Bonus Epilogue
SOMETHING ABOUT PARIS
DION
“Are you sure you’ve got everything?” Mum asks from the driver’s seat.
“Yes, Mum,” I roll my eyes before closing them. I knew we should have just got a taxi to the airport. I know she means well, but I don’t need her second-guessing my packing abilities when Benji and I have been looking forward to and preparing for this trip for the last six months.
“We used this app to help pack, actually,” Benji says from his position next to her in the passenger seat.
Dad nobly insisted he sit there, claiming – factually – that Benji’s legs were way too long to sit in the back with me, but my goofy boyfriend all but refused until Mum and I made sure Dad was already sitting in the back while Benji put our bags in the boot.
“It’s for packing lists. Well, any list really.
Shopping lists. To-do lists. Wish lists.
Anyway. You can share lists with other people, check off stuff, like three times, if you want, add notes.
.. And also save them as templates for future trips, if we need to. ”
I open my eyes just to roll them again, but this time I’m also working hard to hide my smile. Not hard enough, apparently, as Dad nudges my side with his elbow. He winks at me.
“And what are you planning on doing in Paris?” Mum asks. “Did you write a list for that?”
“No! Maybe we should have!” Benji laughs. “But we just want to do the usual things. The Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, Montmartre-”
“Not get engaged,” I interrupt to add, and it not only shuts Benji up; it feels like it sucks all the air out of the car.
Benji is the one to break the silence with a spluttering laugh.
“He’s joking. Sort of,” he catches my eye in the rearview mirror.
He’s smiling at me, I think, which I probably don’t deserve.
But that fits. Most of the time, I really don’t deserve this beautiful man.
“We don’t want anyone to think we’re going to Paris to get engaged. ”
“Why would we think-” Mum begins with a little bit too much volume in her voice.
“Everyone expects you to get engaged in Paris,” I cut in to clarify.
“Especially me and Benji because, you know, he’s French and we’ve been there together before and blah, blah, blah.
I know you two have talked about it.” My dad holds his hands up, palms facing out, which only confirms my suspicions.
“But it’s not going to happen. We’re going to Paris because… ”
I actually can’t think of a suitable alternative explanation, which is ridiculous because, as I said, we’ve been planning this trip and using Benji’s stupid list app for half a damn year!
“We’re going to Paris because it’s a great city for a weekend break,” Benji comes to my rescue. “And I haven’t been back to France in over two years. Paris feels… easier to return to than where my mum’s from, so… I guess it’s a bit of a therapeutic visit in many ways.”
My mum reaches across the gear stick to find Benji’s hand and hold it.
There was no doubt in my mind that my family would welcome Benji into it with open arms, but even I have been surprised by how close Benji has become with my parents.
My brother and sister, too, but they’re off living their own lives.
Now Benji is part of the team I have become with Mum when it comes to taking care of Dad.
Benji makes himself available for appointments if Mum or I can’t make them.
He regularly does shopping trips or runs to the chemist for prescriptions.
And he often accompanies Dad to the local pub when there’s a footie match playing that they both want to watch.
We’ve not talked about it in great detail, but I can’t help but wonder if Benji’s bond with both my mum and dad is healing not only his recent grief but also that of losing a father figure as a child.
“You boys do whatever you want to do,” Dad says. “In Paris. Go to all the art galleries. Eat all the food. Drink all the wine. Don’t do any proposing. At all.”
“Maybe we should add that to the list, eh, Dee? Zero proposing?” Benji’s laugh is a little forced, but it works in softening my face into a smile.
“Just enjoy a weekend to yourselves,” Mum says as she slips her hand out from Benji’s, nudging the indicator to turn off. “No work. No other commitments. Just each other.”
See, I think. She gets it.
We don’t need any cheesy proposals. We don’t want to be like anyone else. We just want to be us.
Just. Us.
BENJI
“I’d forgotten how small hotel rooms in Paris are,” I say as I sit on the bed, and then stretch out my legs and rest my feet on the wall next to the bed. With my knees bent.
“It’s perfect,” Dion says from the window, where there’s a view of… the other side of a courtyard and little else.
“It’s a cupboard,” I come to stand behind him, wrapping my arms around the big belly that I love so much. “But you’re right. It’s perfect.”
“I’m always right,” Dion turns in my arms and kisses me. Slowly. Deeply. It’s not a typical middle-of-the-day kiss. It’s longing and leading, and I’m getting a very big hard-on, very quickly.
