The Third Date (Starting Over)

by Matthew J. Metzger

  “Sweetheart, please don’t do this—”

  “Then get me out of here!”

  Aled squeezed tight, but he couldn’t find a way out.

  Although Aled was generally monogamous, Gabriel was openly and unapologetically poly. He had three regular partners, including Aled, and a fuckbuddy for gigs. But it was Aled that he lived with all the time, not Kevin or Chris or Greg. Their house was just the two of them, and all Aled’s family lived down south now. They only had Gabriel’s network to help—and Gabriel’s network were unavailable. His other long-term partner, Kevin, had three kids, a pregnant wife and a busy kitchen-fitting business. Gym-going Greg was a fuckbuddy, not a partner, and would be absolutely no help even if Aled could stand his ignorant presence for more than five minutes. And Aled had gone down to part-time hours until Gabriel was out of hospital, but he couldn’t be around twenty-four hours a day like Gabriel would need. Gabriel had no family they could trust—nearby or otherwise. And Chris—

  His brain screeched to a halt.

  Chris.

  Gabriel’s cyclist boyfriend from Bristol. The ex-soldier with the surprisingly muscular upper body for a cardio fanatic. The most patient, placid man in the universe. The shy boyfriend of at least eighteen months now, maybe even a couple of years, who was terrified of chubby ginger marketing executive Aled purely and simply because he was a sexual dominant.

  All right, he was in Bristol, but a single fact gleamed out of Aled’s memory.

  Chris hated his job.

  He was always skiving off and calling in sick so he could go racing with Gabriel. He had a flatshare in some backwater village south of the city, but he always wanted to go somewhere else. He rarely insisted on Gabriel visiting him. Usually they went places together, or Chris would come up to take Aled’s place when Aled had a business trip abroad. Whatever Chris’ roots in the south were, they weren’t all that deeply dug.

  Maybe he could be persuaded.

  If he could come up and play nurse while Aled was at work, then Gabriel wouldn’t be left on his own. He could be forced to stay in bed. Help to get to the bathroom and take a shower. Minimise the risk of falling and killing himself. Decent food instead of tepid hospital mush. Good company, and company that wouldn’t call him a woman all the time. And Chris was something of a health nut, so he was bound to make a good nurse.

  Aled had never lived with one of Gabriel’s other boyfriends before—hell, he’d barely spent two hours in Chris’ company in the whole time they’d been dating—but he could suck it up for a few months until Gabriel was fighting fit again. And it wouldn’t take so long as it would if he stayed in the hospital or got moved out to some shoddy care home. At least at home with Chris, Gabriel would do better mentally—and probably physically, too.

  If it was possible.

  If Chris agreed.

  “Hey.”

  He tightened his grip once more around Gabriel’s shaking shoulders, then let go. He kissed the nasty scar and nudged the shell of Gabriel’s ear with his nose.

  “Let me make a phone call,” he whispered. “I’ve got an idea. Fingers crossed, huh?”

  “Will it get me out of here?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Okay.” Gabriel’s grip on his shirt eased. He looked awful, but a shaky smile shimmered around the edges of his mouth. “Who are you calling?”

  “Got to ring a man about a bike.”

  Chapter Two

  De-di-li-de, de-di-li-de, de-di-li-de-dee.

  “You gonna get that?” the customer asked.

  Chris slammed the faulty till drawer shut and offered a thin smile.

  “Boss doesn’t like us answering our phones when we’re on the clock.”

  De-di-li-de, de-di-li-de, de-di-li-de-dee.

  “Mate,” the customer said, taking his change. “Your boss is a dick. And your ringtone’s annoying as fuck.”

  “Have a nice day, sir.”

  The glass door clinked shut behind him, and Chris’ mobile finally stopped ringing. Probably just Mum. He sighed, wishing he could sit down and check. Bob also thought sitting down behind the till was unprofessional and looked sloppy and haphazard.

  Chris worked in a fucking bike shop. It was meant to look haphazard in here, for fuck’s sake.

