“The fuck?”
“That’s what cum tastes like.” He shudders and wipes his clean hands on his jeans. “Best to line up the nozzle with the back of your throat before you spray the cream. If you know what I mean.” He pats my shoulder, and then he’s gone too, and I’m standing alone in the bathroom feeling sated, and bewildered, and like everything I know about my best friend is a lie.
When I return to the bar area, Lando is by himself. I always find it odd how comfortable he is to be solitary. Not looking at his phone, not trying to muscle in on anyone else’s conversation, just leaning against a pillar, people watching and sipping his drink, entirely at ease.
“I told Daze and Serasi they could go home, but they were my ride. Can I hitch a lift with you?” he says.
“Of course. You coming back to mine, yeah? I was gonna get a taxi, though, because it’s only around the corner and I’ve had a few already.”
“Sounds good. You want another beer?”
We find an empty table close to the window, and we hang out for a bit longer. Families leave, and eventually what’s left is mostly players and their partners, until they all start ducking out in ones or twos. I order us a taxi, and we wait under the shelter of the stadium’s portico, canopy, whatever the fuckthose overhangs are called. It’s freezing now that I don’t have the blanket of adrenaline to keep me toasty.
The ride back to my apartment takes ten minutes, but something is off with Lando. He sits facing away from me, staring out at the lashing rain with his chin on his hand.
“Everything okay?” I say as soon as we cross the threshold of my flat.
“Yeah,” he says—lies.
Something must have happened between the time he left the bathroom and when I got back to the bar.
Something with Lionel? Something with Daisy? Or was it me?
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Lando just stares at me as he hangs up his coat and pulls off his boots. “I’m so sorry, Harry,” he says after a few moments.
My heart is in my throat. “Why?” Holy shit, is he breaking up with me?
Can he even break up with me if we’re not actually dating?
“I know I promised that you could practise . . . that thing . . . on me, but . . .”
“Oh.” I’m so relieved he’s not mad at me, I almost crumple to my knees. “Oh my god, is that why you were so quiet in the taxi? We don’t have to do anything like that.”
“But . . . I promised,” he says. His eyes are rimmed with pink. It’s affected him more than it should have.
“So? I don’t care. I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want.”
He blinks at me.
“You’re allowed to change your mind,” I say.
Lando’s lip wobbles, and he jams his thumbnail between his teeth. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh my fucking god, you don’t need to apologise. You’re literally my best friend.” Sorry, Pi, but it’s true. “I’m not going to force myself on you. If you don’t want to do shit, we don’t do shit. Okay?”
He sniffs and nods, but doesn’t look fully convinced. There’s something else going on underneath all of this, bubbling away under the surface, but I don’t think now is the right time to start digging.
“You tell me when slash if you’re ready for . . . that kind of stuff. And if you’re never ready, that’s also fine. I never practice BJs on Pi, and we’re still good friends.”
Lando laughs, and the relief I feel in my gut is overwhelming.
“Let’s just watch a movie instead. I’m thinkingDie HardorTen Things I Hate About YouorNational Treasure?”
He’s laughing even more, wiping his face on the back of his hand. “What a selection.”
23