With literal physical effort, I pull my lips off his. “Don’t you want to… unpack, or something?”
“Something,” he pushes me back towards the bed, which takes all of two steps. “I want something.”
“Wait, Dion,” I press my hand on his chest as he straddles me on the bedspread, which smells clean and fresh at least. That must be where all our hard-earned money went – on laundry detergent and fabric softener.
“What? Don’t you want to?” He leans back and assesses me.
“Dee, I always want to,” I put his hands back on my body. “But I wanted to check in with you. You seemed a bit… grumpy on the journey.”
“I’m always grumpy,” he shrugs as he finds one of my nipples through my T-shirt and pinches, lightly. But it’s enough to have my hips rock up into him.
“Agreed, but you seemed extra grumpy today. I’m not complaining. I’m just concerned.”
“I… I guess,” he pauses as he finds my other nipple and this time twists.
I hold his wrist, just in case he gets carried away, because I’m not sure how much self-control I have left, and I can sense how close Dion is to opening up to me.
It’s not always easy for him to do so, and I’ve found patience and gentle encouragement to be key to providing a safe environment for him to do so.
“I guess I’m just feeling a lot of pressure about this trip. ”
“In what way?” I ask gently.
“In many ways,” he groans and then rolls off me, coming to lie next to me on the bed. I shift up so I am aligned with him, head on the pillow next to his and my body on its side, facing him.
“I can’t help but think about that first trip to Paris,” he says, but then stops.
“At school?” I prompt eventually.
“Yeah, when we were what, seventeen? Eighteen?”
“A lifetime ago,” I say, because it was, but also that doesn’t feel completely true. It also feels like only yesterday Dion and I walked around the Louvre together.
“Well, actually, for me, that’s kind of how it feels. Like it was another life.”
“I can understand that. So you feel pressure to what…? Have more fun? Be more yourself?”
“Yes, no. I don’t know. I just feel a lot of weird nostalgia about that first trip. I… I wasn’t myself back then.”
“I know,” I find one of his hands and squeeze it with my own. “But you were still so hot.”
“Obviously,” his cadence picks up, and that has me smiling instantly. “But it’s nice to be here… as me. I just don’t want to…”
“What, Dion?” I bring his hand to my lips and kiss his tattooed knuckles.
“Nothing,” he shakes his head slightly. “I’m overthinking things. Getting all in my head.”
I offer a one-shoulder shrug. “It happens. What can I do to help?”
Dion looks up and down the length of my body.
“You’re doing it. You’re being patient with me.
You’re making me talk even though I don’t want to,” he tries to level me a stern look, but there’s too much of a smile with it to be convincing,” and you are looking very hot right now with that messed-up travel hair and your blue eyes that somehow seem even bluer now we’re in the city of light. ”
“But it’s really overcast outside,” I point out with a frown.
He places a hand on the side of my face. “You really need to get better at accepting a compliment. Especially when I’m trying to seduce you.”
“Oh, is that what you’re doing?” I tease.
“Yes,” he pushes me so I’m flat on my back and climbs on top of me again. “Because that would also help me. A lot. If you could just lie back and make those noises I love as I take you in my mouth.”
“Oh, fuck, Dion, I…” Words are too much for me as he pulls me out of my tracksuit trousers, pushes my T-shirt up – taking extra care around my stoma belt – and he does exactly what he said he would.
“Wait!” I find a scrap of strength to lift his mouth off me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
He growls at me, and he knows what that does for me, but I need to know he’s okay. “I promise I’m okay. Or I will be once you’re coming down my throat.”
I tip my head back and surrender. My hands fall off his face, and I bring them up above me, one arm over my eyes and the other fisting the pillow as he takes me so deep into his wet, warm mouth.
“Shit, Dee,” I moan as my hips thrust and my stomach tenses, because he’s so good at this. His wicked tongue and his full lips and the kind of heat and slickness wet dreams are made of.
He hums acknowledgement of my pleasure as he sucks around my head, the tip of his tongue tickling my slit.
“Merde,” I hiss, because I always slip into French when he gets me this close, this quick, and I know he likes that too.
His hands cup my balls, and I see the wave of my orgasm rolling closer and closer, but I don’t want to ride it yet. I want…
“No, Dee,” I say as I shift my hips and move away. “I want to come with you.”
He licks his lips as he moves up the bed. “You are too fucking romantic for your own good.”
“Well, we are in Paris…” I say with my best smile and a little wink.