“Are you taking the piss?”
“No. It’s a real question.”
I struggle for words, at least ones that aren’t me begging him to touch every part of me with his healing fucking hands. “It’s better.”
“What about the other one?”
“It’s fine. Enjoying the holiday.”
Bhodi gifts me one last pass of his thumb. Then he releases my hand and a cold breeze washes over me. As if the weather objects to him not touching me anymore. “What do you need to do in the church? Is this the greetings card drop?”
I find my voice. “Not quite. I’m not done with those yet. This is something else.”
He’s interested enough that I take him inside to show him the stacks of Christmas-wrapped shoeboxes piled all over the church. Every corner, every pew, every wall.
“They get sent overseas,” I explain. “I write the little cards for the French speaking communities.”
Bhodi spins around, grasping the enormity of the operation I have nothing to do with other than this. “How many is that?”
“How many cards? Or how many boxes are in the church right now?”
“Both.”
“I wrote eight hundred cards, but to put it in perspective, around seven thousand boxes pass through here every year.”
Bhodi whistles and crouches to look at a few. I leave him to it and find the drop-off point for the cards.
I’m gone less than five minutes.
I comeback to find him eating cake, another clutched in his hand.
“Take it.” He thrusts it at me. “This is my second one already.”
“Hungry?”
“Always.”
I can fix that. I hustle him out of the church and down the road to the Christmas fair I’d planned on avoiding since I got in a punch-up there last year.For Rudy. It’s no wonder my dog hates all things Christmas except the chipolatas. I don’t mind punching someone twice, but I don’t want Bhodi to see that side of me. “You like turkey?”
It’s noisy at the fair, light and laughter everywhere we turn. Bhodi leans closer to hear me. “What’s that?”
I decide it’s easier to show him and steer him to the food truck doling out roast dinners in Yorkshire pudding wraps.
His face lights up and I think I love him.
Avoir le coup de foudre.
Fucking hell.
I buy Bhodi dinner.
He buys me a big fat cookie for after, and we sit and eat with pints of shit lager from the other pub—not the one I had a fight outside last year.
I like watching Bhodi eat, and I’m starting to lose count of how many times I’ve thought that over the past few weeks. Of how often I zone out and picture his smile, even when he’s right in front of me like he is right now.
“Does it still hurt?”
“What?”
