by Donna Alam
I tilt her head as, through streaming eyes and nose, Fin huffs out some semblance of a laugh. ‘Oh no, please not the patter.’ Her eyes are shining as she lifts her gaze to mine. ‘Lord save me from a smooth talking devil.’
I smile as my stomach unclenches, but before I’ve a chance to answer, the kitchen door swings open, an arc of bright light drawing both our gazes.
‘Ah, shite,’ I hiss out under my breath, because there stands Beth, head to toe in pink, looking like Psycho Barbie’s older sister. The evening edition. And that would be bad enough, but over her shoulder appears another of the bunny-boiler clan. Blonde and posh. Heavy on the sense of entitlement. What was her name again? Selena? Serena? Didn’t she have the same name as a city, or was it something to do with Africa?
‘Savannah?’ Fin says quietly.
‘That was it!’ I exclaim, as the pair at the door gasp, then say my name in unison.
I tighten my grip on Fin’s waist. I might be screwed six ways from Sunday, but I’m not letting her go without a fight. Turning my head from the mental twins, I can’t make out the look on Fin’s lovely face. Her eyes are so blue they shine, though the way she has one eyebrow quirked makes my balls feel a little anxious. I resist stepping out of kneeing range, but her body isn’t actually tense. And is that . . . maybe the ghost of a smile? Hopefully, it’s not the vengeful kind.
‘Friends?’ Her tone is bland, but her question cryptic.
There were definitely benefits in the . . . connection with these two, but hand on heart, we were never friends. I shrug, because only a nutter would repeat what just went through my head.
‘What can I say?’ I shrug. I fucking shrug again! ‘I’m a friendly sort of man.’
‘Yeah,’ she agrees, her gaze slipping absently to the kitchen door and then back again. ‘But tell me, is there anyone at this party you haven’t actually screwed?’
My expression twists as, this time, my mouth runs ahead of my brain.
‘Does the prospective groom count?’
Forty
Fin
So it’s official. I have flu, or rather I had flu, and truly? I can see how it used to wipe whole populations out. In fact, for a day or so, I’d have happily held hands with the angel of death as a way out. And for a couple days following that, I’d have happily given him Rory, because, man , he’s such a pain!
Man flu-shman flu. I know what it feels like; I had the same!
I do not like being his patient but like being his nurse even less. Yep, fully recovered now, Rory became ill next.
‘Can I get you anything?’ I ask, knocking lightly on the bathroom door.
‘The fucking will to live,’ comes Rory’s mournful response. ‘And some soup. Chicken.’ Despite his complaints, he must be feeling a little better, because he hasn’t eaten in a couple days. ‘And a hot toddy. Not with rum, with whisky.’
‘Is that wise with the medication you’re taking?’
‘What whisky will not cure—’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I reply, the sound of the shower drowning out the rest; I’ve heard this before. What whisky will not cure, there is no cure for. ‘ Bloody Scots.’
I’ve stayed with Rory since that night; the night I fell into his arms and threw up over his shoes. He’d said he’d take me home—once Savannah was done eye-fucking him and once Beth’s store of eye daggers was used—only, when he said home , he apparently meant his. By the time we’d arrived at his apartment—sorry, penthouse —I was in no state to complain. Shivering, feverish, weak with stomach cramps, and a headache that made it hard to see straight.
To his credit, he’s taken very good care of me, even refusing to leave me long enough to go pick up some clothes from my flat. Which means I’m currently wearing a t-shirt I could camp out in and a pair of basketball shorts that look more like culottes.
He’d called a doctor and regulated meds, held my hair while I vomited, even though it made him green himself. He kept me hydrated and held me when I needed to stand and he just . . . held me. For comfort. And I’ll never complain about that.
To begin with, I was too ill to argue. And afterwards, despite my best intentions, I wanted him in the bed, rather than perched on the edge. I can’t help it. It’s like a compulsion. As I began to recover, Rory insisted on telling me about Beth. I hadn’t wanted to hear. No. That’s not true; I needed to know, in a sick sense of what if . I human reaction, I think. And quite frankly, I’d needed some convincing, despite the raw anguish of his expression.
