Normal things. I’d once had normal things. None of those had included football practice.
I’d always wished they had. Anything normal. I didn’t share that my teens had included antagonising my stepdad and causing trouble. Getting beaten up. Stupid things.
“I was watching Diane with Gina earlier,” I said quietly. I hadn’t meant to tell him, but now I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I didn’t dare to open up because there were so many thoughts bubbling inside of me. Things I wanted to tell him.
Things I shouldn’t tell him. These lies I was making up in my head were starting to become troublesome. Because he was a stranger and we were not actually…friends. This was just a weird situationship and would end badly.
“She was crying,” I continued quietly, glancing over at the cameras. No red dot on the side. Hopefully that meant what I hoped it meant.
“Why?” Peter almost whispered. There was still commotion out in the common room. People talking. Movement past our door.
“She said things were hopeless. That nobody liked her and that the only man she liked had no interest in her whatsoever.”
“Oh no.” Oh, Peter.
“She was talking about you, you know.”
“Was she?”
I had to smile, and I reached out and clumsily patted his hand. “She fancies you.”
“Why would she do that?”
He didn’t know? Oh dear indeed. I let myself get more comfortable, my wrist against his fingers. Perhaps I should have moved them, but. I liked it. A little…comfort.
“Peter, you’re a very, very attractive man. I mean…”
“But you don’t think so.”
“You’re not my type.”
“Then what is your type?”
“Peter, we’re talking about you and Diane here!”
He made a little frustrated sound. Very him.
“You could probably walk up to any of these ladies and say ‘Hey. Move in with me. I’ll kick that overgrown twink in number four to the kerb, and we can get down to the nitty-gritty.’ ”
“The nitty-gritty.” He sighed.
“The devil’s tango. Shaking the sheets. Doing the horizontal mambo. Riding the dragon…”
“Oh, stop it.” He smiled. Even if the room was dark, I could see it. The soft shadow of his face. The stubble on his cheek. His soft, deep laughter.
“You haven’t shaved in a bit. Suits you.”
“The damn stylist told me not to. I look silly and unkept.”
“You look hot.”
Damn it. I should have taped over my mouth.
“Then what is your type?” he asked again, making me roll onto my back. Unease. I didn’t want to talk about myself. I wanted him to tell me things. Make this nice and…uncomplicated.
“Mary…”
“Mary was a woman, Oliver. Not your type.”
