“I won’t,” he says.
“Okay, but what about—”
“I won’t do that either.”
“You don’t even know what I was trying to say,” I yell.
He takes my hands in his sweaty, meat-greased ones. Honestly, my bad for bringing him an entire deli. “What if I get bored of waiting for you to give me a blowie? What if I find some other thing I hate about you and leave? That sound about right?”
I don’t answer. Don’t need to. He knows he’s bang on.
“You’re forgetting how well we know each other. I know you better than I know myself. I’ve seen you poo. You know all my secrets. All of my deepest, darkest desires.”
“Harry, your deepest, darkest desires involve Mathias falling flat on his face in front of a stadium full of people, and you giving me a cream pi—”
“Oh my god!” He glances over at my closed bedroom door as though my father—who hasn’t stepped foot in my bedroom for at least a decade—might come bursting in any second and overhear how perverted his son’s boyfriend is.
Boyfriend. Fuck, that actually sounds so good.
“I don’t deserve you,” I say.
“Of course you do. We’re Statler and Waldorf, remember? Two grumpy old men together.” He makes a rainbow gesture with his hands. “Forever.”
I hide my face behind my palms and breathe out the world’s longest sigh. “I missed you so much. I think about you all the time. Some days I’d convince myself that we could be perfect together. That we could simply exist the way we used to, having fun and watching movies and getting drunk. And then it feels like I’m waking up from a dream, and I remember you’re just a human, with human needs, and it would be so unfair for me to ask you to suppress them.”
Harry opens his mouth to say something, but I hold up my hand. He’s had his turn to speak, now it’s mine.
“I know it’s not only about sex, but sex has always been such a . . . heavy presence in my life. It’s either something that’s felt incredibly wrong, or it’s been . . . a weapon for me to wield in order to get what I wanted. If we becomeboyfriends, sex wouldn’t be off the table indefinitely, like . . . I enjoy watching you come, making you come. I enjoy being that close to you.”
I groan and drag my fingers over my face again. Why am I trying to sabotage this for myself? Why am I trying to make Harry as miserable as I am? He doesn’t deserve to be miserable. He deserves to be the happiest person alive. He’s been nothing but kind, and gentle, and patient with me. Fuck, he’s been so patient. And I’ve been such an asshole.
He deserves to have everything his heart has ever desired . . .
“I love you,” I say. “I’m such a fucking idiot. I’m so sorry for everything. I’m so fucking sorry. We weren’t ever officially a couple, but like . . . technically we were, and I behaved like such a dingus.”
“You were a dingus.”
“I thought that if I kept you at a distance, neither of us would get our hearts broken, but I’m only realising now that my heart had always been broken, and you were the glue that came along and held the pieces together.”
I’m fucking crying again, because of course I am.
“Harry, I can’t promise that I won’t have random freak-outs. I’m too deeply embedded in this idea that I’m not . . . loveable. But I love you, actually, and I know you love me too. And I’m so fucking scared, oh my god, but yeah, okay, you’re right. I want to be with you. I really want you to be my boyfriend.”
I exhale as though I’ve just ridden the world’s most exhilarating roller coaster.
Harry punches the air. “Fuck yeah! We’re in this now. No backsies. I love you.”
“Oh my god!” I scream. I still can’t quite believe that this imperfectly perfect man before me is mine. All mine. One hundred per cent Orlando Oakham-Goodwin’s. “I love you too.”
“Can I kiss you?”
“Absolutely not, salami breath. No, you can’t.”
Harry swigs his red wine, swishes it around his mouth, and swallows. “Now?”
“Fine.”
He abandons the plonk beside the bed, cups my face with both hands, and kisses me.
