by Nicola Haken
At this rate I’ll have married him by the morning.
Groaning in frustration with myself, I closed the Facebook app and tossed my phone to the other side of the bed before I did something stupid like send him a friend request. I needed to at least wait and see if an actual date ever materialised before he found out I had a son, which he would the second he snooped through my profile.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I grumbled when I watched half of my digestive biscuit fall to its watery grave. When dunking fails, there’s a moment of panic, a spike in your heart rate, a tiny wave of grief that washes over you the second you realise the biscuit is going to blow. It’s reached the point of no return. It’s breaking, falling to its bitter end and there’s nothing you can do to save it. Your only option is to mourn the loss of what is now a distant dream of tasting that tea-infused, crumbly, biscuit goodness and discard what has become a mug of undrinkable sludge while trying not to cry or throw something. It’s a pain only a fellow dunker will ever understand.
With a deep huff, I tossed the rest of the biscuit into the mug because I was in too much of a hump to eat it, and set the tea on my bedside table before rolling onto my side, disturbing Marv in the process. He trotted leisurely up to the top of the bed, shoving his arse right in my face.
“Cut it out,” I said, stroking his back and gently pushing on him until he lay down. I kept his bum out of my face by tickling behind his ear, making him purr and nuzzle my hand, until my phone buzzed with a text message and I rolled over to get it so quickly I almost catapulted the poor sod out of the fucking window.
The name Oliver Clayton illuminated the screen and I had to take a moment to remind myself I was a frigging grown up when my heart started galloping in my chest.
Oliver Clayton: Thought u might like to know I didn’t get the sack :)
I would like to know that. I would’ve liked to know anything this mysterious stranger had to say. Unfortunately, I didn’t know if he was as interested in my reply, so I had to come up with something good…
And I had nothing.
I typed out three different responses and deleted every one of them. My aim was to come across a little flirty, or at least funny, but I was grossly out of practice. In truth I was a boring old fart who talked to my cat a lot, a cat who’d currently abandoned me after I’d taken away one of his nine lives while reaching for my phone.
“I don’t need you anyway. You’re shit at advice,” I said to…myself. Christ. I really did need some human company.
My phone pinged again before I had chance to think of my fourth attempt at a decent reply.
Oliver Clayton: I blamed u for the tray. Said u were drunk n knocked into me. Figured u wouldn’t mind seeing as u don’t go out ;)
Okay, Day. Reply. Say something. Anything.
Me: Only a half-lie. My dashing good looks clearly distracted you.
The very second I’d pressed the SEND icon the only thing I could think was, why the hell, in 2016, had nobody invented an un-send feature for text messages, so morons like me could save themselves from their own stupidity?
Oliver Clayton: Is this u trying to flirt with me again?
Me: Is it working?
Oliver Clayton: Definitely preferable to ur friend in the green top. He proposed to me after u left. I might’ve considered if he hadn’t proposed to my boss 5 mins b4
Rolling my eyes, I chuckled. Typical Benny. He’d proposed to more men than I’d eaten McVities Penguins, and I fucking loved Penguins. I could quite easily work my way through a full pack during a day on the road.
Me: That’s Benny. He grows on you. A bit like arse fat. No matter how hard you try and lose him, he just keeps coming back.
What can I say? My arse wasn’t as firm as I’d have liked, probably because I spent most of my day sitting on it.
Oliver Clayton: LOL. I wouldn’t know. I have a perfect arse ;)
Yes. Yes you do. I imagined if I peeled those tight jeans off it, it would be even better.
Me: You wouldn’t be flirting with me would you?
Oliver Clayton: Is it working?
A smirk crawled across my lips as I read the line I’d used on him twice now. Sucking in a breath of courage, I typed out my reply.
Me: How about I tell you next time we meet?
Oliver Clayton: R U asking me on a date Mr…Wait u didn’t give me ur surname?
Right. I listed my number under Seb.
Me: Day. Sebastian Day.
