of the shingle beach.
It’s a dreary day, but my spirits still lift at the sight of the sea, and I wind my window down so I can inhale the scent of the salty air.
“Why don’t you just lean out of the window with your tongue out?” Misha questions.
I laugh as we draw up outside the hotel. This proves to be a cream-painted four-storey Georgian building.
“It’ll be fine,” I say. He looks at me queryingly, and I elaborate. “The weekend.”
I’d have been better off saving the convincing for myself. A half hour later, I stand at the window of my hotel room looking down at the view of the water and the pier. Night is drawing in, and the lights of the pier glow in the dim light. The distant sound of music can be heard even through the window.
I turn back to the room and sigh at the sight of the big bed. It’s made up with expensive linens and looks lush and inviting. Just right for a dirty weekend. However, the only thing I want to do is crawl under that heavy crinkly duvet, rest my head on the squishy pillows, and sleep for a week. I think about what Harry’s reaction might be if I tell him that and sigh. It wouldn’t be complimentary. He’s expecting this weekend to be a complete sex fest to make up for the fact that I haven’t wanted sex for weeks. He actually told me that, and I’d laughed at him even while knowing he wasn’t joking.
I sigh. Great. Sex is now an obligation to be filed alongside paying the utility bills and getting my arse crack waxed. It never used to be like this. I love sex. I have since I lost my virginity at fifteen to my boyfriend at the time. I love it gentle and soft and wild and raunchy. I love it in all its forms and nothing makes me wilder. But for the last month, I’d rather have had a cup of tea and an early night. The thought of someone on top of me moaning and groaning just makes me feel weary.
Especially Harry. I’ve come to realise that we have nothing in common at all. He likes expensive restaurants and seeing and being seen. I prefer not having to dress up all the time, and I’d be happy in McDonalds if it was with the right person. Harry is not that person. The only reason we’ve lasted these last few months is because I’ve been too knackered to have the row that will break us up.
The door opens, and Harry appears. He’s still dressed in his suit, and with his blond hair ruffled by the breeze, he looks as gorgeous as ever. His eyes immediately search the room, and when they land on me, he looks fed up.
“What on earth do you look like, Charlie?” he says disapprovingly.
“Sorry?” I ask, startled.
He looks me up and down. “You look awful.”
“I’m just tired,” I say coolly. “It happens to a lot of people.”
He shakes his head and dumps his bag on the bed. “How on earth can you be tired? You’re a librarian, not a heart surgeon. What could possibly make you tired? Overdue books?”
“Maybe it’s the worry of what danger befalls people who are criminally patronising,” I offer.
His brow furrows. “Sorry,” he says, crossing the room and drawing me into a hug. I stay stiff, and he kisses my hair. “It’s been a rough week for me, and I was looking forward to seeing you, but you look terrible.”
There’s a faint accusatory tone in his voice. As if it’s totally my fault that I look bad and have managed to spoil his day.
I push back. “Would it be helpful if I try and do better?” I say, unable to conceal the flippancy. “Maybe if I look better, then your day will improve.”
Incredibly, he nods. “You’re such a gorgeous man, Charlie. You need to take better care of your looks. It’s worth the effort.”
I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing, but he seems unconcerned. He kisses the side of my face, his breath hot. “So fucking gorgeous,” he whispers, running his hand through my hair. Unfortunately, he catches his fingers in a knot and has to struggle to get free. He draws back a little, and for a second I think he’s going to make a joke. Misha totally would. Instead, he frowns. “I don’t think you’ve even brushed your hair today.”
“Goodness, what a silly ninny I am,” I say mildly. “I hope my underwear is on the right way round.”
He chuckles and pulls me close, sliding his hands down my back to cup my arse. His cock is a steel bar against my very soft one, and I twist slightly so he can’t tell how soft I am. My hip brushes against his dick, and he groans before seizing my hair and dragging my head back so he can kiss my neck. For a second, my cock wants to stir. Maybe it’s muscle memory, because my neck has always been a hot spot for me. But nothing happens, and abruptly I’ve had enough and shove him off me.
He falls back panting and then groans when he sees my face. “What the fuck, Charlie? Not again.”
“I can’t,” I say. “I don’t feel so good at the moment.”
“When do you feel good?” he says curtly, marching over to his case. He opens it and starts rifling through it until he finds a shirt and a pair of trousers. He strips off his clothes to get changed. “You know something, I think you’re a bit of a fucking cock tease.”
