Chapter 2 #2
“Okay.” He takes a step forward, and I hold up a hand.
“You’re not fucking me.” His eyes widen.
“I know that’s the deal you had with Caiden, but I’m not him.
” I wave a hand up and down my body, his eyes drinking in my bright pink joggers and tight white tee with a penguin on the front.
“I’m far too cheerful and don’t wear nearly enough black to be him.
” I also don’t do casual sex anymore, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Oliver nods. “Understood. No fucking. Got it.” There’s a shift in his features, a half smile that I imagine he’s used to pick up plenty of people in the past. “But for the record, you’re missing out.” He mimics my earlier gesture, waving a hand in front of his body. “I’m a really good time.”
And yeah, now I see it. The guy Caiden told me about.
“If you say so, puppy.” I eye him once more, then turn and walk further into the flat.
“Puppy?” he asks, following behind me.
“Yep. I think it suits you. Would you prefer something else?” I spin around so that I’m looking at him.
He bites his bottom lip, silent for a heartbeat, before he says, “No…um…no, puppy is good.”
I watch as he effortlessly kicks off his trainers, leaving them in the hallway before entering the kitchen and opening the fridge. He may be a stranger to me, but he’s definitely not to this apartment. He moves like he’s on autopilot. Like he’s done this many times before. And I guess he has.
I clear my throat loudly enough for him to hear.
He pauses, turning to face me. “Sorry. Old habits,” he says. “Don’t suppose you have anything strong to drink, do you, Thorne-Sutton?”
“It’s Darius, and no.” I shake my head. “Caiden left one can of soda and some lumpy milk. I don’t think he thought I’d stay longer than it takes to feed Ford.”
Oliver leans against the fridge, folding his arms over his chest.
“So why are you still here?”
“Old habits,” I say, repeating his earlier words.
He raises a sandy blond eyebrow. “You and Caiden…” He lets the words drift off, the question in them clear.
I chuckle. “No! Definitely not. One kiss was all it took for us to realise there was nothing more than friendship here.”
The reminder of the night Caiden and I met makes me smile.
To this day, he says I hit on him, and I possibly did, but not because I was attracted to him.
He was just there with sad eyes and a frown, and I was curious, feeling playful, and I really wanted to make him smile.
To be the friend I was so sure he needed.
Caiden couldn’t have known when he leant in and kissed me in that dark and noisy club that sexual attraction works differently for me than it does for him.
I don’t do casual hookups. I need a deeper emotional connection before I can even get to the point of wanting someone sexually, and not every connection I make leads to sexual attraction.
It certainly didn’t with Caiden, who I love as a best friend and the brother I never had.
Oliver frowns. “Well, it took years of fucking for Caiden to realise there was nothing here,” he says, tapping his chest. There’s bitterness in his voice, and I think it’s possible that Oliver felt more for Caiden than my best friend ever realised, and he’s genuinely upset that things ended between them.
I don’t respond to his remark. Instead, I make my way, food in hand, into the lounge.
Oliver follows, sitting on the sofa, his legs spreading as he gets comfortable. I move the coffee table closer then sit in the space next to him, my legs folded beneath me.
I open each of the containers, mix rice in with the curry, and load up my fork. Bringing it to my mouth with one hand, I use the other to hit play on the remote. Sun, Sea and Murder, the show I chose earlier starts up, the camera jumping to a panoramic view of some unknown coastline.
I eat a few more forkfuls, my attention rapt, as the case is explained by a long since retired detective.
Next to me, Oliver is silent and when I chance a quick glance at him – expecting him to be just as focused on the show – I am surprised to find that he’s watching me, a playful smile on his lips.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You told me to. You invited me in to watch you, and I quote,” he lifts his fingers in the air to emphasise his point, “‘eat the best butter curry this side of the Thames’, remember?” He shrugs. “And you make some seriously cute little noises when you eat.”
My hand pauses, fork hovering in the air. “Fuck off. I do not, and I didn’t mean it literally. Watch the television,” I huff.
“Okay,” Oliver smirks, head facing the screen.
I keep my eyes on him and make sure that he is no longer watching me. But now I’m too focused on any noises I might make when I’m eating to actually eat. I push the food away and lean back on the sofa with an annoyed grunt.
“I know that place,” Oliver says, drawing my attention back to him. He’s pointing at the screen on which the camera is panning across a desolate beach. Pebbly rocks washed upon by a choppy sea that leaves behind stripes of white foam. “Grew up near there. Caiden did too.”
From the little Caiden has told me about his life, I know he grew up in Devon before he left after the death of his twin. I didn’t realise Oliver knew him back then.
“You knew Caiden when he lived there?” I ask, settling my back against the arm of the sofa.
Oliver nods. “Since we were six. Same schools all the way to the end.”
"Were you friends with his brother?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. Cooper was…” Oliver looks at the ceiling, then at his hands. “He was too good. Smart.” He leans his head on the back of the sofa, turning his neck sideways. “Hated me. I think he thought I pulled his brother into too much trouble.”
I shuffle in my seat, my foot brushing his thigh.
“Were you?”
Oliver scoffs. “Trouble? Maybe. Troubled? Sure.” His voice is thick, and I want to ask him what he means by that, but he shifts, turning away from me. “Eat up, Thorne-Sutton. Your food’s getting cold,” he says, clearly done with the conversation.
I ignore my meal but turn back to the television. Next to me, he lets out a heavy sigh, and we spend the next half hour in silence.
When I chance a look at Oliver again, my breath catches.
His eyes are on the screen, his hands gripping the fabric of his gym shorts so tightly they’ve bunched up.
He’s taking shallow breaths in and out through his nose, his lips clamped shut.
But it’s the silent tears trailing down his cheeks that punch at my heart.
I want to reach out to him, but he didn’t want to talk about it.
Maybe this is what he needed. What he came for.
For someone to sit with him in his sadness.
So I leave him to cry, hit play on another episode of the documentary, and move myself an inch closer.
My leg brushes his, and I hope he knows that he’s not alone.