I keep waiting for him to bail. To say “Ah, yeah, I’m not doing this anymore. Here’s some cash to hire someone else,” and then disappear into the sunset.
In some ways, it would almost be a relief if he did that. Because then I wouldn’t have to deal with this unfortunate attraction to the guy.
Which only seems to be growing every day.
What I didn’t expect from Mr. Corporate Button-Up was how attentive he’d be when we were living together. How his competency would extend into small things, like always making sure I have food and water in easy reach, and how he quietly moved all the mugs to a lower shelf after watching me nearly topple off my crutches reaching for one.
This morning I was just coming out of the bathroom, and I’d bumped into him, all sleepy-eyed and stubble-jawed, dressed in forest-green flannelette pajamas that looked so soft and comfortable that all I wanted to do was touch him.
My heart leaps now as a taxi pulls up and Leo gets out, looking like the quintessential corporate businessman. It’s extremely hard to comprehend the fact that, in a quarter of an hour, he’s going to be wearing a very different kind of costume.
Leo approaches me, frowning. “Why are you waiting out here? It’s too cold to be outside.” He gestures at the sky, which is doing that thing where it can’t decide whether it wants to rain, sleet, or just hang out looking threatening and gray. A.k.a. a typical London day in late January.
“It’s nice to get some fresh air,” I say.
“There’s fresh, and then there’s hypothermic,” Leo says.
Is his concern for me just part of his guilt? All the caring little things he does for me, are they just penance? A man working through a checklist of atonement, one thoughtful gesture at a time?
“I’m British-adjacent now. We’re legally required to pretend the weather isn’t trying to kill us,” I reply.
A small flicker of a smile crosses Leo’s face, which I take as a victory.
We make our way inside and through the hall, my crutches echoing against the stone floor. Leo matches his pace to mine, which I try not to find endearing.
The party room is tucked away behind the main exhibition space. When we arrive, I spot my equipment cases stacked neatly by the door, exactly where the courier was supposed to leave them.
“So, I’ve decided we should go in a new direction for your costume today,” I say as I hobble over to them.
Leo eyes the cases with deep suspicion. “What kind of new direction?”
I unlock the first case and start pulling out supplies. Tablecloths with cartoon T. rexes. Plates. Napkins. Party bags. Bubble solution. Facepaint.
And then, from the second case, the costumes.
I hold up Leo’s first.
It’s not a unicorn onesie this time. It’s a full-body T. rex suit. It’s bright green, inflatable, and features tiny arms that flap uselessly.
Leo stares at it.
“No,” he says.
“It’s the most requested costume for dinosaur parties. The kids go absolutely mental for it.”
“I’ll look like a deranged balloon animal.”
“You’ll look like a crowd favorite. There’s a difference.”
“The difference is negligible.”
“The difference is delight, Leo. Nothing delights children more than a grown man waddling around in an inflatable dinosaur suit.”
Leo takes the costume from me and holds it at arm’s length, like it might bite him.
Then he sends one of those penetrating stares in my direction. “Are you finding the most humiliating outfits for me to wear on purpose?”
I press a hand to my chest. “Leo. I’m wounded. These are standard industry costumes. I didn’t design them specifically to embarrass you.”