“What?” I can hear the disbelief in my voice, but he just nods curtly.
“You get me all worked up and then switch it off like a fucking tap. You like the control. You just d
on’t like doing anything after you have it.”
I shake my head. “I’d stick to banking, Harry. It’ll go much better than a career in psychology.”
“Well, what am I supposed to think? You’re gorgeous and as cold as ice. You’re a massive prick tease.”
“I think you’re supposed to consider the fact that I have a condition that occasionally makes me feel shitty,” I say softly. “And as my boyfriend, it would be nice if you could try to understand it.”
I tried to talk to him about the epilepsy when we first started to see each other. He assured me that he understood, but I had a sneaking suspicion that he was lying. I ignored it because at the time I’d been blinded by his good looks and confidence. I hadn’t realised there was nothing else to him.
He shakes his head, pushing his feet into shoes. “That’s just an excuse.”
I stare at him in amazement. “Are you actually standing there and saying that I made up epilepsy to get out of sex? What a wonderful idea. Why didn’t I think of that sooner? It’s so much more original than claiming I’ve got a headache.”
“I’ve got to get out of here.” He glares at me. “I hate it when you’re like this.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “I’m not keen on it either,” I say coldly. I take a deep breath. I hate the end of relationships, and I’m guilty of always trying to see the best in people and hanging on for longer than I should. But even I can see when I’m being gaslit. “I think we should finish,” I say.
He gapes at me. “What? Why?”
“Because we’re not suited at all. I think that when we met, you just saw my looks and really that was all you were interested in. The fact that my appearance comes with a health condition actually repulses you.” He opens his mouth as if he might argue, and I hold my hand up. “I know that expression on your face, Harry. I’ve seen it before. It’s usually there on my date’s face when I come out of a turn and they’re leaning over me watching me like I’m an alien. You hate the epilepsy. It doesn’t fit your image.”
For a second he looks like he’s going to deny it, but then he decides on honesty. “It’s there all the time,” he mutters. “If you’re not having a seizure, you’re doing stuff to prevent another one happening. So no drinking or the gym. No staying out late in clubs where I can show you off. It’s like being middle aged before my time.”
I flinch. I’ve heard this a few times before. “That’s just the way it is,” I say steadily. “And you knew it. I was always upfront about having epilepsy, and my health has to come before your desire for me to wear skinny jeans and a tight shirt and hang all over you in clubs.”
“Oh, don’t sound so sanctimonious,” he says defensively. “It isn’t just me. Most blokes would struggle with something like this.”
“Actually, not most blokes,” I correct. “I’ve known a few who haven’t.”
“Oh, like Misha?” He sneers. “Perfect Misha. I bet he’s so good with you.”
“Actually, he is,” I say calmly. I stare at him. “Oh my God,” I say in dawning realisation. “This is about him.”
“What’s about him?”
“Me and you.” I shake my head. “I should have seen it, the way you were always grabbing me whenever he was near. You just wanted to get one over on him.”
He laughs, but there’s a look on his face that shows me I’m half right. “Your imagination is very appropriate for someone who works with romance novels.”
“Don’t knock them,” I advise him. “They’re immensely useful in helping to recognise a dickhead.” I bite my lip. “I just don’t know why you picked me to make a point with Misha. We’re friends, and he’s never been bothered by anyone I’ve dated in the past. In fact, he’s still friends with a couple of my exes.”
“Oh, really?” he says silkily. “Come off it, Charlie.” I stare at him, and he smiles. “You have no idea, do you?” He laughs. “Oh, that’s priceless. The two of you are so blind.”
I narrow my eyes. “I know you’re trying for enigmatic but you’ve just ended up with twatty.”
“What’s the point in being enigmatic when I could write it across the sky and neither you nor Misha would recognise the truth?” I look blankly at him and he shakes his head, his mouth pursed in irritation. “I suppose you’re partially right. I went out with you because I liked your looks and you’re great company when you’re okay. But I have to admit that I did get some enjoyment from rubbing Misha’s face in it a bit. He gets everything he wants—men, work, everything. It’s all so easy for him. He even has you running to him for everything you need. Any problem you have, you go to him. Any triumph, and he’s the first person you share it with. I got the one thing he couldn’t have in my bed. It added a little frisson to the proceedings.”
I hide my flinch. “It’s nothing to do with the size of your little frisson, Harry. It’s what you do with it that counts,” I say coolly.
