Page 114 of Almost Ours

He keeps laughing before I’ve reached the end of whatever I’m saying, his shoulders are looser than usual, and there’s dust down one forearm from reaching under the sofa that he hasn’t noticed.

Tomorrow, we break up for Christmas and I won’t see him for two weeks, the thought makes me sad so I’m trying to ignore it.

It’s been over a month since the attack and Josh has been around a lot more. He walks me back if it’s dark, hangs around after lectures if our days line up, and I’ve ended up at his flat so often I don’t really think about asking anymore. Half the time Ewan is here, sometimes Brooke or Abi are too, but there are loads of bits that are just me and Josh.

We have breakfast. Spend time in the library together. I sit in his room while he gets changed after football and complains that his legs are fucked. He lays across my bed stealing crisps while I try to do work. I wait for him outside training because we said we’d get food after and then spending the rest of the night together. Sleeping together. Holding each other.

We’re in a relationship without any of the perks of being in one. There’s no kissing, no fondling and strictly no sex, which would probably be ideal if I wasn’t so unbelievably attracted to Josh that sometimes my whole body thrums with the need to touch him.

We’ve developed little habits too. He knows I want tea before I ask for it. I know which cupboard he keeps the Oreos in, and he always makes sure there’s at least one packet on hand. He sends me songs and I send him stupid pictures. If I haven’t heard from him by lunchtime I feel it intensely, so much so that it makes me want to rock back and forth in a corner until my phone finally lights up with his name.

Thursdays usually end up being library days, Mondays and Fridays tend to revolve around football, and Saturdays are less predictable, but we nearly always end up in the same place at some point anyway.

Wednesdays are for therapy, although Josh thinks they’re uni newspaper days. I’ve had about six opportunities to correct myself and somehow I keep digging the hole deeper, because telling him now means admitting I’ve been lying to him for weeks and, worse, telling him why. At some point I’m going to have to get myself out of it, but every time I think about saying the words my stomach knots. I can’t bring myself to tell him what I did. I hate the idea of him looking at me the way Oscar does sometimes, like he’s waiting for me to disappear the second he takes his eyes off me, and after learning what happened to his brother I know whatever I say will change things between us.

Josh will never look at me the same.

“Right.” I stretch my back out. “One more.”

“You can’t just play one more,” Josh says. “You have to commit.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you have to actually fucking commit to it, Rubes.” He shifts onto his knees and reaches for his iPod. “Hang on. We need music.”

“How is music going to help me win at Connect 4?”

“I dunno. Atmosphere or some shit.”

“Atmosphere?” I stare at him. “Who are you and what have you done with Josh?”

He shrugs, unfazed. “Just go with it.”

Reality in Motion by Tame Impala plays lowly through the little speaker near the shelf and he drops back onto the carpet, then spends the next thirty seconds trying to slot one of my 2p coins into the yellow side of the board.

I watch him struggle until I can’t take it anymore. “Are you alright?”

His tongue is sticking out slightly in concentration. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Why?” His head snaps up, follows my eyes down to his hand and then immediately scowls. “Oh, fuck off.”

I burst out laughing. “Wine will do that to you.”

“I’m not that fucking drunk.”

“I think you are.”

Josh throws his head back and laughs freely. It’s the best sound ever. “Maybe I am a little drunk.”

My phone is on the arm of the sofa behind him and getting to it would mean leaning across him, so I pick up the iPod beside my knee. Drunk, happy Josh Hardy kneeling on a carpet deserves to be preserved in history. The screen is already awake because the music is playing, though, so I never get as far as the camera.

There’s a playlist open called Bernardo.

I stare at it long enough that the rest of the room seems to disappear around me.

Bernardo.