Mine covered his, touching, lingering wherever they could like I was trying to memorise the words that were written on his body, the elements that made him Liam Rosehill, the man I thought might have melted my heart.
“Let me buy you this place.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Either or. Let me buy this and we have more room. Or have one of the buildings for ourselves.”
“I’ll think about it.” But for now, I pushed the idea out of my head, needing his touch instead, the feeling of his skin next to mine.
We didn’t speak. The talking was done with our bodies, fingers, hands and mouths, seeking something we hadn’t found before and were only willing now to give.
It was the first night we didn’t have sex. The first time that we shared a bed where it wasn’t about how fast or how many times.
We didn’t fuck.
His kisses, every touch, it all told me a story or sang me a song. A confession.
We made love.
And I didn’t think I could cope with holding his heart.
20
Liam
Iwoke up alone.
Not a new thing. For about twelve months, I’d woken up most days alone, the odd one night stand or hookup with a convenient friend an anomaly. Recently, most mornings I’d woken up with Sophie.
I expected to wake up with her today. Have breakfast in bed. Take a shower – hopefully together. Go to the pools, relax, talk about plans. Talk about possibly buying the place we were staying.
But she wasn’t there.
I was alone.
She could’ve gone to the pools, or for an early morning massage, or a walk to the lagoon.
I threw the covers back and got out of bed, suddenly too wide awake. My clothes weren’t scattered across the floor, and neither were hers. She was inanely tidy, I was having to make an effort before she murdered me in my sleep by smothering me with a wet towel.
The suite had a separate dressing room. That was where we’d left our bags the evening before, not bothering to unpack, partly through tiredness, partly because we were more concerned with touching each other. Doing something that couldn’t be termed as fucking. Not anymore.
Her bag was gone.
I went into the bathroom, which I knew would normally be loaded with toiletries.
Empty.
I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes, expecting to feel the same way I did when Marissa had left the care home, but I didn’t.
I wasn’t that small boy any more with a crush. Sophie wasn’t being paid to work with me. She wasn’t with me to do a job and if she was, if it was all about that building, then she’d left before she’d been paid.
I could’ve headed to reception. Asked them where she was. Phoned her. Asked her a million questions. But I didn’t want to do any of that.
I left the bathroom and picked up my guitar, strumming the notes to Melted Hearts, remembering the look on her face when she’d heard the lyrics. As a songwriter, you learned how to read people when they were listening to your music, especially in the early days. An indifferent or bad response to a track might mean you didn’t get any more gigs in that pub or venue; you learned to read your audience and to change it up.
I’d read her last night when she’d heard the song and afterwards, when her hands had been on me and I’d been inside her. It had been different. We’d become different. It wasn’t just about the arguing or the incessant trying to defeat one another. It was more than that and we both knew it.
