‘Niall.’
‘Oh, so he was Irish?’
‘Not even a bit.’
This is so absurd that we both burst into peals of laughter.
At least she’s crying for a different reason now. She laughs so hard that she has to clutch my arm so she doesn’t fall off the bed.
This is hysterical, or maybe literal hysteria setting in. Call the old timey psychologists! We’ve got a pair of wandering wombs.
When I can finally speak, I gasp, ‘Not even like how Americans say they’re Irish when they mean like five generations ago?’
‘Nope. English all the way down.’
I’m at least a quarter Irish on Mum’s side and Scousers are a different breed, so I feel confident when I say, ‘That might have been one of the problems with him then.’
‘One ofmany,’ she giggles, and I feel relieved to see her smile again.
Mike’s bizarre career choices aside, we still have spark-gate to address. Plus I really am too gay to know anything about One Direction beyond who was even in the band.
‘So… Patrick?’
‘It was fine, I think.’
Wow, endorsement of the century.
It appears she realises how flat that sounded, and continues, ‘I mean, it was lovely to see him! I like him a lot! I’m just… I feel like there’s so much going on in my head all the time, and right now, when there’s so many other couples happening around me, it feels like I can’t make all that noise quiet again.’
‘Okay,’ I say, mostly to signal I’m listening rather than I’m following. ‘Like the sparks?’
‘Yeah. I worry that perhaps I’ve been looking for sparks in the wrong places.’
What does Carys mean, looking in all the wrong places? I almost say, this is a heterosexual dating show – what righter place exists than this? But I manage to stop myself at the last second.
‘Well, if this has come about because you’ve seen Patrick, did he and Mike look alike?’
‘Not at all. Mike’s really fair, Patrick’s dark with chestnut hair. Different faces too. ‘It’s not that I don’t like Patrick, though. I do.I do.’
Speaking of girls protesting too much…
‘Right. So he’s not your type?’ I’m struggling to find the thematic link between a vet and an off-brand Niall. I’m about to say this, hoping to get another laugh out of her, but then she looks at me.
Really looks at me. I feel like I’m the one in the spotlight.
Carys has the kind of big sad eyes you could fall into, and keep falling. She doesn’t make eye contact much when we’re alone, which I think is why, when she does, it’s like looking at the sun.
I swear it’s just the amount of time it’s been since I last kissed someone that makes me glance at her lips.
‘I—’ she begins but stops suddenly.
‘You can tell me.’ I take one of her hands in mine in an act I tell myself is platonic.
This seems to surprise Carys. I’m about to withdraw my hand in case it’s too much, but she squeezes back.
What the hell am I doing? Hurting my own feelings for definite.
But then her face has changed. Gone is the sadness.
