Get home safe, Mum.
I text and then tuck my phone away.
Benji is standing now, looking closer at some of the framed art that covers the wall in front of him. “Are any of these yours?” he asks as I approach him and return to the chair I was sitting in.
“A few,” I say, and I point at a couple of photos that feature some of my fine line and watercolour designs. “These ones.”
“Wow,” Benji bends to look at them. “I guess what I wanted was pretty boring.”
“I like doing pieces like yours,” I tell him honestly. “Pieces that have real meaning. A real story.”
He smiles at me and then turns to sit back down. “So what’s your story then?”
I’m a little affronted by the question. It was direct and delivered without preamble, which doesn’t seem very…Benji. Or maybe it’s the question itself that has me stumped. Because how can I tell him my story without revealing…everything.
“What do you want to know?” I deflect.
Benji’s eyes drop to his shoes but then lift just as suddenly, and at the same time I see a new blush in his cheeks. “Was that your partner…on the phone?”
It feels like someone has lassoed a rope around my heart and tugged on it, all without my permission or foresight. Am I happy that Benji seems curious about my relationship status? Am I getting…queer vibes from him?
“No, that was my dad,” I say.
“Who has MS?”
“Yes, I just wanted to make sure he has everything he needs while I’m…here.”
“So you really are like a carer for him?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“That’s tough,” Benji says.
“No,” I say quickly, defensiveness rising sharply in me. “No, it’s not. It’s what anyone would do. It’s what you do for family.”
The colour drains from his face at my outburst, but then his mouth twitches and his smile returns. A brave smile. “I was speaking from experience,” he says. “I was my mum’s carer for most of the last eight or so months. And it was really tough, for me. So I was imagining it was tough for you too.”
“Of course it’s not a walk in the park,” I say, still sounding defensive. “But I don’t mind doing it. I want to.”
Benji nods and I can’t tell if it’s in agreement with me or because he knows I won’t be shifting from this standpoint. That brave little smile pulls up the right side of his mouth again.
“So, if that wasn’t your partner on the phone, does that mean you’re single then?”
Maybe it’s that cheeky grin. Maybe it’s the way his blue eyes sparkle. Maybe it’s the way he’s still stroking his stomach, under his clothes, in a way that has me itching to run my fingers up and down the smooth skin therethat I caught a peek at earlier. Whatever it is, I find myself smiling back at him.
“Are you flirting with me?” I ask.
Benji’s confident expression disappears, replaced with alarm and horror. “I’m…I’m…”
“It’s okay if you are.” I reach for my tea and down the remaining liquid. “I just didn’t think you were queer.”
Benji relaxes again and it brings me more relief than it should. “Well, actually, yes, I am. I’m bisexual.”
I blink at him. “You’re bisexual? Since when?” I catch my wince before it lands on my face. What does it matter how long he’s been queer? It shouldn’t matter to a stranger which is what he thinks I am.
“Since the last few years of school.”
“School?” I practically squeak. He’s lying. “Really?”