He said he knew she was lying that evening. That, given the circumstances he was brought into this world himself, he was always careful. That being rejected by your father is enough to make a man paranoid. That his first condom slip-up in many years of usage was with me.
Some of the other things he said were so outlandish, I didn’t believe him; not at first. Not until he’d showed me just a few from the couple thousand texts she’d sent.
Emails. The gay dating profile. The tracking app on his phone.
She sounds seriously unstable. But now she’s marrying someone else, and that’s a huge relief, to Rory. In his words, she’s someone else’s problem now.
The bathroom door opens, and out he strides. Washboard abs and a torso I’d like to wrap myself around. He looks lots better; a little thinner, still tired and slightly pale, but more like himself.
‘You’re my angel,’ he says, taking the hot drink from my hand. He smells divine; of expensive shower stuff, shaving cream and just Rory. And while he looks sexy in jeans, sophisticated in a suit . . . in pyjamas he looks divine. Navy cotton pants hang from lean hips as he rocks a torso that’s naked but for swirls of ink.
‘You shaved.’ My heart pitter-patters from his proximity, dipping with disappointment as he turns away. He pushes himself up against the padded headboard in a bedroom that would rival that of a five-star hotel, running his hand through his hair, which is shorter these days.
Bringing the drink to his nose, he looks almost blissful as he inhales.
Blissful for about five second, at least.
‘There’s no whisky in this.’
‘I know, but there’s lemon, ginger and—’
‘I didn’t ask for a bloody cocktail!’
‘I know what you asked for, and I know what you got.’ He’s a much better nurse than patient, but thankfully, his illness has been pretty short lived. Just as well .
‘What the f—why?’ He looks like a little boy who’d had his lollipop confiscated.
‘One, you’re pumped full of meds, and two, you didn’t offer me one when I was ill.’
‘I’d’ve risked the puking to give you one, believe me.’
‘Really?’ I reply, sliding my hand against my hip. ‘Because I heard your sympathy retching.’
‘There are those that pay to be puked on,’ he says, changing the subject.
‘I don’t want to know how you know that,’ I reply, perching myself on the edge of the mattress next to where he sits.
‘Between us, we could’ve made a fortune.’
‘I see you’ve got your sense of humour back.’ I can’t help that this makes me a little sad. Once he’s recovered, we’ll be forced from our little cocoon. It also means it’s time to come clean. Some of the stuff I have to tell him seems like ancient history.
‘Who says I’m kidding? At least about giving you one. I’d’ve risked a lot of things just to be close to you, ill or not.’
‘Rory,’ I say quietly. ‘I need you to be serious.’
‘Oh, I am,’ he says, reaching out for my hand.
‘That’s good,’ I say, taking the opportunity presented and squeezing his fingers back. ‘Because I have something I need to tell you.’ His expression falters, happiness exchanged for confusion, then a wary sort of acceptance. ‘You’ve been honest with me, but I haven’t really had the chance to tell you what I need to.’
His throat moves as he swallow, his gaze falling to our hands. ‘I don’t want to know if you’ve b
een seeing someone else. I mean, you’ve been here with me—for a week—and you haven’t had any calls, other than from your friends. If you’ve been seeing someone, it can’t be serious. Not yet.’
‘Rory.’
‘And if it’s not serious,’ he says, raising his head, his gaze steel grey and resolute. ‘I don’t need to hear.’
‘Rory,’ I repeat. ‘There’s been no one else, but there are things you don’t know, things the newspapers don’t even know. Wait; does that mean you’ve been seeing other— ’ Fuck; does that mean . . . ‘Have you being seeing—’ I halt. Don’t ask. It’s none of my business what he’s been doing. Or who.
His smile rises quickly. ‘When have I had the time? Between the new hotels and weekends hassling your friends. I only want you. And I don’t give a fuck what the newspapers or anyone says.’
‘But there are things you need to know about before. Stuff from way back. Before I was married.’
He blinks twice as he processes this. ‘And you want to talk about then?’
‘Not want, need.’
