On our second date—the lunch date where the brush of his leg against mine seemed to shatter the awkwardness that had blossomed suddenly between us—we finally moved away from discussing work.
He’d rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “There was something I wanted to chat to you about, actually,” he said, lowering his voice as though to take me into his confidence. Goose bumps raced across my skin. “I’ve been feeling a bit…off, recently. It always happens around the anniversary of my brother’s death. I don’t feel like anyone in the office really understands. It was so long ago now, and when I tell them about it I can see them wondering why I’m still bothered all these years later.”
It was a moment of openness that still sends a thrill through me, even now. Because number one on my mental checklist of attraction was vulnerability.He’ll start opening up to you if he sees a future with you. He’ll want to go deeper.
I’d nodded, fighting to keep a straight face when all I wanted to do was grin. “I understand. I feel it, too, around the anniversary of Marcie’s death.” It was true. Every year, like my body was keeping score, I found myself becoming a little off. Sometimes, I’d do something to commemorate it, like apply overexaggerated eyeliner, or try out some of her more outrageous lines in the mirror.
And while that sadness in Freddie’s eyes was genuine—I had no doubt about that—I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was using this common ground as a way to get closer to me.
He’d smiled in relief. “Iknewyou would. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to have someone who understands what it’s like.”
We realized, then, that our lunch hour had come to an end, bringing an abrupt close to the intimacy that had started to creep into the conversation. But Freddie did not let it lie there. That week, he sent several messages, checking in, and then, on Friday, he asked me out for another drink.
Two times in one week. I took it as a very good sign.
I was more than a little frustrated, therefore, to find he’d been in the pub for an hour or two prior to my arrival.Gregwas sitting with him, and both men were clearly well on their way to intoxication.
“Greg,” I said, in as dignified a manner as I could muster. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
The man clearly had no sense of propriety, because he slapped his hand on the table and told me to grab myself a drink, join them. I did so, unwilling to pass up an opportunity to spend time with Freddie, though irritated that he’d so clearly crashed what could have been a lovely evening.
I sulked as they chatted, and occasionally Freddie would shoot me an apologetic look. They drank three more pints before Greg checked his watch and flinched. “Fuck. She’s going to be furious. I’d better go.”
He left, huffing and puffing about his long-suffering wife, and Freddie and I were alone. The atmosphere shifted instantly, becoming charged with promise. Again, we skirted around it, Freddie—evidently quite drunk now—telling me about his family, a little more about his brother.
“Dating’s been hard, you know? I always feel like they recognize some sadness in me and want to try and fix me,” he said ruefully, toyingwith his glass. I knew he was telling me this for a reason. I liked the fact that he’d singled me out. It made me feel special.
Last orders were called at the bar, and Freddie sighed. He stumbled slightly as he rose to his feet, threw his jacket over his shoulder. “We’d better get going,” he said.
Outside, he lit a cigarette, swaying on his feet. I stepped closer to him, bolstered by the knowledge that he saw something in me that others didn’t. He blinked at me. We were very close now, breath mingling in the cool air. I tilted my head.
And despite the fact that he tasted like beer, it was—to date—the best kiss I have ever had.
—
“Can I comein?” I say now, gently, to Jack. “I’d really like to explain what happened the other night at dinner. I’ve been feeling terrible about it. Eaten up with guilt.” I twist my face into an expression of utter wretchedness, as though the thought of that evening causes my skin to crawl with shame. It’s not entirely off base.
He releases a long sigh, then stands back from the door with an air of defeat. Like he can’t muster the strength to argue with me.
And so I find myself entering the house of Jack Reynolds. The house of the man who has taken up more space than is probably healthy in my head.
It is every bit as wonderful as I pictured. Better, even. It’s huge, for one thing. The exterior doesn’t do it justice. An imposing staircase rears upward, right into the belly of the house. Ornate rugs cover the tile floor. A rich, spicy scent hangs low in the air: tuberose, I think. I catch sight of myself in the age-spotted gilt mirror to the left. I need to tone down the excitement. It’s plastered all over my face, still flushed from the cold.
Jack, stumbling, leads the way through to the room I have seen only from the outside. I’m hit first by the smell. The greasy scent of takeawayfood and a sour stench that I associate with Mum. Stagnant air. An unwashed body. Stale alcohol.
This fact is confirmed by the bottles that litter the coffee table. Beer, wine (expensive, from the looks of those labels), vodka. I wrinkle my nose, but the signs of Jack’s relapse cause a frisson of excitement to trickle down my spine.
It seems I came at the perfect moment. It’s almost like Alice is smiling down on me from above. She helped Jack out of it before, and I’ll do the same now. I can step into her shoes and position myself exactly where I need to.
Jack still hasn’t looked at me. He walks to the sofa, slumps into it, stares unseeingly at the television screen. It’s playing some brain-rot reality show, but I manage to resist the urge to turn it off and instead take a tentative seat next to Jack. I’d planned on going straight in with the apology: short, to the point. I’d planned to prostrate myself before him, make up something about painful memories of Freddie that caused me to lash out, but having seen this I decide to change tack. I consider reaching for his hand but—given his reaction to my previous attempt at contact—decide that it would be too much. I always try to learn from my mistakes.
“How are you, Jack?” I’m good at this, I realize. The bedside manner, gentle tone, soft expression. Perhaps I should consider a career in nursing.
Jack grunts in response, eyes glassy.
“I sense you might be struggling a bit.” This is the understatement of the century: It looks like he’s had a raucous party for one. Glancing at the wreckage, I see the remnants of white powder, a dusting on the surface of the coffee table. Worse than I thought.
“I am a bit, yeah,” he says in a tight voice, staring straight ahead. He reaches forward, tips the rest of a bottle of red wine into a dirty glass, and knocks it back with the practiced air of the hardened drinker.
