“The one you keep reading off your phone.”
Simon pushed the device away. “I’m not.”
“Wait, are you new to this?” Garen gasped, his jaw dropping in glee. “Am I your first flatmate?”
You’re not my flatmate. “I’ve been living at home until now.” Simon felt defensive, even he knew plenty of people who stayed with their parents past his age of twenty-five.
Garen extended his arm across the table. “Gonnae show me the other questions.”
Wondering if this was the first of many capitulations, Simon handed over his phone.
Predictably, Garen laughed at the screen. “Number seven: ‘How would you prioritize the following activities: work, play, clean, and rest?’ Is this for real?”
“These are essential compatibility issues.” Simon’s patience was running out. If Garen couldn’t take this interview seriously, how would he respect Simon’s wishes once they were living together? His quirky charm and even quirkier good looks couldn’t compensate for insensitivity.
“Ooh, I like this question.” Garen waved the phone. “‘What chore do you least like doing?’ For me that would be dishes, especially pots and pans. Once the meal is over, food becomes disgusting and I never want to touch it again. So what’s your least favorite chore? Maybe we can divide the labor.”
“Probably cleaning the bathroom, but we’re not negotiating, because I’ve not agreed to—”
“It’s a deal. You do the washing-up and I’ll clean the bathroom once a month.”
Simon stared at him. “Once a month?”
Garen gave an exaggerated sigh. “Fine, once a fortnight for the toilet and sink.”
“I’ve not agreed to move in. By the way, haven’t you got questions of your own? Aren’t you curious about me?”
“Of course I’m curious.” Garen met his eyes—only for an instant, but long enough to send a spark surfing down Simon’s spine. “I’d just rather we learn about each other organically.”
“How do you mean?” Simon’s voice came out huskier than he’d intended. He cleared his throat again. “What would be an organic question?”
“One that arises naturally from conversation.” He pushed Simon’s phone back across the table. “I’ll answer any question that’s not from some generic list. Ask me what you most want to know.”
“And you’ll give me a straight answer?”
“Mm-hm. Promise.” He started eating again. “Take as long you need.”
Simon felt uneasy. Why wasn’t Garen interrogating him the way the other prospective flatmates had done? Was he really that trusting and naive?
“Ooh, I totally forgot my chai.” Garen picked up the plastic takeaway cup and gave it a quick shimmy, clattering the ice within to mix up the milky tea. “Watch, this is cool.” Garen carefully slid the paper wrapper off his straw, scrunching it up into a tight accordion. Simon saw his tongue slither against the back of his lower teeth as he focused. It seemed an unself-conscious gesture, but it heated Simon’s face and neck just the same.
Garen laid the straw wrapper on the table, dipped the end of the straw into his chai, then put his finger on the end of it, drawing a few drops up into the plastic tube. Finally he dribbled the chai onto the scrunched-up wrapper. It instantly sprang out, writhing like a worm.
Garen beamed at him across the table. “Cool, yeah?”
Simon didn’t know whether to laugh or run. “Yeah,” he said, one step closer to surrender. “Cool.”
After dinner, Simon still hadn’t heard from the doctor up the street, so, against his better judgment, he agreed to stay—at least long enough to finish the bottle of pinot noir on the sofa, once Garen had assured him the fabric was stain-resistant.
As he eased himself onto the comfy couch, Simon found himself feeling unusually relaxed. Whether this newfound serenity was due to the food, drink, or his companion, he couldn’t tell.
He finally thought of an original question. “You said you’ve lived in Glasgow only as long as you can remember. What did you mean by that? Where were you before?”
“In a Russian orphanage,” Garen said.
“Seriously?” Simon asked, then felt bad. No one would joke about something like that.
“Technically it was a Soviet orphanage when I got there, but by the time I left it was Russian.”
“What was it like?”
