JULY
Paolo hasa tiny studio apartment close to Finsbury Park and faint music from a band playing live drifts inside through the open windows. We’re in bed, only a sheet carelessly draped across us to soak up the post sex sweat. A warm summer evening breeze caresses my skin, almost as gently as Paolo.
It’s pure bliss. I feel like I’m in a commercial for a happy gay couple.
If only my heart were in it.
I sigh and roll onto my stomach, burying my head in Paolo’s soft pillow. “I want my own apartment,” I mumble. I’ve had the thought for a while now, because while it was lovely living with Clara, and I love her very much, I want to move on. She can have the current place. I make millions every year now, I don’t need to live in a house share with my older sister. I want a place of my own where I can have guys over and sleep with them without someone on the other side of my bedroom wall.
Maybe just one guy. Just Paolo.
There hasn’t been anyone but him for a couple weeks now. The buzz of sleeping around has been wearing off and Paolo is…nice. Safe. Comfortable.
“Mmh.” Paolo makes a sleepy noise in agreement, then lets his fingers drift across my upper arm and back down to my hand. “Make it a nice one. Worthy of your income.”
I snort, then turn my head and press a kiss to his hand—first his palm, then the back of it, then his knuckles. I could get used to this. My heart may not be in it, but it’s nice. It’s comforting to have someone who’s getting to know my life. He’s heard of how overbearing Clara is and was in the room for my most recent phone call with my mum. I know about his smelly coworker Asa and that he needs a cup of builder’s tea in the morning to get going. Freddie still knows more about me—where I’m most ticklish, and what my first kiss tasted like, and how to score off of my long passes—but I’m not thinking about him.
Paolo sighs, contentedly, then his hand pats the bed, looking for something. Finally, he hands me the remote for his tv and smiles wryly. “Come on,” he says. “Turn it on. I know you want to watch the game.”
It’s as if he’s read my mind. England has made it all the way to the final of the EUROs and the game is about to start. I’ve tried hard not to think about it. Partly because I’m still bitter about not being included in the squad, and partly because thinking about England means thinking about Freddie, which is the last thing I want. So I turn to Paolo, who watches me with his kind eyes. “But you don’t like football,” I say.
He shrugs with one shoulder and his silky black hair rearranges itself with the moment, still looking so beautiful I can’t believe he’s real. “I like you more than I dislike football.” It’s such a simple statement, but it fills my heart to the brink.
I lean down and kiss him softly. “You’re amazing.” Heis. And he’s been so patient with me, giving me time until I felt ready to kiss him, never pressuring me to move faster than I could.
“I know.” He grins against my mouth, then lightly shoves me. “Go on then. Before my generosity fades.”
I turn on the telly, then snuggle back up to him and ignore the twisty feeling in my gut when I see the team. The pitch. The fans. I should be there. I should be part of it.
But I’m here, and it’s good.
It’s great.
Until they show a close-up of “Freddie Bloom, the tournament’s shooting star”, and my heart stumbles in my chest. God, and it’s just not fair. Freddie looks rumpled, tired, his hair a mess, in an unstylish, frizzy way. Paolo is a thousand times more attractive.
And yet… the way Freddie makes me feel, even a thousand miles away and on a tv screen, is so far beyond anything Paolo has ever stirred in me. I bite down a sigh and pretend my inside is as calm as my outside, staring silently.
Paolo dozes off at some point and I stay motionless and quiet, even though I want to shout at the screen, want to curse the Italians when they score off a perfect free-kick in the second half. Want to cry when the game is over and celebratingazzurribreak my heart. Instead, I’m quiet and lean into the gentle touch of Paolo’s hand when he tousles my hair.
It’s the interviews that break me. Julian looks about a hundred years old, exhausted to his bones. Our goalie gives one-word answers and stares at the camera with dead eyes. And then…Freddie. Tears in his eyes, tremble in his voice.
I want to hold him.
I want to be there, sweep him into my arms and hug him until he feels better. Or until we’re somewhere I can distract him with all the skills I’ve acquired. Take him out of his mind, ease his desperation. Give him release for all the heaviness that surrounds him.
Paolo sits up, but I can’t tear my eyes off Freddie. I know I have to. All my fantasies are just that and the beautiful, smart, caring man next to me is reality. I am so lucky to have him.
But he can never compare to Freddie.
“That’s him,” Paolo says quietly, as if he’s read my thoughts.
My spine stiffens and my heart cracks, but I stay still. There’s nothing I can say. Paolo knows—it wasn’t a question.
“Freddie Bloom,” Paolo continues eventually. “That’s who you were calling for, over and over.” A beat of silence, a squeeze of fingers on my shoulders. “And that’s who you still want.”
I struggle to come up with words, because it’s the truth, even if I don’t want it to be. Iwantto want Paolo. He’s great and I know he would do whatever he can to make me happy.
But he can’t.
