Chapter 11
NEIL
I enjoy my quiet mornings, alone in the office.
They allow me to work at my own pace. I can enlarge and bolden the font on my laptop without tilting the screen away from anyone else who might pop in and take the piss.
No one notices me turning my head to read.
I also have an opportunity to tidy up, to keep clear lanes on the floor space.
The positions of the doors, windows, and bigger pieces of furniture are ingrained in my muscle memory, but l’d take banging my hip on a doorframe any day over falling flat on my face thanks to a bulky subwoofer I didn’t expect.
I’m trying to say solitude gives me a break from lying.
From covering myself, from pretending I’m a clumsy hungover idiot.
But the clock’s ticking. Like resistant weeds, my bony spicules are advancing, and my choices are stark.
Either I come to terms with my sight loss and start fucking telling everyone about it (spoiler alert: not ready, not come to terms) or engineer myself more alone time, because being this other person is wearing as fuck.
I’m perennially grumpy, and people are starting to notice.
My current and rare stellar mood, however, comes courtesy of yesterday evening at Luke’s.
His company is a safe space. Luke didn’t care when I sent my fork spinning to the floor.
Likewise, my world didn’t crash down when he picked it up for me because I couldn’t locate it.
I even kept our silly joke running, blaming it on my dyslexia.
He’s seen me at my worst already, so his expectations of me are low.
I like to think I surpassed them, but who knows?
Luke’s cute and droll, in a quiet, careful kind of way.
At the end of the night, if my libido wasn’t having some down time, I’d have explored more than simply a friendly hug.
Regardless, I walked home almost feeling as if I’d been on a date, a fun, successful one.
Which gives me an excellent idea.
I phone him. I don’t need to. I could text, or even wait until he next comes into Earth with Alaric. But where’s the fun in that? Besides, I like the sound of his voice and how it responds—just a little—when he realises I’m toned-down flirting with him.
He’s at his work computer in a thirty-minute gap between finishing a short ward round and attending a meeting about a complex patient. “Neil. Is something wrong?”
“No.” I lean back and stretch out, casual, as if his concern doesn’t imbue me with a warm cosiness. “Just wanted to thank you for last night and to see how my favourite dermatologist is doing.”
“Oh, he’s fine. Saving lives, one dollop of steroid cream at a time.”
I snort.
“Busy, though,” he adds.
“My lilies still doing okay, too?” I ignore the subtle hint.
“Your lilies?” I can almost hear him smiling. If that doesn’t infuse me with pleasure, then nothing will. “That’s not how gifts work. I think you’ll find they’re my lilies now. And they’re blooming.”
“Good to hear.” I clear my throat. “You…ah…you know I said I’m not seeing anyone right now? Well, there’s this guy I really like.”
“Yeah?” I catch the slight drop in his tone.
“Yeah. But I don’t know how to tell him.”
“Oh.” A definite dimming of enthusiasm. “That doesn’t sound very much like you. I know you said you don’t date, but seeing someone might be good for you, take your mind off your eyes.”
I’m hoping it will do a lot more than that. “Yes, that’s what I was thinking. But, as I said, I don’t know how to broach it. What do you think?”
Computer keys clack as he ponders this. “Why don’t you just ask him if he wants to meet you for a drink, or go with you to the cinema, or something?”
A beat passes. “Okay. Good idea.” I count to three. “Do you want to go to the cinema, or something?”
“No, Neil. I meant ask him.”
I hope no one comes in now. They’ll wonder why I’m sitting here with a stupid grin on my face. “I just did, actually.”
“Oh, okay. What did he say?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.” My voice drops a shade lower. “Would you like to come to the cinema with me this weekend, Dr Sinclair?”
“What? You’re confusing me, Neil.”
I smother a laugh. “I like you, Doc. It’s you I want to take out somewhere.”
His tiny inhale of breath hits me right between the ribs. “Me?”
“Are there any other superhero rash whisperers in there with you?”
“No. And…yes…okay. We could…we could go to the cinema.” It’s a squeaky, nervous yes, uncertainty wrapping itself around it.
“Are you sure?” I check. “You can change your mind if it’s too much. I heard what you said about keeping things steady.”
“I know. But I won’t. Listen, I should go.”
He doesn’t. The phone line hums between us.
“I should too.”
I don’t. The pause stretches.
“Great. So you need to tell me what films you like.” I scroll through my phone. “Actually, I can do better than that. I’ll tell you what’s on at the Odeon and you tell me if you fancy it.”
“Oh, okay. No horror, though. They wreck me. I’m panicking now, just thinking about it. I’ll be a screaming mess in your lap before the opening credits have ended.”
God, he’s easy to flirt with. A million slutty responses form on the tip of my tongue, I manage to bite them all back. “Horror it is, then,” I tease instead. I swear the heat of his blush reaches all the way to here. “I’ve got a comfy lap.”
“Oh, God. Please ignore the last ten seconds of my existence. I’m…someone asks me on a date, and I have no idea how to behave.”
I laugh. He’s cuter by the minute. “Relax. I was actually thinking more thriller. I don’t like horror, either. Benedict Cumberbatch has a new spy film out.”
He sighs with relief. “That sounds more my thing.”
“And do you like popcorn or chocolate?” At this point, I’m just keeping him on the line, the next best thing to having him here in the room, a screaming mess in my lap. Even my dick might start playing ball if he comes out with more innocent lines like that.
“Chocolate. I work for the NHS. This place practically runs on good will and cheap chocolate.”
And there we go again, discussing our favourite chocolates, the merits of salted versus sweet popcorn, the universal, unmistakable smell of cinemas, films we’ve both seen.
Words spill out, swallowing up the next twenty minutes as if we’ve been rehearsing this dance of aimless conversation our whole lives.
When I finally sign off—and he’s a minute late to his meeting—I’m left smiling at my blank phone screen like a bloody teenager.