Oh for fuck’s sake. Seriously, what kind of twat introduces themselves to someone they’re trying to impress as if they’re James frigging Bond? Me, apparently. If I were smart enough I’d invent that un-send feature myself, because fuck knows I needed it.
Oliver Clayton: I always did think I’d make an excellent Bond girl ;) But u didn’t answer my question.
Crap. I definitely wanted to see him again, but when? Where? What did people do on dates these days? Jesus, I might as well have been a hundred years old. Why am I so bad at this? The whole dating a total stranger concept seemed a little bizarre. You spot a random human, think, hmm, I like that one. I’ll take it. We’ll do stuff together. It’s almost like picking out a puppy.
My heart rate kicked up a notch as I started typing. I liked this feeling, though, even if I didn’t fully understand it. It was new. Fun. He was just a person, someone I didn’t know, yet he excited me.
Me: Yes. A date. Are you free this weekend?
To do what, I didn’t know.
Oliver Clayton: Working tomorrow. Sunday?
Sunday was perfect because it gave me tomorrow to talk it out with Marv, get advice from Benny that I wouldn’t listen to, and ask Lisa whether I was being ridiculous and should cancel.
Me: Great! Shall I pick you up?
Oliver Clayton: I appreciate the chivalry but u could be an axe murderer…or a Backstreet Boys fan. Meet u outside The Thompsons Arms at 1?
I actually quite liked the Backstreet Boys back in the day, still had a few of their tracks on my iTunes playlist in fact, but I’d made a big enough arse of myself already so I kept that to myself.
Me: See you then :)
He sent back a kiss emoji in response and I lay there staring at it like a pathetic, lovesick fifteen-year-old until my phone timed out and locked itself. Maybe my son was the person whose advice I needed seeing as my brain had reverted to being his age. It was past three in the morning, I hadn’t slept properly in two days because of my night out in Carlisle, and here I was, sprawled on my back with a raging boner, still too buzzed to sleep because I couldn’t stop thinking about a cute guy I barely knew.
I considered wanking, palming my dick and hoping a good old-fashioned orgasm would release just enough energy to send me off to sleep, but then Marv, that bastard cockblocker, reappeared on my bed. I couldn’t wank in front of Marv. He was already staring me out like I was a piece of shit.
“So you’ve forgiven me, eh?”
He pawed at the duvet for a few seconds before settling down into a ball.
“Don’t worry, buddy. You’ll always be my number one ginger ninja,” I assured him, thinking back to Oliver’s red hair. It looked soft, the kind of soft that would feel great under my fingers as I ran them through it…or gripped onto it while…Shit. That train of thought wasn’t going to help shut down the party in my boxers. “Night, Marv,” I said, stroking his head before pulling the quilt up to my neck and rolling onto my side. I didn’t expect to fall asleep right away, but until I did I planned to close my eyes and imagine those blue eyes and purple lips.
* * *
“I swear to God I’m going to dump this damn cat in a box at the side of the road,” I said into the phone while giving Marv the side eye. The daft bastard was meowing at a bird through the window, and we weren’t on good terms since he woke me up, screeching like he was being strangled, at six AM because he wanted his cat flap unlocking.
Lisa chuckled down the line. “This is why you need this date. The time has come for you
and Marv to start seeing other people.”
“I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I guess I just feel too old for all this.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Seb. You’re thirty-four!”
Groaning, I sank back into the soft leather of my sofa. “I know, I know. It’s just…I have a teenage son. Scott’s the one who should be getting butterflies and worrying about what to wear, not me. I feel stupid. Maybe I should just call it off. I’m happy as I am.”
“Okay, firstly, no you’re not. It was just last Christmas you were whining about dying alone.”
“I was drunk.” I cringed at the memory. “I’m dramatic when I’m drunk.”
“Second,” she continued, ignoring me. “Adults aren’t immune to getting nervous, you know. And you should worry about what to wear. You spend most of your life in that ugly green and black uniform, stinking of diesel and dirt. You need to impress him! And for the record, I still get butterflies around Jenny and I don’t feel stupid.”
