Chapter 2
Kieran
I met Dom at the local café, him fresh off the train and me still nursing last night’s emotional bruises.
We hugged like it had been ages rather than one measly day since I left our London flat, then ordered spiked hot chocolates.
I deserved some sugar, and Dom’s sweet tooth just about financed the local dentist’s holiday home.
“All right, mate,” he said once we were alone at the table. “Tell me how your plan to subtly check whether Ashby maybe fancies you turned into a rom-com plot.”
I leaned back and raised a brow. “A rom-com plot?”
Dom grinned like he’d just invented holiday cheer. “Yeah, you know—you try to test the waters and he appoints himself your gay pick-up coach.”
That was… depressingly accurate.
I’d trudged home from Ashby’s flat last night, icy air slapping the tipsy glow from my cheeks, vaguely gutted after he’d basically told me, in so many words, that he’d help me pull blokes in some Newcastle bar. Which, well—not ideal when I’d kind of hoped he might volunteer himself.
I tipped my head back for a sigh. “Still not sure how that happened, to be honest. I just wanted to, like, see how he’d react, you know? To the idea that I’m bi. Whether he’d maybe show some interest.”
Yeah, no. In fact, he’d seemed almost put off by it. That didn’t make sense, though. Not unless he worried it would impact our friendship.
“And you ended up with him offering to be your wingman. Show you the ropes.” Dom laughed, if kindly.
“Yeah. Not the ropes I was hoping for.”
He snorted. “Kinky.”
“I wish.” A bit of a stretch, maybe—it was all still so new.
Ashby, my oldest and best friend, and suddenly, I looked at him and thought, oh.
I’d missed him something fierce since the summer, and then, when Dom and I had kissed among hollers and cheers, it clicked that wait, how had I never considered it before?
Not Dom, but guys in general, and Ashby in particular.
Because I’d noticed things about him before—the way his shoulders tapered to a slender waist, the flex of muscles in his forearms. I’d dismissed them as normal appreciation, no big deal between friends.
Ashby was fit, and his job kept him in shape.
But now? It was like I’d looked up from a black-and-white photograph and realised the world was drenched in colour.
Our hot chocolates arrived. The first mouthful was a sweet explosion on my tongue, sugary fireworks in my brain—a glucose-fuelled dopamine rush disguised as magic.
“Well, hey,” Dom said after a minute spent in blissful silence. “Tonight’s your chance to rock up in a tight shirt and flirt outrageously to make him jealous.”
“I don’t think he’s the jealous type.” Certainly not with any of the girls I’d dated, and his own relationships had all been casual.
Dom set his mug down with a pointed, “Uh, right.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
A burst of laughter by the counter made us both glance over—the barista showed off latte art in the shape of a wonky hedgehog, complete with cocoa-dusted spikes, much to the amusement of a cluster of uni students home for the holidays.
I knew some of them by sight, must have been a year or two below us in school.
“We’re talking Ashby here, right?” Dom picked the thread back up. “Ashby Miller? Because, mate. Definitely the jealous type, him.”
I squinted at Dom and no, he didn’t seem to be taking the piss. Huh. “How do you know? Did he say something?”
“Like he’d tell me.”
“I thought you guys were getting along now.” It came out more plaintive than I’d intended. For a while there, trying to be friends with both Ashby and Dom had felt like a juggling act.
“Yeah, we’re fine. But, see, that’s my point.” Dom leaned forward, intent. “When you and I started hanging out? He acted like I stole his boyfriend.”
Dom wasn’t wrong. But, well. “Could be platonic. Maybe he thought I was drifting away from him—just as friends.”
“Maybe,” Dom said, clearly unconvinced.
“Don’t you think I’d have noticed if he wanted more than friends?
” I spread my hands, not sure what case I was trying to defend.
“And he sure isn’t pining away or anything—I’ve seen him pull plenty of times.
He’s had boyfriends, too, even if he ditches them like a pair of socks that shrunk in the wash. ”
“Hey, pot? Stop judging the kettle,” Dom said, and yeah, point.
“I just don’t have the time,” I protested anyway. “And I’m still friends with most of my exes—unlike him.”
“Ever wonder why?” Dom asked.
“Why what?”
“Things never work out for him. And it seems there’s enough disappointment he doesn’t see them after.”
As a matter of fact, I hadn’t. Most of Ashby’s boyfriends I’d never met—they just kind of came and went without leaving much of a trace, rarely warranting an introduction to his friends.
I took another sip of hot chocolate, frowning. “What are you implying?”