He laughs, but there’s little amusement in the sound. “It’s that sense of humour that’s so attractive about you, Charlie. Pity you don’t live up to your shop front. Someone really should let people know that all those good looks of yours are just false advertising.”
“Tell it to trading standards,” I say coldly. “I’ll get another room.”
“Don’t bother. I doubt I’ll be back to stay here anyway. There are plenty of other men in Brighton. You’re not the only one.” He looks hard at me. “Stay here. It doesn’t mean anything to me. But you keep this conversation to yourself. I’m not having my fucking business being gossiped about over the weekend, particularly not by that wanker Misha. I’ll see you later.”
“Oh no. How on earth will I count down the time until I’m reunited with your amazing company?”
“You’re just like Misha,” he says sourly. “Entirely too flippant. The two of you deserve each other.”
The door slams shut behind him, and I stand there bewildered for a second. I’ve never had to be the one to break up a relationship before. In the past, they’ve come to a mutual end, and I’ve stayed friends with most of my exes. There’s always been this vague worry when the relationships ended that I was making a mistake. I’ve never actually experienced trying to break up with someone who was reinforcing that desire with every syllable he uttered.
I huff and grab my jacket. I’m going for a walk along the seafront to clear my head.
Misha finds me half an hour later sitting on the beach looking out to sea. It’s wild tonight, frothing and roiling onto the shingle, as if it’s cross that it can’t take the beach over.
“You’re fucking nuts,” Misha observes baldly, his long legs folding under him so he can sit next to me.
“And you came to that observation how?”
“It’s fucking freezing out here, and you’re sitting in just a thin jacket. Not to mention the fact that you’re sitting on fucking pebbles.”
“It’s fine,” I say, shifting position and only now registering my arse’s displeasure.
He throws something over my shoulders. It’s a very soft violet-coloured blanket.
“Where did this come from?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Pinched it from the hotel patio. They’ve got heaters there and these blankets.” He shoots me a jaundiced stare. “And virgin Irish coffees with loads of whipped cream. But then why would you want that when it’s so pleasant sitting on damp rocks?”
“Misha, you really are a baby,” I say peaceably. “They’re pebbles, not boulders, and it’s not that cold.”
“Of course not, and you’re pulling that throw around you like it’s Jason Momoa simply because it’s got a nice thread count?”
“Don’t taunt me with Jason,” I say solemnly. “It’s cruel.”
Misha laughs and looks at me closely. I’m not sure what he sees in the dim light, but he immediately throws his arm around me and hugs me.
“I’m not saying anything about Harry,” he says, and I huff out a laugh. “I’m not,” he says indignantly. “I’m just positing a hypo
thesis that if he behaves like an arsehole this weekend, I will punch his lights out. Ah no,” he says as I open my mouth to object. “No commenting on my hypothesis.”
I almost tell him what happened with Harry earlier but change my mind. There would be drama, and that’s not fair at Jamie’s birthday celebrations. “Saying the word hypothesis constantly doesn’t make you brainy,” I say solemnly.
He laughs. Then his smile dies. “I’m also saying that whatever happens, I am here for you, and that will never change.”
“Never?”
“Never,” he says firmly, and I nestle into his warmth.
My mind strays to what Harry said. There was a smidgeon of truth in his analysis of my relationship with Misha, and it jabs. Misha and I do rely on each other, sometimes to the exclusion of others. We always have done. He’s the first person I turn to with anything, and he’s the same with me.
Misha’s my best friend and the best part of my life. But that also means trouble, because I want a relationship with a man someday. A true partnership like my dad has with Aidan and Jesse has with Zeb. I want someone to laugh with and talk to late at night. I want someone to snuggle up to on a cold night and someone safe enough to have rows with.
But I need to come to terms with the fact that if I’m to have a successful relationship, I have to let go of some of my closeness with Misha. I have to replace him with the faceless man of my dreams.
I sigh silently as I rest my head on his shoulder, and we look out to sea. The trouble is that I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to lose Misha. Which leaves me where? I roll my eyes. A mess as usual.
Chapter Six
Misha
I sense trouble as soon as Charlie and Harry come into the bar. I’m standing near the huge fireplace warming my backside and cradling a glass of malt whisky when they appear.
Charlie arrives first. He’s dressed in black skinny jeans with a tight black jumper, and he’s carrying the grey tweed coat that I bought him for Christmas last year. His hair has been slicked back and he looks unusually sleek. Harry arrives a few minutes later dressed all in black, including his expression. He looks like someone has vomited into his underwear.