Placing the cup of hot liquid on the nightstand, he turns back to me. ‘You’d better get over here, then.’ And then he grabs me, pulling me onto his lap.
‘Hey, no manhandling,’ I complain, even as my chest aches from the thrill of contact. We’ve been so tentative around each other and then, of course, we’ve both been ill.
‘I haven’t held you in months,’ he says gruffly.
‘That’s not true.’
‘Okay, I haven’t held you in months outside the confines of the bathroom.’
‘That sounds kinda kinky.’
He huffs out a small laugh. ‘Sounds much less fun than it was.’
‘I’m aware,’ I reply, dryly.
‘Then don’t complain. Actually,’ he adds, grabbing my hips. ‘I think this would work better face to face.’
He begins to lift me, though I help once it becomes clear what he’s doing, unfolding my legs to straddle him. Once seated, I suck in a sharp breath; we’re so close, face to face, his silver grey eyes watching me so carefully, his hands on my waist. We stare at each other for a long drawn out moment, a moment where my heart begins to race. It has been months since we’ve been this close, but oh, my body remembers him. I ache to sink into him and my fingers burn with the need to touch.
‘This is difficult.’ Because I want to leave my fingerprints all over him. He smells so great—did I already say that? He’s so solid and warm, he feels like home. Or what home could be. I slide my teeth over my bottom lip to prevent myself from telling him these things.
‘The important things usually are,’ he says gruffly, his fingers stroking the sides of my waist. ‘What is it that you need to say?’
Something ridiculous , I don’t answer, because although I need to say this to clear my conscience, it seems so stupidly childish. It makes the decisions I’ve made since leaving home a complete joke.
‘Spit it out, Fin. What can be worse than hearing—’
‘That I’ve still got a husband? That I’m not divorced?’ His countenance clouds immediately. ‘I’m sorry,’ I add quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to sound so harsh.’
‘If you can handle still being married to the prick, I’m sure I can. For now,’ he adds weightily. ‘Same goes for what you have to tell me now. I’m guessing this is about your marriage?’ I nod. ‘It won’t be forever. And I want you, Fin. I think I’ve made that perfectly clear. Everything else is secondary.’
‘Okay,’ I say quietly. ‘Just remember, this isn’t about you.’
‘Me?’ He looks faintly confused. ‘What could I have to do with your marriage?’
‘This is not about you. This is more a reflection of me. The me of then.’ His mouth is suddenly a thin line as I inhale a deep breath and begin. ‘You know about my mother, right?’ He nods, a sort of taciturn motion, his fingers tightening on my waist as though in reassurance. Maybe he thinks speaking of her in these terms is uncomfortable. But a spade is a spade. ‘Look, I’m grown up. The things narrow-minded people may think or say—’
‘Still hurt.’ His thumbs caress now, his earnest expression bringing a lump to my throat. ‘I know.’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’ I look away because I can’t be this close and remain detached. I don’t want to cry; for either of our memories. ‘Back then, it was pretty shitty.’ I bite the insides of my bottom lip in an effort to stop it from quivering. ‘I think that’s probably why I lost my virginity late.’ His brow quirks in question. ‘Real late,’ I answer. ‘Like twenty-one. I’m not even sure what I was trying to prove.’ My gaze slides back to his all watery. ‘Because they said shit about me anyway.’
‘Kids can be cruel.’
‘Even to themselves,’ I reply on a deep exhale. ‘You had a hand in losing my virginity. Well, more than a hand, because technically, you can’t lose your virginity by the use of only hands.’
‘What?’ His question comes out quivering, like he’d like to laugh but isn’t sure it’s appropriate. ‘Surely, you lost your virginity to your husband, because you said—’
I shake my head, repeating. ‘You and I.’
‘You and I what?’
You know that saying; the one about understanding and the light dawning in a person’s eyes? Yeah, that’s not happening here.
‘You and I had sex,’ I say slowly, the rest coming much faster than I’d like. ‘Before I married. After college, I came back to the village because my mom was selling the house and I needed to pack up my things. We met at the County one afternoon. You know, the pub?’ I pause, finding myself nodding encouragingly, and though Rory inclines his head, barely, I’m pretty sure he has no idea what I’m talking about.