“Two things.” Dom dropped his voice, uncommonly serious. “Or three, maybe. I’m thinking as I speak, so bear with me. Okay, one—is he really not the commitment type? In which case, how would you feel about being just a passing fling?”
Surprisingly... not very good. I pressed my lips together and waited for Dom to continue.
“Or two, is he the commitment type—which, yes when it comes to literally anything else—but there’s someone who already holds that spot?
Like, say, the same bloke who made him act like a jealous prat when I started tagging along.
The same bloke who’d be the first person he’d call with good news, or if he needed someone to bail him out of jail. ”
Something hot expanded in my chest. “You think so?”
“I don’t know.” Dom’s mouth twisted into a little smile. “If so, he might have told Jude or Ezra—they’re closer to him than I am. Doubt they’d blab, though.”
I inhaled around the treacherous spark of hope that glowed behind my sternum. It was possible, at least. Dom sure seemed to think so, and he was far more perceptive than people gave him credit for. If he was right, and if Ashby had confided in anyone...
In our final school year, the five of us had been near-inseparable—Ashby and me, Dom and his big laugh, Jude’s gentle air, and Ezra’s quiet humour.
The two of them had stayed in town, Ezra as a teacher and Jude as a policeman.
Once Dom and I had left for uni, we kept meeting up on weekends until our London move, but the other three hung out several times a week.
So, yeah. If Ashby were to tell anyone—if there was anything to tell—he’d confide in one or both of them.
“Yeah, no.” I shook my head. “Even if, you know... There’s no way they’d rat him out.”
“Agreed.” Dom took a healthy swig of his hot chocolate, then fixed me with a clear gaze. “Anyway, so. Three. Let’s say I’m right, let’s say he wants your body—”
“Wants my body?” I cut in. “That sounds like some hair-metal band doing their best sultry growl.”
Dom laughed. “Guilty as charged. But my point is, okay, let’s say I’m right. If I am, then you’d be the reason his relationships never go anywhere—and I don’t think a quick shag is what he’d want from you.”
Oh.
Sweetness coated my tongue. I swallowed, and then swallowed again. “You think he might be, like... in love with me?”
“I’m saying it’s possible. And if he is...” Dom’s lips quirked upwards. “He might not be terribly keen to be your short-lived gay experiment.”
I sat up, something strange and cold clamped around my ribs. “It’s Ashby. He could never be just that.”
“And is that what you told him?” Dom asked.
I opened my mouth to say yes—and closed it again. Because, nope. Of course not. I hadn’t even told him what I really wanted, so… “It was implied,” I said. “Kind of.”
With a tilt of his head, Dom raised his mug as if in a toast. “Well, then. Food for thought.”
Yeah. It was.
I took a breath and clinked my cup against Dom’s. “Thanks, mate.”
He contemplated me for a second, then grinned, easy as anything.
“You know, I thought about a quip—like how you should name your firstborn after me. But it’s Christmas, so I’ll embrace my inner sap and say: you’re most welcome, mate.
Anytime.” A short pause. “Plus, I think you and Ashby are more likely to adopt a dog than a baby.”
Me and Ashby.
“You’re a riot,” I said flatly, stomach tight with the sudden memory of how I’d asked to accompany Ashby to the shelter, help him pick a dog.
Just a friends thing, though. Wasn’t it?
“I can do your eyes.”
At Shelly’s offer, I stopped fiddling with my hair and turned away from the mirror. My sister sauntered into the bathroom, bundled up in a garish Christmas jumper with reindeer and bells that tinkled when she moved. It rather clashed with my fitted black jeans and slim turtleneck.
“My eyes?” I asked. “Like... eyeliner?”
“Bit of mascara too, if you fancy. I can make it subtle.”
I glanced from her to my own winter-pale skin in the mirror. Could do with some contrast, probably. “Yeah, let’s try it. But I reserve the right to wipe it off if it’s too much.”
“Fair enough.” She sat me down on the edge of the bathtub and tilted my face up with a, “Your eyelashes are truly wasted on you.”
“Thanks, I think.”
She grinned, then turned quiet and focused, the way she always did when working with make-up.
Three years older than me, we’d had our normal share of quibbles, but I knew she’d have my back no matter what.
It went both ways—when Mum had tried to talk Shelly into finishing her business degree, to not throw it away for an offer to film ads for a hiking gear company, I’d sided with Shelly.
She’d become one of the most in-demand outdoor videographers in the UK.
Hopefully, Shelly would return the favour once I told Mum I’d reject an almost certain, rather prestigious offer in London. I just wasn’t cut out for the big city.
I held very still while Shelly worked, afraid to smudge the result. It drew a soft laugh from her, gaze briefly finding mine. “You can breathe, you know.”