“Like I said, I don’t remember life before Glasgow. My twin sister and I were adopted when we were barely three.” With faraway eyes, Garen watched the wine dance in his glass as he swirled it, palm cradling the bowl. “My earliest memory is arriving just before Christmas at the airport with our parents. I remember our whole new family greeting us—our gran, aunties and uncles, cousins and all—and how happy everyone was. I remember the balloons they brought.”
The story struck a familiar chord. “That’s amazing, because my earliest memory is so similar.” Simon angled his body toward Garen. “See, when I was three years old, I had Guillain-Barré syndrome.”
Garen’s eyes widened. “Oh no!” Then he shook his head. “I’ve no idea what that is.”
“It’s rare. Basically your immune system gets confused by an infection—pneumonia, in my case—then attacks your nerves and leaves you temporarily paralyzed.”
“How awful.” Garen brushed his fingers over Simon’s forearm. The gesture felt more sympathetic than flirtatious, but its brevity left Simon wanting more. “You must have been so scared.”
“My parents were terrified—at least, I assume they were, as they’ve rarely talked about it. Most of what I know comes from my aunties and uncles. Me, I don’t remember much. I remember learning how to walk again, and I remember the first day I went up the stairs by meself—erm, myself.” Simon noticed that he was being far more talkative than usual, and that his Scouse was breaking through. He scratched his knee self-consciously, though it didn’t itch. “And I remember being at nursery when I was four, still a bit clumsy—getting my legs back under me, Ma used to say. The other kids laughed.”
Garen made a sympathetic noise but didn’t interrupt, so Simon kept going:
“Anyway, my earliest memory is of being in hospital, with flowers and cards and balloons everywhere—and me whole family standing next to the bed, all smiling down. Just like your family at the airport.”
“Wow.” Garen nudged Simon’s thigh. “That’s pretty cool, that our earliest memories are of being surrounded by love.”
Simon had never thought of it that way before. His parents had been so reluctant to discuss his illness—like it was some shameful secret—that it had often felt like a dream. But nothing could erase that one perfect image from his mind. “They say it’s worse to have GBS when you’re an adult. It takes months to recover instead of weeks.”
“Ooft. I’m glad it’s rare. I cannae imagine what that would do to my curling career.” Garen leaned over and tapped the rugged wooden coffee table, presumably for luck. Simon wondered about the significance of the bear statue sitting there, but he wanted to keep following this conversation’s thread.
“How did you get into that sport in the first place?”
“Unlike a lot of curlers, I’m not from a curling family. I didn’t even start until I met Luca at university.” Garen took a sip of wine. “It was the first thing in my life that made me feel truly competent.”
Simon could definitely relate—his childhood illness had left him with the physical coordination to excel at only one sport.
“I was never athletic growing up,” Garen continued, “so I expected to fail at curling, too. But once I sorted out my balance and leg strength, I was really good. Turns out I’m naturally flexible in ways most men have to work at.” He lowered his gaze and flashed an almost shy smile. “But not just physically. I could see potential shots that others couldn’t. Part of it was just being new to the sport and ignorant of conventional strategy, but it was also my out-of-the-box brain finally coming in handy.”
Simon murmured a brief ac
knowledgment, sensing his new acquaintance’s verbal momentum.
Sure enough, Garen kept going. “You know how in a lot of sports they tell you, ‘You’re not here to make friends’? But wherever I am, I am always there to make friends. And in curling, that’s expected. The spirit of curling means respecting your rivals, treating them the way you would treat a mate, even if deep down you don’t like them. But I like pretty much everyone.” He took a breath. “Sorry, I swear I’m trying not to blether too much. What about you? Are you the sporting type?”
“I am.” Simon decided to have a bit of fun. “Guess which sport.”
“Ooh, a challenge.” Garen scanned Simon’s frame, tapping the side of his glass as he considered. “You’re too slim for rugby and maybe even for football. I would say cricket, but something tells me you prefer to play alone rather than on a team.”
Simon nodded, impressed with Garen’s perceptiveness.
Garen’s gaze skimmed down his arms. “Your hands aren’t callused, so it’s not tennis.” He snapped his fingers. “You’re a golfer!”