“I’m overthinking it, aren’t I?”
“Absolutely.”
We chatted for a while longer before she had to go, and by the time I hung up I felt decidedly less pathetic, and more confident about tomorrow. She made a valid point about my wardrobe though, which is why my next call was to Benny, who sounded far less pleased to hear my voice than Lisa did.
“What?” he barked down the line.
“Aww. Feeling a little tender today, princess?”
“What do you want?” His voice was muffled and sleepy. Clearly, he was still in bed, despite it being two o’clock in the afternoon.
“I need to go shopping.”
“Thanks for sharing. I hear toilet rolls are half price in Asda. Anything else?”
“Clothes shopping. I need you to come with me.”
A long, frustrated sigh crackled in my ear. “Why?”
“I have a date tomorrow.”
“With who?” he asked with such a sudden injection of energy it was like someone had rammed a hot poker up his arse.
“The guy you proposed to last night.”
“I proposed to, like, twelve guys last night. I’m gonna need more than that.”
“The bartender in the last place I was in. Tall, heels, purple lips…” I smiled as I described him, those damn butterflies returning to tickle my belly. I didn’t know what the hell had got into me, but I liked it.
“I’m on my way.”
Chapter Three
~Oliver~
SUNDAY AFTERNOON, I arrived at The Thompsons Arms almost an hour before Seb and I had arranged to meet. I told myself I needed to set off early because buses were unreliable, but truthfully I wanted to arrive before he did because, in my head, standing still felt less awkward than walking up to him.
I stood outside so I didn’t miss him, staring down at my outfit. I tended to dress more…subtly, when I wasn’t working, so I hoped I looked okay. Today I opted for a casual yet, hopefully, hot ensemble - skinny black jeans and a fine-knit, pale-blue, V-neck jumper that matched my trainers and brought out the blue in my eyes. Oh, and I finished the look with my oatmeal-coloured funnel-neck coat because, despite spring looming, it was bloody freezing.
Other than a little eyeliner, I wore no make-up today, although my hair was on point, of course. Straightened to perfection and held in place with wax and ultimate hold spray. I looked good enough for a date, I thought. Hoped. I didn’t really know because I’d never been on one. When I came out as gay I wasn’t interested in dating and relationships. I was young. I’d just discovered sex, and alcohol, clubs and bars. I wanted to have fun and concentrate on my career. I had years to worry about the serious stuff, about settling down.
Until I didn’t.
After that my focus was on Tyler. I didn’t have the time to commit to anyone or anything else. I’d not exactly lived a celibate life, but since my mum died I hadn’t had the time, nor the desire, to spend more than one night with someone, and even those nights were few and far between. I’d been so busy trying to keep my head above water for the last ten years I hadn’t looked at anyone long enough for them to hold my attention.
Until last Friday.
I couldn’t explain what attracted me to Sebastian Day. Maybe I was flattered by the fact he couldn’t stop staring at me with those big, dark eyes of his. Or perhaps it was just because he was a good-looking guy. He was possibly an inch or so taller than me - without my heels, dark hair that had no distinct style yet suited him perfectly, strong jaw, broad shoulders. He was the kind of man who would make Rhys say, 'Grrrrr.’
Or maybe, it was simply because I was ready.
Tyler was older now. He didn’t need me as much as he used to. More and more often, I found myself alone in the house while Ty was off out with his friends and I didn’t like that – that loneliness. I didn’t know what it felt like to curl up on the couch, watching crappy telly with the warmth of another man’s arms around me, and I wanted to. I wanted to wake up next to someone, squeeze them a little tighter and fall back to sleep. I wanted someone to kiss before I went to work, someone to hold me when I’d had a shitty day. I wanted to smile again, laugh until my belly hurt. I didn’t know if I’d get any of those things with Seb but I felt like I owed it to myself to finally take my life off hold and try.
I’d still be there for Tyler. He’d always be my first priority, but maybe now he was growing up and starting to live a life of his own it wouldn’t be unreasonable to start living mine again, too.
