“Yes, or stop these silly sex lessons. You know you’re queer and you seem surprisingly comfortable with that, which is brilliant by the way. How you’ve managed to dodge a decade of internalised homophobia and comphet, I don’t know, but I’m happy you have. So just be honest with him. Or stop the lessons and go find someone who actually wants to be with you and isn’t doing it for karma or whatever.”
“I don’t think Giles is doing it for karma…” But then I think about what I read about OCD on Sunday night. It’s all about doing things in order to avoid what feels like a real threat. What if Giles has told himself he has to train with me, do the Sunday meet-ups with me because if he doesn’t something bad will happen? What if it’s that sense of obligation that has him locked into an arrangement that he otherwise wouldn’t dream of doing?
I shake my head as if to shift these thoughts and again my bike wobbles.
“You okay?” Kris calls out. She’s inching ahead of me now.
“Yeah, just realising what a mess I’ve got myself into.”
“It’s not a mess that can’t be tidied up,” Kris responds and then as a white van cruises by so close I feel the air change around us, she sticks up a middle finger. “Eat shit sonofabitch!”
“I hope you don’t talk to your own current crush like that,” I say, lifting off the saddle and pumping my legs to keep up.
“Why would you think I talk to her like—” Her mouth snaps shut.
“Ha! Got you! There is someone! Now spill!”
And much to my surprise, Kris does indeed tell me all about her neighbour who she thinks she has feelings for. It’s a conversation that takes us all the way to Richmond Park and most of the way around it. It’s a conversation that we only stop when both of us are too tired to talk on the way home. But that conversation, nor the silence that follows it, doesn’t stop me thinking about Giles and wondering if it should now be me apologising to him and coming clean once and for all.
Chapter Thirty-One
Giles
Ican do this, I think as I stare at my phone. I’m sitting on the sofa and have been in this position for ten torturous minutes, psyching myself up to do what I know will help solve more than a few of my problems.
Or maybe I don’t have to.
Yesterday was normal. Good, even. We ran nine kilometres in the end. Grabbed a quick takeaway coffee as we walked to the Tube and we shared a meaningful series of lingering smiles as we said goodbye, fist-bumping when I itched to reach out and touch so much more of his body.
But that’s what today’s for.
No. Today is not for that. Today is a sex lesson for Marcello.It’s not about me. It’s not about me. It’s not about me.
Which is why I’m going to text Tony.
Do I want to go on a date with him? No, not especially.
Do I want to sleep with him? The fact I’ve not even thought about that possibility gives me enough of an answer.
Do I think if I do, this will end whatever is happening with Marcello once and for all? Yes, absolutely I do.
I’m too honest to continue something with Marcello if I’m sleeping with Tony. It’s not only what we agreed and the very least of what I owe him, but it’s the right thing to do.
Besides, last week made me realise something that feels like a very bitter pill to swallow. The type that also gets lodged in your throat on the way down.
I can’t have a relationship with Marcello. A real relationship, where we share all of ourselves with each other, is a step too far. Last Sunday proved as much to me.
So today could be the last time I get to touch Marcello. Get to be with him. Get to make him grunt and groan and say filthy things to me. Get to hear him call me baby. Get to make him come.
I’m going to make it a day to remember.
With that new, if misplaced, sense of determination coursing through my veins, I start typing on my phone. The message is sent in less than a minute. Another minute later and two blue ticks tell me it’s been delivered, and read.
And that’s all I can cope with right now. I switch the screen off my phone and place it on my coffee table.
As if to reward me for what felt akin to doing 100 Bulgarian squats, the doorbell rings, making my nausea at the message I just sent turn to a lighter, more fluttering swirling feeling.
Oh, fuck. Butterflies. Marcello gives me fucking butterflies.