  Then the shop phone started ringing, and Chris rolled his eyes. Only three people ever called the shop phone—Bob’s wife, Bob’s other woman and Bob’s bank manager. He steeled himself for someone to scream in his ear. Two hours to go. Two hours to go. Two hours—

  “Bob’s Bikers, best bikes in North Somerset, Chris speaking, how can I help today?”

  It was a giant run-on sentence of utter boredom, and he felt a tiny slice of his life expectancy being chipped off as he finished.

  “Chris? It’s Aled.”

  Chris’ gut clenched.

  “What’s wrong? Is Gabriel okay?”

  He was learning to hate phone calls at work. He’d take Bob’s wife screaming her abuse any day over the day Aled had called and told him to get the first train to Wakefield. He still felt sick whenever the ringer started up, and Aled never called unless something was wrong.

  In fact, until the day of the accident, Aled had never called him at all.

  “He’s fine,” Aled said.

  Chris let out a relieved sigh.

  “Fighting to come home today.”

  Chris frowned. “Is he ready for that?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. No. But he’s insistent.”

  Chris could imagine. Gabriel had always been so calm, placid, even playful with him. They’d never had an argument. Never shouted. Even when he was uncomfortable—usually when Chris’ roommate Jack was around—he was at least polite. The worst Chris had seen was that chilly kind of politeness that southerners excelled at, betraying Gabriel’s London origins. Then he’d come round in hospital, a terrifying two weeks after the accident, and lost his shit.

  Loudly.

  Turned out Chris was just privileged to always have him happy.

  He’d religiously visited every weekend, going up on the Friday night and getting the last train home on Sunday. And every weekend since he woke up, Gabriel had been in a foul mood. He hated the food. A nurse had misgendered him and been reamed out at top volume one sunny afternoon. He hated doctors in general, without adding the long pauses before his pronouns whenever they spoke about him or the curled lip that seemed permanently affixed to the consultant’s face. His head injury made him constantly nauseous and struggling with crippling vertigo, so he couldn’t get out of bed or even roll over without an attack. It had taken three weeks before he could even sit up enough for a hug.

  Chris had never seen him in such a bad mood…but he could understand it.

  And he could definitely understand wanting to be at home instead of a hospital filled with disease, bad food and no privacy whatsoever.

  “So what are you going to do?” he asked.

  “He’d be better off at home,” Aled said. “But the doctors are pretty clear he needs constant supervision. He can’t walk on his own yet and hitting his head could be fatal at this point.”

  “Can’t eat, either.”

  “Well, it’s been seventy-two hours since he threw up so they’re happy he can keep everything down now.”

  “Does it make much difference if he needs constant supervision?” Chris asked. “I mean, it’s good he can, but if you can’t get the time off to look after him anyway… Weren’t your office shitty enough about all the time you took off to sit with him when he was still in critical?”

  “Yeah,” Aled said. “And Kevin’s working and has a herd of children, Tom and Suze are down south and expecting their own, and you—”

  Chris raised his eyebrows.

  “Me,” he said, when Aled failed to continue.

  “Yeah. You.”

  “I have a job,” Chris said stupidly.

  “That you hate.”

  Chris cast an eye around the empty shop. Bob’
s Bikers was nothing more than an overpriced hobby shop kept open purely and simply by dodgy business loans. It sounded like a motorcycle place, but it didn’t so much as sell L plates for scooters. Sandwiched between an accountants’ firm and a dentist, it would have struggled to attract foot traffic even without the mannequin in the window that bore a strong resemblance to Chucky. Only two bikes were on display. There was next to no clothing, and the only things Chris had ever actually sold were replacement lights and inner tyre tubes. He’d sure as shit never sold an actual bike. He got paid minimum wage to stand here all day and stare at nothing.

  Yeah, he hated it. But it paid the bills, and Chris said so.

  “I’d pay,” Aled said. “Free accommodation plus two hundred a week.”

  Fucking hell.

  “For me to…”

  “To stay at our house and look after Gabriel while I’m at work.”

  “Sorry,” Chris said. “You’re offering to pay me to look after my own boyfriend?”

