“I see.”
“No, you don’t,” he says. “Dan, it turns out, is actually called Dana-Ana-Moonchild.”
I have to fight to keep a straight face.
“Go ahead and laugh. You haven’t heard the best yet. Dana-Ana-Moonchild is a Druid priest. My sister is planning to convert to Druidism. Once her divorce comes through, she and this Dana are going to get married in a”—he puts on an expression of ecstatic devotion and clasps his hands as if in worship—“pagan ceremony in Avebury.”
“Avebury, as in the Neolithic stone circles?” I ask, but he doesn’t seem to hears me.
“Couldn’t she have discovered her inner Lady of the Lake twelve years ago?” he asks and answers himself, not waiting. “Apparently not. Better to get married, start a family, have three kids and then confuse the fuck out of them. Much better. I told her I wouldn’t attend such a wedding, and you know what she told me?” He gets up as if his chair is suddenly uncomfortable.“I’m not invited. It’s a female-only ceremony. I asked her if she’s sure she’s found her real path and won’t regret it when it’s too late? I mean, some people consider marriage vows sacred. A real commitment. But I’m an idiot, apparently, and don’t understand.”
It’s not funny anymore. Osian practically vibrates with anger and hurt. So at odds with the nice afternoon and the golden light from the setting sun. I look down at my clothes and bare legs and wish I’d worn something different; this is so completely wrong.
“You know, Osian,” I say as gently as I can. “Your sister will not have made her decision lightly. She might have been in a lot of pain that she hid from you.”
He stares silently at the horizon but seems to be listening to me. So I continue.
“Breakups are really hard; I should know.” A small laugh. “And sometimes you need a different future. An alternative way of life can help you move on.”
Finally, Osian turns towards me just as the warm breeze picks up again and blows my hair in my face. He steps closer and brushes the strands off my cheek. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to take my temper out on you. I’m just hungry. I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
I get up too because this feels like the end of the conversation. “You can go down to the café and see what Leonie’s made for the Squad’s dinner.”
Osian shakes his head. “I have spent all day talking to people. Can we stay and eat here? My fridge is full of things we can microwave.” He gives me half a self-mocking smile. “Michelin-starred kitchen here.”
It gives me a small thrill that he just assumes we’re going to eat together. As if it’s normal, routine. As if we belong together.
He picks up the jug and glasses, and I follow him inside.
His sitting room looks like it always does: mostly tidy but slightly lived in. It smells faintly of him, a pleasant male scent.
“Macaroni cheese,” he calls from the kitchen. “Or cauliflower cheese, or…” He rearranges a few boxes inside his fridge. “More mac n’ cheese. And…” He searches again as I join him.
“And, yeah, more cauliflower cheese. Sorry. I should have a salad bag too.”
A small twist of sadness corkscrews through my heart because clearly he’s used to buying these meals for one and has stopped even making an effort.
“Sorry, I’m not a good shopper.” He glances up at me, his face lit by the open fridge door.
“How about we mix the macaroni and the cauliflower and have salad on the side?” I move around the little kitchen. “Where do you keep your plates? I can set the table.”
He looks behind him at the cabinets. “Tell you what, you heat these, and I’ll deal with the rest.”
I’ve stayed with friends before, even past boyfriends, prepared meals together. It always took time over many visits before we became familiar in the new kitchen and could move without bumping into each other or stepping on each other’s toes (physically or metaphorically).
Not so with Osian. We just slot into place around each other like two pieces of a Tetris puzzle. Like the wedding and engagement ring set that curve to fit into each other.
I read the backs of containers, grab a knife from his drawer and stab the film cover repeatedly with a fork. He collects cutlery and plates as I press the timer on his microwave.
“What do you want to drink?” He opens the fridge and pulls out two bottles, one of elderflower pressé, another of fizzy apple juice.
“When did you become tee-total?”
“These are for you. I still have five bottles of Stella Dry.”
He bought these for me? Some time ago, obviously. “You’re very sweet to think of me and my weird drinking needs.” I take the elderflower.
“Believe me, after last week, nothing is weird.”
