By the time I find one in the bathroom and head into the bedroom, Stephen’s passed out on the bed. I leave the bucket on the side nearest his head.
“Right, I best leave you both to it,” I say to Ryan and make my way out and back to the front door.
Ryan follows behind and calls out my name.
When I turn, I’m greeted by his lips on mine.
“What are you doing?” I push him off immediately.
“Come on.” Ryan leans back in to kiss me again, pushing me against the wall. The bike handle in the hallway next to us digs into my waist.
The familiar taste of Carmex lines his lips, tingling against mine as they meet, and this time, for some reason, I don’t instantly push him off. Instead, I stand there, paralyzed. His hand slides down to my jeans and stops over my cock.
He pulls back and looks down.
“I knew you still wanted me.”
“Stop it, Ryan,” I say, forcefully removing his hand from my crotch.
“No one needs to know,” he whispers.
My mind races. What’s going on? Stephen’s asleep, less than ten meters away, and his boyfriend—my ex—is making a move on me. Are they in an open relationship? Did Ryan do this with other guys when we were together?
“Stephen is my best friend. That may not mean anything to you, but it means everything to me,” I say, trying to calm my racing heart as I keep my voice low.
“But I don’t want Stephen, I want you.”
He moves forward and I flinch.
Is this the alcohol talking? Or has Ryan felt like this all along? Did he get with Stephen to get back at me for turning him down in June?
“Well, this is never going to happen,” I say and push him away.
The front door can’t open quick enough, and I make it out before Ryan can get to me. I run down the stairs and out onto the street, up to the traffic lights, only stopping once I’m sure he’s not following me.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
I run my hand through my hair as a drunken group of lads wish me a happy Christmas. What the fuck am I going to do? Stephen will kill me if he ever finds out. But I definitely won’t be the one telling him, that’s for sure.
Wednesday
The sound of Christmas music drifting into the bedroom both wakes me up and pisses me off. Kelly’s pitchy voice sings along with Mariah’sAll I Want For Christmas Is You. Well, all I want for Christmas is a bit of peace and quiet, but it looks like I won’t be getting it.
I’ve barely had four hours sleep, between getting in late, the broken sleep, and the blow-up mattress deflating. Daniel arrives at the door, and I’m relieved to see a mimosa in one hand and an Ibuprofen in the other.
“God, you look rougher than I feel,” he says, passing them over.
“Thanks.” I swallow the pill and wash it down with the mimosa.
I set the glass down and reach for my phone, trying to open it with the face ID, but it fails. God, I really must look rough if it refused to recognize me. I enter my passcode and am immediately greeted by a message from Alexander.
Sk8er Boi
Happy Christmas. Can’t wait to hear what you think of the present.
I don’t know whether it’s the mimosa, the Ibuprofen, or themessage, but I instantly feel better, only for the groggy feeling to return when I reach too quickly for the envelope in my bag by the baby cot. The sudden motion triggers a surge of nausea, and vomit rises in my throat.
I throw the envelope on the floor and cover my mouth. I breath in deeply twice to swallow the vomit back down.
