“Why not?”
“ADHD,” I tap my forehead, “I forget shit way too easily.”
“Well, I’m reminding you now,” Giles says gently and nods at my phone, which is lying next to my empty cup.
“You want me to download an app right now?” My eyebrows lift.
“No time like the present. We had a deal. I was going to be open to dating again, and you were going to make an effort to make it happen for you too.”
“But did we shake on it?” I say craftily, but that backfires when Giles reaches over and grabs my hand. He squeezes my palm, warm and tight, and then lets it go. It only took a second, maybe two, but once the contact is broken, the skin on my hand tingles like it was just burnt or electrocuted. Which is weird. Very weird.
“Yes, we did,” Giles says cockily.
“Fuck you,” I say, laughing.
“Fuck you too.” He chuckles with me but then nods at my phone again. “Now download that app.”
Chapter Eight
Giles
Itilt my head up to the sun. We are really being spoilt this summer with the sun’s regular presence and I am very grateful for it.
I haven’t booked a summer holiday again this year. When Radia asked why not, I told her the same thing I told her last year and the year before. We’re too busy at work. That was the same story I shared with gym friends, my hairdresser, and my massage therapist who have all asked in the last few weeks. It’s believable; I own and run one of Saville Row’s most popular gentlemen’s tailors and summer season is notoriously busy with weddings and preparation for the autumn/winter season’s launch in September, but it’s not the truth.
The truth is I don’t have anyone to go on holiday with.
And I am mortified at the idea of going somewhere alone.
I shouldn’t be. I should just get over myself. But I can’t. For some reason, I just can’t. It makes my head spin, my stomach churn and my intrusive thoughts go on overdrive.
There’s also something so peculiarly final about the prospect. Like if I do finally decide to go on holiday on my own after years and years of avoiding it despite how much I both want and feel I need a proper break, it will be dictating what my future will be. Solo holidays for the rest of my life.
I’m shuddering at this gloomy thought when I turn my head and see Marcello walking down the street towards me. He has his gym bag in one hand and I momentarily think it must be very heavy today because his shoulders are sloped like it weighs more than is comfortable. But that’s notit. It’s not only his shoulders but also in the way he barely lifts his free hand in a half-hearted greeting when I smile and wave at him. As he gets closer, I can see exactly how unenthusiastic he is feeling at this gym date.
No, not gymdate. Training session.Jesus Christ.
His morose expression reminds me of an idea I’ve been mulling over since our run at the weekend. When he sighs before saying hello once in front of me, I have turned that idea into a plan.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey. Bad day?”
“Tired day.” He yawns. “Was late getting to sleep last night and was in early this morning. We had a big order to do and the café didn’t seem to empty out once until about an hour ago.”
“Sounds busy.”
“Very,” he sighs again, “I’m honestly not sure how much I’ll be able to do. But, you know, I’m here.”
He lifts his gym bag and tries to smile and it is exactly that. Very trying, even to witness.
I step up to the front door of my glass and wood-fronted shop and open it. “Dump your bag inside.”
Marcello’s expression perks up a little. “What?”
“We’re not going to the gym today.”
Now his face perks up a lot. “We’re not?”