  “I’m offering to pay you so you can look after him and not be prevented by bills and a job you don’t like.”

  “What does Gabriel say about this?”

  Aled coughed.

  “Ah. You haven’t told him.”

  “Not…exactly.”

  Chris mulled it over. “How long do they think he’ll need?”

  “They don’t know. Head injuries are unpredictable. He might have vertigo for the rest of his life, but it has been easing, so they’re optimistic. And he hasn’t had a migraine in at least a week now. But ultimately…who knows?”

  That could mean anything. A few weeks. A couple of months. Years. What would they do if he needed help around the house for years?

  “Look, it is really I come up there or he stays in the hospital?”

  “Yeah.”

  Chris sucked in a breath. It meant ducking out of his tenancy with Jack. Quitting Bob’s Bikers. Leaving Nailsea. Moving up north, albeit temporarily. And—

  And what?

  Watching TV with Gabriel all day? Getting to actually see him every day? They had a nice enough house, and the lake nearby would serve for his morning run and evening bike ride. He’d have to bring his bike and his gaming console, but even the north had internet. It wasn’t that backward.

  Probably.

  It wasn’t like Chris had much of a local social life. Most of his friends were other bikers around the country, or the odd gamer he’d known for a few years in the States when he’d toyed with the idea of learning to code. He came to work, he watched TV with Jack and he had Sunday dinner at Mum’s. That was all he did round here.

  And it would make Gabriel feel better. Probably let him heal quicker, too, without constantly stressing, and being able to sleep in his own bed. And Chris could cook. Healthy cook too, not whatever was causing Aled’s more-than-generous spare tyre.

  Gabriel would be better off at home.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. I’ll need a few days to sort everything out here, but…yeah. I’ll come up. Um. Friday. Let’s say Friday, get him home for the weekend.”

  Aled let out a long breath. “Fuck. You’re a godsend.”

  “I don’t like seeing him in there any more than you do,” Chris said. “But can you spare two hundred a week? I—”

  “I’m the Head of Marketing. My boss is vice-president of the entire company. We have nine offices across the country, four in the US, two in the EU and I’ve been fighting tooth and nail to avoid being posted to Hong Kong to break into the Asian market. Yeah. I can spare two hundred a week.”

  Chris chortled. “Okay, point taken. You’re rich as fuck.”

  “Eh. I fund Gabriel’s lifestyle. You’re cheap.”

  “Noted.”

  “Sort out what you need to,” Aled said. “If you need a hand with anything, let me know. I’ll clear out the spare room for you, and some space in the kitchen and living room. We haven’t got a garage anymore, but I’ll make some space in the shed for your bike. And, uh…see you…what, Thursday?”

  “I’ll text you,” Chris said, and hung up the phone.

  For a moment, he stayed right where he was, leaning against the counter. Bob was going to go spare. What was he supposed to tell his mum? He hadn’t even told her Gabriel existed, or that he was in the hospital. He wasn’t out. Not to Mum, not to Jack, not to Bob, not to anyone. He’d barely even admitted to himself that he wasn’t a fucked-up version of straight, and he still wasn’t entirely sold on the whole maybe-gay, maybe-asexual thing.

  Then he squared his shoulders and pressed the buzzer under the desk.

  Maybe it was time.

  The stockroom door clicked. Bob’s dirty trainers squeaked across the boards. He stopped halfway across the little shop, shamelessly adjusting himself through his grubby jeans and eyeing Chris through narrowed, watery eyes. The weak blue leaking out of the surrounding wind-burnt red looked like a watercolour painting gone horribly wrong. If he’d once been a cyclist, those days were long gone. And Chris had seen him bullshitting enough moped drivers who’d accidentally wandered in off the street to know the man had never ridden any other kind of bike in his life either.

  “I need to go,” Chris said.

  “You what?”

  “I’m quitting,” he said. “I need to go. Now.”

  Bob blinked. A brain cell churned noisily. Then he said, “You what?” again, just for good measure.

  Chris sighed and reached under the counter for his keys and phone. The shop was only a short bike ride from home. He could be back and packing before Jack got back from work.

