I know that. I’m also certain Galen didn’t come over here to make sure of it. Because he came over to browse a swingers app so we can find someone to fuck together before he bails on me.
Not what he said.
Galen rises and comes to where I’ve drifted to a stop in the doorway. He has his phone in his hand and I find myself wanting to chuck his device at the wall too. “Can I get that drink?”
“Beer?” I offer before I remember he drinks cider. “Or my dad’s apple brandy, if?—”
“Sounds grand.”
All right then. I find the bottle my parents left last time they were here. Stubby and old-fashioned, the brandy glowing amber in the low light, scruffy raffia tied round the neck.
I pop the cork. The scent of spiced apples filters out, warm and festive. It smells like home. It smells like him.
Galen.
He watches me pour brandy into glasses that look like jam jars. Fuck, theyarejam jars, but though I can’t comprehend the intensity he’s observing me with, I take a punt that he won’t give a shit.
I hand him the brandy. “It’s pretty strong. I usually only drink it round Tam’s.”
“Why’s that?”
“Being drunk and alone is probably a bad idea for me.”
Galen nods, and I realise it’s one of the things I like most about him. That he’s intuitive enough to hear the things I don’t say, and bold enough to ask when he doesn’t.
He takes a sip of the brandy. Whistles. “That’ll put hair on your chest.”
“Ça, c’est clair.”
“I like it, though. Seems rough, then it’s kinda sweet.”
I nod and bring my own glass to my lips while we lean against the counters, in the kitchen again,quietagain, only the radio in the other room filling the silence.
My dad makes good brandy. The burn is cathartic as it slides down my throat and like most things, I enjoy it a little too much, until fear clouds the pleasure and I set the glass aside, aware of Galen’s watchful stare. Hating how flayed I feel with a man who’s had me naked in his bed and I didn’t feel exposed at all.
Maybe I’m all right with dude sex now.
Maybe it’s just him.
Either way, he didn’t come here to watch me drink.
My phone’s in the living room. I incline my head for Galen to follow me and return to the couch. It’s not as big as his, and I’ve had to turn the cushions over in the past few months, thanks to Esme and her felt-tip pens, but there’s plenty room for both of us. We don’tneedto sit all up in each other’s business.
We do it anyway. Shoulders and thighs pressed together. Fuck, Galen’s so warm. And it’s not even literal. Not even his apple pie scent. It’s his mere presence. His existence. Doesn’t seem to matter how close I am to him, I fucking know I could becloser.
I lean forward and grab my phone as the rock station betrays him and chucks out a song from the John Lewis Christmas ads.
Galen doesn’t seem to notice. He’s still watching me. And it feels like a test. But for what?
I swipe the phone, my thumb hovering over the FlingIt icon.
My shaky thumb.
Merde.
I bottle it and push the phone on Galen. “You should do this. You know what you’re looking for.”
Galen seems to move in slow motion as he takes my phone, his reply delayed as the muscle in his jaw tics. “That’s not really how it works. Not for me, anyway.”
