I was probably talking about myself here, more than anything.
He returned, freshly showered, dressed in a ribbed top that almost indecently showed off his nipples through the fabric. Oh Peter, indeed.
But now, I had actually got myself more restrained, and the tea was on the table, alongside toast and marmalade, like I’d suddenly morphed into a domesticated granny…to match him to a T. No more bloody outbursts.
For fuck’s sake.
“You said I lied.” He opened the conversation, whilst still not being fully sat down. “I didn’t lie about anything.”
Okay? So we were going straight in there?
“You lied. You lied about being ready for everything they were about to throw at you. You lied about being there for the right reasons. And then you lied about me.”
“What?” He had raised his cup and put it right back down on the table. “Oliver, what are you on about?”
Me?I wanted to shout in his face. I didn’t. Because I was calm and unflappable. I was dealing with the problem at hand.
“You… Have you watched the show?”
Weak, Oliver, but hey…
“No!” His voice was awful. Irritated. “You were right there, you know all this! The scripts, the cutting, the way they will angle everything to follow their own narrative. Do you really think that anything that happened in there was real?”
Fucking hell.
“Arsehole,” I hissed out.
“I think if anyone is an arse right now, it’s you.”
Oh, so he did have it in him. Good. Anger was good. It made me sharp.
“You should have… You… You said you were…”
“Straight?” he filled in, taking a sip of tea, before putting the cup back on the table. “I think a long marriage and two children give me some right to use that label. Don’t you?”
“Fuck you,” I hissed.
“No. Get a grip, Oliver.”
He wasn’t kind. But neither was I.
“I had a phone call from the production company,” I stated, like it had any relevance here. “They tried to threaten me if I didn’t come back. Pushed all kinds of juvenile, pretend lawsuits in my face. None of them would ever hold in a court of law. I wasn’t born yesterday, but I think some of those kids were. The guy, George? Can’t have been a day over twenty. He sounded like he was about to cry.”
“George,” he said flatly. “No idea who that was.”
“Production… I think he was the floor manager? Something like that.” I fiddled with my sleeve, suddenly deflated again.
“I missed you,” he suddenly said. “You’re right about that. We got on, and we had… It was nice, wasn’t it?”
He was trying to placate me, I could tell. Make it all soft and gentle again. Soothe the constant ache in my chest.
He wasn’t soothing anything. At least I wasn’t shaking or sweating. I felt strangely…okay.
“I’m staying,” I declared, another spurt of insanity shooting out of my mouth. His face was a picture. I secretly loved it.
“Okay?” He smiled.
“Yes,” I thundered on. “Because you obviously can’t look after yourself, and I still have time off and I just sit at home and mope, so at least…”