  “My partner’s in hospital. He got hit by a bus, and now he needs someone to help him around the house for a few months. Which is me. So I have to go. I’m sorry, I know this leaves you in the lurch when it comes to—”

  Bob frowned, scrunching those watery blues into tiny holes in his face.

  “He?”

  “Yeah,” Chris said shortly. He ducked out from around the counter and headed for the door.

  “I thought you were serious about this job,” Bob called after him.

  Serious?

  “You pay me minimum wage to sell training wheels to nervous parents,” Chris said. “I work forty hours a week here and my mum still has to top up my rent every month. So how serious do you want me to be?”

  “When we get more customers through that there door—”

  “And without a digital presence, it won’t happen. This is Nailsea. You haven’t got the foot traffic for any more customers.”

  Bob harrumphed.

  “My boyfriend’s in hospital,” Chris repeated. “You could pay me forty grand a year. I’m still going.”

  “Hospital.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Right, so he’s in good hands,” Bob retorted. “I can’t afford employees who run out on a shift.”

  Employees? Chris was the only one.

  “Then dock it from my pay,” Chris said. “I’m quitting either way. Here.”

  The itchy uniform top was gone in a heartbeat. The name badge popped off and skittered across the floor. It bounced off Bob’s filthy shoe and sat spinning like a top in front of him. Chris stalked out shirtless and marched across the road to unlock his bike from the railings outside the Chinese place.

  Home.

  New shirt.

  Then a northbound train.

  Chapter Three

  “Gabby, sweetie! Your boyfriend’s here to see you!”

  Gabriel just grunted, not opening his eyes. The ceiling dipped and swayed like he was riding a swing whenever he looked at it, and if he looked at that cheery bitch with her Gabby this and Gabby that, he was going to throw something at her. Fuck her. Fuck the lot of them. Fuck Aled for refusing to take him home. Fuck Kevin for not answering his phone yesterday. Fuck this entire fucking system.

  Fucking fucks.

  Boots squeaked.

  Gabriel frowned, but still didn’t bother to look. Aled r
arely wore boots. It was after lunch—he should be coming from work. And Kevin never came until the evening, thanks to the business being too busy. Maybe Greg had come? He’d only been twice—which was fine, they weren’t close or anything—but in the middle of the day was a bit odd. He worked way out in Bradford.

  The curtain dragged on the rail, and a weight thumped down in the chair. A heavy, hard weight. And the hand that slid into his—

  Gabriel frowned and opened his eyes.

  “Chris?”

  “Hey.”

  “But—your train shouldn’t be here for another three hours,” Gabriel said stupidly.

  Chris just shrugged. He lived right down near Bristol and had been coming up every Friday evening for weeks. Not by lunchtime. Gabriel didn’t even know he could get to Wakefield by lunchtime.

  “Did you take the day off?”

  “Quit,” he replied.

  Chris didn’t talk much. He was a short, shaven-headed man in his mid-twenties, plain to the point of forgettable, yet with a hard jaw and sharp eyes that added a sliver of danger. An ex-soldier, he still carried himself like a paid thug. A keen runner and cyclist, he was still as hard as a Marine, physically speaking. He’d been known to clear a room with a single frown, and God only knew what would happen if he raised his voice.

  Which he didn’t. He was about as dangerous as a bag of sweets. Gabriel laced their fingers together and squeezed, rubbing his thumb against a callus.

  “Aled’s trying to find a parking space,” Chris said. “He’ll be up in a minute. Um. Or twenty. It’s heaving today.”

  “He can wait,” Gabriel said sourly.

  “Mm, he told me you weren’t pleased.”

  “No kidding,” Gabriel snapped, and swore when the tears started prickling at the corners of his eyes. “I’ve been asking every day and he keeps saying no. I want to go home.”

  “Yeah, well, what d’you think I’m here for?”

  Gabriel stared. “You—what?”

  The tears dissipated. His heart picked up. He mustn’t have heard right. It couldn’t be. Did Chris mean—