Simon laughed. “Not a chance.”
“Really? Cos I can absolutely picture you in a pink polo shirt and plaid trousers.”
“Thanks, I guess?” Simon gave in. “Actually, I run marathons.”
“That’s amazing. I’ve not got the mental discipline for anything longer than a 5K. So are you in training for a race now, or is the season over?”
“I’ve signed up for a marathon in Spain at the end of November. It’ll be me tenth. But between this job promotion and moving up from Liverpool, I’m nearly a week behind schedule.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll catch up,” Garen said. “There are loads of good gyms nearby, and of course there’s the park, where sometimes it stops raining for several minutes in a row.”
Simon laughed again, feeling his resistance melt like candle wax, drop by drop with each warm glance from this man. The last glass of wine had definitely been a mistake.
I should go.
But he didn’t. Instead he emptied his glass and asked, “So how flexible are you?”
Garen’s jaw fell slack in a surprised smile. “Well…you want to see a trick?”
“Only if it’s better than the one with the straw.”
“Miles better.” Garen dashed to the dining table, pulled the lid off his plastic cup, and gulped the rest of the iced chai. Wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his green jumper, he returned to the center of the living room floor. “Watch this.”
He placed the cup on the floor, open side up, and took a step back. Then, standing on his left foot, he bent over, his right leg stretched out behind him like the tail of a drinking-bird toy. As he slowly lowered his head toward the cup, his hair swept forward, hiding his face.
“Almost…there.” Garen’s left heel came off the floor until he was balanced on the ball of his foot. His head descended farther and farther.
There was a rattle of ice, then Garen suddenly rose, still on one foot, spreading his arms and grinning at Simon. In his teeth he held the near rim of the cup, keeping it upright and its contents within.
Simon applauded slowly, downplaying his awe. “On second thought, do the straw thing again.”
“Oi, think it’s so easy?” Garen handed him the cup. “Gonnae try it yourself.”
Simon stood, feeling the wine rush to his head as the blood flowed out. “What do I win if I do it?”
“A million pounds,” Garen said as he flopped onto the couch.
“Come on.”
“You cannae do it. I’m the only adult at our rink who can pull off the cup trick. Someone of your height, with a runner’s tight calves? Nae danger. But fine—ten pounds.”
“Deal.” Simon set the cup on the floor. “Right. Here we go.” He undid his tie and slid it off, then tossed it to Garen.
“Wa-hey!” Garen gave a wolf whistle as Simon untucked his shirt and unbuttoned the top two buttons. “That won’t help, mate, but I still approve.”
Simon stood on his left foot, arms out, and started to lean forward. “A tenner if I can do it?”
“Aye,” Garen said. “And if you can’t do it…”
Simon stopped, his balance wavering. “What do you win?”
“A new flatmate.”
Simon looked down at the cup. He could already tell this was going to be harder than Garen had made it look. Odds were, he’d lose this bet.
Would that be so bad? After an awkward start, they were getting on well now—almost too well, as their camaraderie verged on flirtation. Also, there was that amazing view, not to mention a lift and an automatic dishwasher.
Simon sighed, still on one foot. “You clean the bathroom—all of it—every week.”
“Okay.” Garen picked up his wine glass and toasted him. “Now gie laldy.”
Simon was pretty sure that was Scots for “Do your best.” He leaned over until his upper body was parallel to the floor, and still the cup was far out of reach.
“Bend your left leg,” Garen said.
“Obviously.” Simon lowered himself as far as he could go, but then got stuck. His body just wouldn’t cooperate. He leaned forward, arms waving for balance…
…and fell on his face. He hit the cup, scattering the ice across the floor.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” Garen rushed to his side. “Did you injure anything?”
“Just my pride.” Simon laughed as he sat up, rubbing his sore nose. “I’ll wipe up your drink.”
“Naw, there’s nothing but ice, and that’ll dry.”
“But your hardwood floors—”
“Aren’t real wood, just laminate.” Garen set the cup on the coffee table. “Now try again.” When Simon hesitated, Garen clapped his hands and said, “C’mon, finish strong. Isn’t that what runners always say?”
