“He was a bastard,” Stefan cries.
“The biggest bastard,” I confirm. Book club starts in about an hour. I hope Gerald’s head’s in the right place for it.
“He said you tore it,” he sobs.
“I didn’t,” I assure him. “You can have mine.”
My knee jitters, worrying about Gerald. If he was here, he’d place his hand over it. His thumb would circumscribe little circles just above my tibial tubercle. He trims his fingernails every Sunday evening, using a little kit he stores under the bathroom washbasin in a black leather case.
I can’t get him out of my head, even here with Stefan, listening to his woes and comforting him. Marcus’s fingernails were as ugly as his feet, gnawed down to the quick. Even his cuticles had cuticles. Whereas Gerald’s fingernails are ten neat, broad squares. When he saw me struggling two nights ago to accurately paint the nails on my dominant hand, Gerald sat cross-legged on the bed and painted them for me.
It’s a small, quiet detail about the man, yet it triggers a wild, terrifying, beautiful realisation. Something so clean and sharp I scarcely know what it means myself. My PlayStation controller slips from my hand with the shock of it.
I love him.
I love Gerald Mason.
I don’t simply like him, want to fuck him, or be his mate. I love him. And I didn’t tell him because, until I sat here contrasting him with wanker Marcus and Stefan’s place with our cosy home in Sutton Common, I never knew it myself.
My hand shakes as I pour more Prosecco into Stefan’s empty mug. Sometimes only sparkling vinegar hits the spot. I need some myself, what with my sudden epiphany.
“It’s Marcus’s loss, Stefan, and one day he’ll realise that.” I manage to sound normal.I love Gerald!I feel like screaming it from the top of my lungs.
“He will.”
“You’re so much more than a snack. Stefan Andrew Henderson is a whole fucking Heston Blumenthal, three-Michelin-star feast.”
So is Gerald Mason, and that gourmet dinner is all mine. As are his bed, his big hands, his big ears, and his flat.
“One which gave him food poisoning.”
“Yeah…okay, if that’s the analogy you want to run with. In which case, here’s hoping every toilet a desperate Marcus waddles to is occupied or closed for cleaning.”
Even though every morsel of me wants to run home to Gerald, I’ll stay here on this sofa for as long as Stefan needs. He snivels a lot more, each sniffle punctuated by a dramatic inhale and a lip wobble as if he’s gearing up to cry again. Not dissimilar to when he broke his wrist in two places climbing into a neighbour’s garden to retrieve our football.
“At least I’ve got you,” he says, tipping his snotty face up from my shoulder with a brave, soggy smile. “Marcus stole a lot from me, but he’ll never steal you.”
He thieved a pair of my pantsis on the tip of my tongue, but even with your best friend, some truths are better left unsaid.
We reach the end of a game—I’ve let Stefan win for a change, but only because he’s upset and my head is full of lovesick mush. Putting the second-best console down, I finish off my Prosecco, in need of every drop for this conversation.
“Yeah…um…about that, Stef. Your text, telling me I could have my old room back.”
“I’ve been thinking we can swap the rooms around, if you like.” Christ, he sounds so hopeful. “I can put my work stuff in yours and you can move into the other one, with the bigger wardrobe.”
“Um…thank you? But I-I’m… I need to tell you something, Stefan. I don’t think I’m moving back in.” Talk about twisting the knife when a man’s already hit rock bottom, but now I’ve said it out loud it feels so right, down to my bones. “I’m staying in Sutton Common. With Gerald.”
The cheap fizz curdles in my belly as Stefan blinks slowly. “Sorry, did you say you were?—“
“Yes. Staying in Sutton Common. With Gerald.”
Yep, still feels right. Every nerve in my soul is nodding in agreement.
Stefan makes a sound landing somewhere between a scoff and a snort as if I’d just suggested he swap this beloved, knackered sofa for a new one.
“I don’t know which of those two sounds worse.” Noisily, he blows his nose. “If it’s the rent, I said I’d lower it. Fuck, you don’t have to pay any at all for a few months, if it gets you on a better financial keel.”
“It’s not the money. It’s…Gerald. H-he and I are together. Well, I think we are—Ihopewe are. We haven’t actually discussed it yet.”
