Bella chases the cat into the kitchen, determined to lick him from nose to tail. The cat is fast, though, and more agile than Bella with her clumsy retriever paws. He makes it to the counter in seconds, leaving me to focus on Aidan.
I toe my shoes off and crawl onto the sofa bed. Straddling Aidan is easy. Facing the uncertainty in his eyes is harder, so I don’t. I kiss him instead, absorbing his surprised gasp. Then I hug him tight because I don’t like it when he’s upset.
Aidan hugs me back, his arms vice-like around me. Then he pulls back with a tired half-grin. “I thought you’d left me.”
“Nah. Just took Bella out so she didn’t take a leak on your carpet. Maurice came in when we left.”
“Who?”
“Maurice. Your cat. And don’t look at me like that. I gave you every opportunity to give him an Aidan name.”
“The fuck is an Aidan name?”
“Like, Butch or something. I heard you calling him Tyson the other day when he was trying to kill you.”
“We were boxing. And I won.”
“You never win with cats.”
Aidan blinks as though the sharp banter has distracted him from being awake and he’s only just noticed. “I can’t call him Maurice.”
“Why not?”
“That was my dad’s name.”
“And you didn’t like him.”
“No.”
“I don’t like mine either.” I climb off Aidan and flop onto my back.
He follows me, rolling, so he’s leaning over me. “Do you speak to him?”
“Nope. I don’t speak to anyone except you.”
“What about before me? We haven’t known each other very long.”
It doesn’t feel that way, but I think he knows that already. Perhaps I’ve told him—I can’t remember. “I haven’t spoken to my parents for years. They don’t... understand my bipolar. It embarrasses them. They wish I was like my cousin.”
“You’ve talked about your cousin before.”
“Angelo?”
“Yeah. Don’t you speak to him either?”
“No.” A dark cloud I’m usually adept at dodging threatens the glow I woke up with. “My parents fell out with his parents when we were kids and I never saw him again.”
“You never tracked him down? It’s not hard to find people these days.”
“I’ve never tried.”
“Why not?”
I draw blood from my bottom lip. “By the time social media took over the world, I was knee-deep in a mental crisis I’ve yet to entirely escape from. There’s never been a right time to rock up in his life, and I’m not sure I want to. He’s probably living the high life in New York or Paris, and here I am freaking out that there’s an odd number of cushions on your couch.”
Aidan sighs, deep and long. “There’s more to you than bipolar, mate. And there’s another cushion over there by the window. I put it there for the cat.”
“For Nigel?”
