Chapter 7
Chris
We leave the restaurant, and I can finally breathe, clear my mind.
I knew the wine was a bad idea – I should’ve stopped after half a glass, at most after a full one, but Ryan’s presence put me on edge.
So, without knowing what to do to avoid talking to him or looking at him, I threw myself into eating and drinking.
Terrible decision.
Vic’s in an even worse state than me, but that’s nothing new.
Teetering on her heels, she clings to Ian’s arm, who kindly helps her over to the car.
Ryan hangs back a few steps, in silence.
I get that he’s a man of few words, but it’s really unnerving.
He only let out a few grunts, incomprehensible monosyllables.
He’s the kind of guy who makes you nervous right from the beginning. I can’t believe he’s Ian’s brother.
“Thanks, Ian, I’ve got it from here,” I tell him, taking Vic’s arm and trying to get her into the car. But I’ve drunk a little too much as well, and the lasagne hasn’t helped. Maybe I should’ve had a coffee before we left.
“Are you sure you’ll manage?” Ian asks me, worried, coming over to us.
“It’s all under control.”
“Haven’t you been drinking too?” he asks, doubtfully.
“Just a glass,” I say, playing it down.
“I think it was more like three.”
His voice, sombre and unwarranted, gets under my skin.
What the hell does he want? It’s none of his business.
I shoot him a look, trying to make him understand that it’s not his problem, before Ian speaks again.
“You’re both over the limit. I can’t let you drive.”
“I only live ten minutes away, Ian, I can handle it.”
“I can’t just leave you to make your own way back. How about I take Vic home in my car, while Ryan drives you home in yours, then I can come and pick him up? That way, we all make it home in one piece.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I say, through my teeth.
Ryan comes over and takes my keys out of my hand.
“Excuse me?” I turn towards him, annoyed.
“Don’t make a scene. Come on, I want to get home, too.”
I give Ian Vic’s address, and he helps her over to his car, while I reluctantly sit myself in the passenger seat next to Ryan.
He puts the keys in the ignition and starts the engine, then turns to me to check what area I live in. I nod, without even looking at him, turning my head away and crossing my arms over my chest.
I let my eyes wander over the road flying past me, an unexpected wave of alcohol-induced sadness washing over me. I take a deep breath, trying to ignore the scent of his aftershave filling my car and my lungs, throwing my thoughts into confusion. I can’t ignore all of them.
It’s the smell of a man. A real man.
He doesn’t smell like alcohol and cigarettes, broken promises and nights filled with tears. He smells like laughter, evenings in the garden and intertwined fingers. He just smells good, like safety, like warmth.
I realise how long it’s been since I breathed in something strong, intoxicating and damn enjoyable.
Suddenly, the space we’re sharing is too cramped. I feel a strange stirring, and a retch climbs up my throat, making me instinctively throw my hand in front of my mouth.
I can’t be sick in my car, and I definitely can’t be sick in front of him.
“Everything okay?” he asks in his usual, gruff way. I force myself to nod, so that I don’t have to open my mouth and risk losing control.
“Do you want me to pull over?”
I shake my head, but he pulls over anyway onto the side of the road. He gets out of the car and comes over to my side, opening the passenger door and offering me his hand.
I keep shaking my head, feeling the humiliation reach my eyes, which have started to well up.
“Come on, don’t be a baby,” he orders, before taking my hand and pulling me out of the car.
His touch ignites something in me, bringing me heavily back down to Earth.
His hand is huge, powerful, but inexplicably reassuring; rough, with deep grooves that show years of hard work.
It’s warm, almost boiling. A hand that makes you dream of relaxing evenings on the sofa, and of fiery nights between the sheets.
I find myself thinking of something I put to rest a long time ago.
Something that feels like a longing for someone to take my hand and tell me that everything will be alright; someone who knows how and when to pull you close.
Something that resembles the life I once hoped for, the life I never got to live.
Something that feels like home.
We take a few steps along the pavement and I breathe in the night air, which clears my thoughts, cools down my burning face, and – thank God – calms the wave of nausea churning through me.
“Better?” he asks, without looking at me or realising that he was still holding my hand.
I nod, embarrassed, but at the same time, full of desire from the unexpected contact. Before I can lose myself in the fantasy, he drops my hand, a painful reminder of my own loneliness.
“Let’s go back,” he says, heading towards the car.
I watch him walk away, noticing for the first time how tall he is, how defined, a mass of muscle and testosterone, absurdly seductive… and impossible.
That’s the right word.
Apart from his horrible personality, which I’d be happy to ignore for the sake of a few orgasms, I have to face reality and be honest with myself. He’s athletic, successful, fascinating and mysterious. I’m sure he has hundreds of women throwing themselves at him.
I’m just… me.
I have a sixteen-year-old son, a café which takes up all of my time, I’m not intelligent or ambitious.
I can’t even make up for all this with my looks, because I’m nothing special.
I have a messed-up life, a shit vocabulary and a whole host of disappointment behind me.
It’s already difficult to try and keep someone on their third pint interested, let alone someone like him.
I sigh dejectedly, quickly pushing away any of the thoughts that had hit me so suddenly in the car, hoping to get home as early as possible to squeeze in one more drink. Maybe it’ll help me get rid of the memory of his damn smell.