‘Mud pies are the best.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘But after infants, what happened then?’
‘Oh...um...’ I am not sure how much I want to reveal to Jay. Talking about my insecurities, talking about me as a teen, is not the way I talk to men I’m attracted to. No, they see the shiny version of me, the polished shimmery one that laughs and flirts and falls into bed. The person I present as is not the person I really am. Kevin and I bonded for this reason all those years ago, our need to hide behind carefully constructed identities. Yet here in this moment, I feel like real me, like itmightbe okay to tell Jay the truth of who I am.
‘Oh, you know...um...nothing much. Usual adolescent stuff,’ I say.
I am not ready after all.
‘What about you though? You’ve talked about being in care, that can’t have been easy,’ I add and he gives me a look and I know he isn’t fooled by me shifting focus.
‘It wasn’t great.’ I know there is a lot that a simple phrase like that covers and my heart goes out to him. ‘It’s why I’m so protective of Cassie. We were lucky to have had a father like we did but he was taken away from us far too soon and Cassie didn’t have the years with him that I did. So I tried to be as much like him as I could, took on that role until finally we found a foster placement and were out of the group homes, you know. Then I was safe to become a teen again.’
‘What was your dad like?’ I ask but I wonder if I already know, if the attributes I ascribe to Jay are those that his father taught him. That he doesn't just commemorate him with his tattoo but with all his behaviour too.
‘He was honourable. Honourable, hardworking and fair. He had a good heart and he lived for those he loved. I’ve never met a better man.’
That seems about right.
‘He sounds like a very special human being. You were lucky to have had him in your life. Is he the man on your arm?’
‘He is. I was. I remember –’ Jay pauses ‘– you don’t want to hear all this.’
‘I do. Tell me about him,’ I say, looking up at him, placing my hand on his to reassure him I am genuine. Jay stares out across the expanse of stone and river and road.
‘I remember his dominoes evenings. All his friends would come over, it was the only time he would have a drink, whisky...’
‘So your love of whisky, that’s because of your dad?’ I ask.
‘That makes me sound like some grizzled old soak,’ he splutters. The one thing Jay definitely is not is a grizzled old soak. The moonlight shining in streaks through the trees is highlighting his physique in a way I don’t need reminding of. But he is beautiful to me because ofhim, not his arms, his chest, his shoulders. The man he is, the soul he possesses. I have never met a man like him, one that I fancy the pants off as well as respect and admire. I never really believed men like him existed.
‘Yes, I guess it reminds me of my father. Not that he was a raving alcoholic, not at all. That couldn’t be further from the truth.’ He lets out some kind of indecipherable humpf and I stay silent and see if he will fill the gap. ‘On dominoes night he would cook up a great big stew and get out the whisky and Cass and I would go to sleep hearing their laughter and know all was right in the world. My dad had the best laugh –’ he pauses and I nod for him to continue ‘– like a silent guffaw, if that makes sense. I don’t know how else to describe it. His shoulders would go up and down in these big movements, his mouth would be wide open and yet very little noise would come out. His friends were much louder, one of them had a high-pitched giggle and they would all rib him about it.’
‘Those nights sound fun.’
‘They really were. And whilst my dad was a stickler for the rules, I would be allowed a seat at the table as soon as Cass was asleep and snoring. And my God, that girl can snore, she’s like a herd of wildebeests rampaging, even as a little tot. Anyway, I would creep down the stairs and they would let me have a chair, a special glass like theirs but filled with orange juice, and I would play with them for a full half an hour. I can still conjure up the smells of that room on those nights, the fire in the grate, the smell of the stew Dad would cook, crammed full of hot pepper and garlic, a hint of dark sugar. There’d be the scent of whisky and the mix of all their aftershaves. I still have a bit of a thing for aftershave.’
‘I remember.’ I grin and he looks across and matches my grin with one of his own. And then I become serious again, ‘They’re great memories to have.’
‘Right, they are. I used to love playing with them. They didn’t make it any easier for me to win just because I was a child. No way. If I won, rare but it did happen occasionally, then I knew it was because I had earned it. I respect Dad for doing that. Rules were rules; he didn’t mess about. If you wanted something badly enough then your only chance of getting it was to try and try and try until you earned it. That’s helped me in life, I think. Dad really pushed the value of hard work. What about you? What about your parents?’
‘Good, you know. Dad likes to wash the car and mow the lawn every Saturday without fail and Mum keeps the fridge full, over-worries about the state of her roses, and makes sure she has the time to help anyone that ever needs it, be they close friend or stranger on the street. I’m lucky to have a family that is solid, dependable. An awful lot of people do not have that luck.’
‘Truth, but we all have something. Even you, Lily Galbraith.’
‘No,’ I say and he looks at me as if he knows. ‘No trauma like yours,’ I clarify.
I have this huge great list running through my head of the reasons I have to leave this man alone, maintain boundaries, but after all he has said about his father, knowing all I know about him and the man he is, the man he aspires to be, I am aching to lean in and kiss him; just gently place my lips on his and let him feel the intensity of what I am feeling for him right now. And this kiss, this kiss is not intended as a precursor to him undressing me, me taking my turn to unhitch his belt, to pull his trousers down and his T-shirt up as we move together, getting closer and more frantic with each movement.
No, my need to kiss him is not that.
It’s because I don’t know how else to express the intensity with which I like him, like who he is, respect his values and the things that are important to him, how much I care about what he has gone through and where his life has taken him, and how I want to make sure nothing ever hurts him again. I want this kiss to say all that and his lips are just there, right in front of me, I’d barely have to reach forward at all. Strip the sexual attraction away and I know that the reason I want to lean in is built on so much more.
Fuck.
That can’t be allowed to happen. I love being single and this man doesn’t do one-nighters. So I know anything that happens is going to be way more complicated than a wham, bam!