Or am I being selfish?
Before that thought had chance to fester, a black car slowed to a stop across the road from where I stood, shortly followed by the man I’d been thinking about since Friday night climbing out of it.
I straightened my back, then relaxed it again. I put my hand on my hip, and then dropped it loosely by my side again. Suddenly, I’d forgotten how to stand in a natural pose and became a rigid lump of awkwardness. Even my facial muscles were paralysed, which was weird because I was usually such an expert at faking confidence.
After looking both ways, Seb jogged leisurely across the road. He looked different in the daylight. His skin was paler, making his ruffled hair appear darker, almost black. He wore loose-fitting jeans, heavy tan boots, and had opted for a jumper, like me, only he’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, exposing the dark hair that coated his forearms.
“No coat?” was apparently the best greeting my brain could muster.
“It’s in the car,” he said. “Hiding my axe.”
The snort that burst from my nose embarrassed me. It wasn’t even a snort. Pigs sounded more eloquent than the sound I just produced. “So where do you want to go?” I asked.
“I, um, haven’t really thought that far ahead. I’m not exactly what you’d call an experienced dater.”
That made me relax, somewhat. “Me neither.”
“We could stick around here, or just get in the car and see where we end up? You can search it first if you like,” he said with a mischievous smirk. “Make sure there are no weapons inside.”
I was happy to get in the car with him. Rhys knew where I was, and we’d installed apps on our phones so he could track where I was on a map. A little dramatic perhaps, but you hear all kinds of horror stories on the news these days. Plus, Rhys made me do it.
Motioning my hand towards his car, I said, “Lead the way.”
His car was nice. It was a Ford, which I only knew because it said so on the front. It had comfy grey leather seats and a matte dashboard with fancy gadgets built into it. Clearly, he had more money than I did and I started to get nervous that we’d end up somewhere expensive. I should’ve guessed already. Even his name was posh.
“Let’s go to the Trafford Centre,” I suggested, clicking my seatbelt in place.
As he twisted the key in the ignition, Seb turned his head, flashing me a puzzled look. “You want to go shopping? Doesn’t seem very dately.”
I was thinking more along the lines of Seb could shop, if he wanted to,
and I could browse. Then we could grab dinner in the food hall and I’d still be able to afford to replace Tyler’s school blazer next week because his current one was beginning to fray around the cuffs.
“Sure. We could get you some better-fitting jeans.”
With one hand on the steering wheel, he shifted his whole body to face me, his eyebrows raised high. “Are you insulting my dress sense?”
“Not insulting,” I said with a crooked smile. “Advising. I know my stuff. You need a smaller size.”
Shaking his head and exhaling a breathy laugh, Seb turned his attention back to the front of the car, checked his mirrors, and slowly eased us out onto the road. “Trafford Centre it is then.”
We’d been moving for just a few seconds when he briefly cocked his head my way, his eyes meeting mine for just a moment before he looked back ahead. “So, you don’t like Backstreet Boys, eh?” he asked, amusement dancing in his tone. “Everyone in our generation knows the lyrics to Backstreet’s Back, at least. It’s practically the law,” he added before I had time to reply.
“How do you know we’re the same generation? I might have an excellent surgeon for all you know.”
My mind had gauged Seb as being older than me by several years. The fine lines that hugged his brown eyes when he smiled made me think he was mid-to-late thirties. I liked that. An older guy was more likely to be on my wavelength. I wasn’t looking for meaningless fun or a random hook-up. I was looking for…companionship. Which seemed bizarre seeing as I wasn’t looking for anything at all until I met him.
“It’s in your eyes,” he said.
My eyes?
“You’re…” He clicked his tongue a couple of times while he finalised his decision in his head. “Thirty-one.”
Impressed, my eyebrow rose. “Close, but not quite.”
“How far out?” he asked, flicking his indicator before making a turn. “Thirty or thirty-two?”
“Thirty. You?”
I’d been studying his face, the side of it I could see at least, ever since this conversation began, and I’d decided he was thirty-eight.