“Okay, okay.” Simon got to his feet. With the cup on the table, the trick required only a slight bending of the knee, and in a few moments, his teeth locked around the edge of the plastic cup. He rose up in triumph, giving a double flourish with his hands.
“Yaaaaaaas ya dancer!” Garen high-fived him. “This calls for another bottle of wine. You like Riesling?” He was out the door before Simon could respond.
Simon took a deep breath and looked around the living room. Somehow, he’d agreed to live here. With Garen. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating.
As he was collecting the fallen ice cubes and putting them back in the cup, his phone bleeped with an email notification. Simon went over to the table and read the message from the urologist on Royal Terrace:
Sorry I’m working tonight. If you’re still in Glasgow tomorrow perhaps we could arrange a viewing in late afternoon.
Just as Simon went to answer, Garen returned with the wine and two clean glasses.
Simon read the doctor’s email aloud, then said, “I’ll tell him I’ve already found a place.”
“You could do that.” Garen set the bottle and glasses on the coffee table. “Or…you could maybe have a look at it and see what you think?”
Simon noticed Garen seemed much more subdued than when he’d left the room a few minutes before. “I thought you wanted me to live here.”
“I do. I did. I do. Look…” Garen faced him but didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m not keen on beating about the bush. I think it’d be lovely to have you as a neighbor.” He bit his lip. “Rather than as a flatmate.”
After all the relentless cajoling, Garen had changed his mind? “Was it something I said?” He’d probably gone overboard with the interview. But once they’d moved to the couch, things had seemed to turn friendlier, though it wouldn’t have been the first time Simon had totally misread the room.
“It’s not you, it’s me,” Garen said. “Or ideally it’s both of us, but—”
“It’s fine. I get it.” Simon picked up his tie and turned for the door, eyes heating with the humiliation of rejection.
“No, you don’t.” Garen stepped into his path, nearly crashing
into him. “I fancy you, okay? I know we just met, but I think the feeling might be mutual, and even if it isn’t—God, especially if it isn’t—it would be awkward for you to live here whilst I’m carrying a torch. We’d be too much—you, me, and the torch.” He finally took a breath. “Too much for one small flat.”
Simon’s pulse pounded in his ears. The feeling was definitely mutual, but this whole situation had moved so fast…
Garen continued: “Not that we have to get together right now—if you’re even interested, I mean.” He shifted one foot behind the other. “But it could be an option after you move to Glasgow. We could have dinner or drinks or…” Garen rubbed the back of his neck. “I dunno.”
Simon couldn’t bear to let the awkward moment drag out any longer. “Okay.”
Garen brightened. “Okay?”
“I’ll tell the doctor I’ll pop by to see his flat tomorrow afternoon.” Simon pulled out his phone and started to type. His thumbs were trembling with excitement, for though Garen had backed up a step, he was still near enough to touch.
Then Simon stopped. “Wait.”
“What’s wrong?”
He looked into Garen’s hopeful eyes, wondering just how much he was offering. “Where’ll I spend the night?”
Chapter 3
“You’d stay here, obviously,” Garen said, though he worried it might make Simon flee for good. It was one thing to invite him to dinner and drinks, and quite another to ask him to stay over, with all the nakedness that implied.
Simon glanced at the sofa. “Here, as in…”
“As in, wherever you like.” Garen nodded vigorously, relieved Simon had thought of the non-bed option. “I’ve got extra blankets for the couch or the spare bed, or…” He swiped a hand over his face, which was growing warmer every second. If he’d just kept his mouth shut, he could have had a lovely new friend and flatmate.
No, he’d done the right thing, the responsible thing. It would’ve been hell to have Simon within arm’s reach every day and be unable to touch him. It wasn’t often that Garen could look into the future and see the consequences of a poor decision, but this path to disaster was well-lit and clearly marked.
Must Love Christmas (Glasgow Lads on Ice) Page 3
