“Lots of things, I’d imagine, but I’m not talking about theclub.”
“Right,” Rhys said. “You’re talking about Angelo. What’s that got to do withme?”
“Nothing, I just?—?” Dylan stopped. Was he really about to betray Angelo’s confidence to someone they’d fucked about with in theclub?
Rhys nudged Dylan with his elbow. “I get it, mate. Serious head on now. Ask me anything, okay? I’m good with discretion... comes with thejob.”
“I don’t where tostart.”
“Try thebeginning.”
“Fuckingcomedian.”
Rhys grinned. “Itry.”
“Try harder,” Dylan grumbled, but he took Rhys’s advice and traced his time with Angelo back to the point where he’d first realised there was a problem. And it wasn’t at the beginning?—it was the night he recalled every time he looked at Rhys. Always. Everything came back to that. “Angelo’s not well,” he saideventually.
“I kind of figured,” Rhys said. “What is it? MS orsomething?”
“ME,actually.”
Rhys whistled through his teeth. “Man, that’s nasty. I’m not surprised he was on his arse after the railing he gave you thatnight.”
It was the last thing Dylan wanted to hear, but after spending the last month with Angelo, he wasn’t surprised either. “I don’t know much about it, but that isn’t even the problem?—at least, it’s not the problem between us. I think it’s a communication thing... as in, he doesn’t communicate, and I can’t cope without some kind of constant verbalvomit...”
Dylan trailed off as he realised his booze-loose tongue was kind of telling the story forhim.
Rhys said nothing. Just waited patiently for Dylan to goon.
“I just don’t know where I am with him, and that’s like a flashpoint for me,” Dylan said. “Bad memories, youknow?”
“You got dicked onbefore?”
“Not really. It was myfault.”
“And you think you’ve let that fuck things up withAngelo?”
“Maybe.” Dylan dragged his finger through a puddle of beer on the table. “But he doesn’t talk to me. I mean, I get that he feels like crap all the time, I really do, but he doesn’ttalk?—he just fucking stares at me until I lose myshit.”
Rhys eyed Dylan and rolled himself a cigarette. “You know chronic fatigue syndrome is way more than the name suggests, don’tyou?”
“What’s that supposed tomean?”
“That it’s more than feeling a bitknackered.”
“I know that,” Dylan retorted. “I looked it up when he first toldme.”
“Then you should know that he’s probably finding it hard to keep up with you. Mentally, I mean. No offence, but you talk a thousand miles an hour. Even without brain fog, it’s taking me a minute to compute what you’resaying.”
It wasn’t the first time Dylan had been accused of having a motor mouth. He pursed his lips as Rhys stepped outside for a smoke and pondered Rhys’s theory. Rhys only knewAngel, the confident top who turned Dylan inside out in the club, but somehow he knew that Angelo just wasn’t fuckingwellenough to deal with Dylan’s needybullshit.
Dylan pictured Angelo’s face when he’d rattled his garage door and pulled the plug on their brief and yet-so-consumingrelationship. At the time, he’d found Angelo’s expression frustratingly bland?—like he just didn’t give a shit?—but had he completely misread Angelo? Was it less that he didn’t care and more that Dylan was simply asking toomuch?
“I’m guessing I haven’t done much to cheer you up then.” Rhys dropped back into his seat. “You look like you’re about to offyourself.”
Dylan threw his last shot of Sambuca down his throat. “I’m not suicidal, just a wanker. I read about brain fog on the NHS website, but I didn’t consider how real itwas.”
“Why would you?” Rhys said. “It’s not your reality. I only know so much about ME because my brother is a physiotherapist and talks about it all the time. It’s a hideous illness... kinda mysterious too. It’s different in every sufferer. My bro had one patient who hadn’t walked in two years. Another that couldn’t focus enough to use a computer anymore. It’s brutal,man.”