‘There were some bitches from school at the pub that afternoon.’
‘School?’ He looks kind of horrified.
‘No, I wasn’t at school. It was over. I’d left and hadn’t seen them in years. Unfortunately, they seemed to have decided they hadn’t had enough of being mean to me. And you stopped them—kissed me in front of them—hell, my toes curled and everything.’
He smiles, though I think bemused rather than with any sort of recollection, the warmth in his smile more related to my position on his lap, or perhaps my exuberance.
‘You had a tongue piercing.’ I lick my lips, an automatic reaction, not sure why the memory still causes such a subtle thrill. ‘It was my first time, not being kissed. It was the first time I’d had sex—but not in the pub.’
He laughs suddenly, his gaze sparkling with mirth. ‘I should think not—not for your first time.’
My cheeks heat, though it feels good to hear him laugh. Almost as good as it feels to have his hand on my waist. Stroking, as though his fingers ache with need as much as mine. ‘No,’ I agree, smiling. ‘Not in the pub. It happened later that evening. And I’m pretty sure it wasn’t your first time.’ If my laughter sounds forced, it’s because it kind of is. ‘I’m sorry, Rory. When you told me about your dad, of how you used to spend holidays at the cottage, I could’ve—should’ve—said then. God, my life is a walking clusterfuck!’
‘Fucking hell!’ And there it is; it might not be early in the day, but the light, it’s a dawning . ‘You had blue hair!’ he exclaims, his eyes wide and his smile . . . bright and unexpected.
‘You remember?’
‘I’m not likely to forget. Any of it.’ His fingers tighten, his gaze flicking over me like he’s recognising me all over again. I find myself smiling along with him, actively fighting against its fall, knowing what else I have to say. The idiocy I have to admit.
‘But then, the next day—’
‘Aye. You were supposed to come back.’
‘I did,’ I reply softly.
‘But I don’t . . .’ His brow furrows; whether he’s trying to recall, or he’s just remembered his shady morning activities, who knows.
‘We made plans, but when I got to the cottage the following morning, it looked like you’d change
d yours.’
‘I didn’t see you that day, or any other. And I looked.’
‘Look, we were kids,’ I say. ‘And you were obviously going through some things. I’m not blaming you for any of this, but when I saw you with another girl less than twelve hours later, I’m not gonna lie, it was a kick in the gut.’ And something I’d vowed never to experience again.
‘Another girl?’ he repeats, not without scepticism.
‘Dark hair? Big rack?’ I raise my hands to make the appropriate gesture, thinking the mime juvenile before lowering them again. ‘It’s not like I’m expecting you to remember any of it.’
‘But I do remember. I remember you, and the next day when you didn’t show. I sat at the end of the street I’d walked you to—sat there for hours, hoping you’d pass by. I thought you must’ve, I don’t know.’ He shrugs. ‘Had regrets?’
‘Oh, I did.’
‘And that was the only thing that stopped me from knocking on all the doors in that street.’
‘But my regret came that morning when I reached your garden gate. I know what I saw.’
‘Must’ve been Kit,’ he says decisively.
‘No, it couldn’t have been.’
‘Must’ve been,’ he says with a confident nod. ‘He was all about experimenting back then.’
‘Experimenting?’ I ask, slightly horrified.
‘He’s gay. Maybe bi—hell, I don’t know. I don’t like to ask. Did I not mention this?’
‘No .’ I draw the word out, the sound resembling an unkind laugh. Not because Kit’s sexual orientation, but because, ‘I know what I saw, Rory.’
‘And I know what I did or didn’t do. I also know Kit was shagging girls almost exclusively then.’ I’m pretty sure, right now, my eyes would be at home on Looney Tunes; as in, hanging out of my head on stalks. Could this be true? Part of me wants it to be even while I silently acknowledge this makes me an even bigger fool. ‘Think about it,’ he says. ‘You’ve met him. Some people have a hard time telling us apart, maybe less so now, seeing as how I’m so much more handsome than him.’
