“He wouldn’t have been surprised, then, that you became a dorky journalist.”
He laughs. “Not at all.”
We share a smile and he passes me the final pot. My fingers brush over his as he hands it to me. Sully gives a loud bark, making us both jump.
When we’re finished in the kitchen, we join Emily and Fredrik, who lets me ask him a bunch of questions about his life in Sweden before he moved to England, where he met Emily.
He roars with laughter when I tell him that Ryan pulled the “but I’m Swedish” card to get in on the interview with Max Sjöberg, happily informing me about the time Ryan’s cousins, who live in Stockholm, taught Ryan a bunch of very rude Swedish words when he was little. Apparently, Ryan repeated them in front of everyone over dinner, not knowing what he was saying, taking his paternal grandmother by such surprise that the wine she was drinking went right up her nose, prompting her to repeat the very rude words herself.
It gets late and we head upstairs to bed after Fredrik and Emily give me a very warm hug good night. Ryan shows me to the spare room, which is at the end of the landing, right next to his and opposite the bathroom.
“There’s a towel there for the morning, and if you need anything else, just say,” he tells me, putting his hands in his pockets.
“I think I’ve got it all, thanks to our handy trip to Boots.”
“Good. Oh, I got one of my old T-shirts out for you,” he says, nodding to the gray one folded on my pillow. “I know earlier you said there was no point in buying pajamas for one night, but I figured you might want something to sleep in.”
“Thanks, Ryan, that’s so… thoughtful,” I say, beaming at him. “And thanks again for letting me stay the night.”
“And to think you could have had a lovely evening all to yourself without hearing about tales of my youth. Bet you’re glad you took me up on the offer.”
“I am, actually.”
His expression changes then, his amused smile dropping away into something more serious as our eyes meet. I feel my heart beating faster as silence engulfs the room and we stand in front of one another, trying to work out what’s going on.
I suddenly remember something.
“Mae wanted me to put in a good word about her,” I blurt out.
He looks confused. “What?”
“Mae, the publicist today? I think she likes you and she’s really great, so if you’re interested, you should ask for her number tomorrow or whatever, because I think she’d say yes to going on a date,” I babble away hurriedly.
He nods slowly. I drop my eyes to the floor.
“Okay, thanks,” he says eventually. “Well… good night.”
“Good night.”
Turning to go, he hovers for a moment in the doorway, turning his head to the side slightly, as though he’s going to say something, but then thinks better of it.
He shuts the bedroom door firmly behind him.
AUGUST 2012
Several glasses of wine down on an empty stomach, I suggest that we go back to Ryan’s for our next drink.
It’s bold and presumptuous, but I’m worried he’ll be too shy to make the move, and I’ve got my mind made up that this is happening. A huge weight has been lifted now that the interview is over and I reckon I deserve a night of fun. We both do. His jaw tenses at my suggestion, and then he nods, croaking that it sounds like a good idea. His nervousness makes me happy, as though it’s confirmation he likes me, too.
He had picked a pub that was nearer my parents’ than his flat because he was being polite, so we have to take a taxi to his place. We sit in the backseat in silence—both of us just giving ourselves a moment to take in what’s happening—until I feel his hand brush against mine. I don’t move my hand away, instead threading my fingers through his, and suddenly I’m holding hands with Ryan in the back of a taxi and it’sso cringe,but because we’re drunk, it’s okay I guess?
He lives in a big apartment block of flats, and we have to suffer the excruciating bright lights of the shared corridors before getting to his front door, where he fumbles with the key in the lock. He pushes the door open and gestures for me to step in first. It’s a small flat but nice, with a spacious lounge and the kitchenarea tucked away at the back. It’s very obvious that two men live here, as there’s not much in way of decoration, but the black IKEA bookcase next to the TV stand has Ryan written all over it—the books are arranged in alphabetical order by author surname.
He offers me a drink, and I ask for a white wine. While he pours a glass, I perch on his sofa, tapping my knees with my hands. He puts on some music and then comes over with the drinks, handing me mine before sitting down next to me. Our knees are angled toward each other, almost touching. Being this close is exhilarating. Which is strange, because I sit next to him every day in the office.
But something has changed now. I fight the ache of wanting to be closer.
“I’m surprised at your choice of music,” I admit. “This is actually quite a good song.”
